Travelogues

This week I had experienced my first earthquake. My head buried in my mochilla - backpack - looking for my Spanish dictionary, I was oblivious to the tremors. Only when raising my eyes did I notice that Lorena, mi maestra de espanol, was holding her breath - as she always does when the ground beneath her feet threatens to give way. She pointed to the swinging lampshade to explain the expression on her face.

However, a more personal seismic event of the week was the arrival and departure of two new people into my life - in particular the effect on our household of sharing our space with a young child.

It was amidst the sedate beauty of Antigua´s Parque Central that I first saw The Firedancer. As we passed each other, I turned on my heel - a fleeting glimpse was not going to be enough.

A gringa with delicate features, hazel eyes and honey brown skin, her hair was woven with coloured thread and bright feathers. On an upper arm, the intricate tattoo art of a striking female face stared back on those who, like me, had been caught gawping at this most distinctive of beauties.

The next day I was surprised to find this same young woman in my home. Having seen our "room to rent" sign, she was now being given the guided tour of our apartment. 23 years old and from the United States, she was in Guatemala as part of a Latin American odyssey of indeterminate length and itinerary.

Her sole traveling companion was her 5 year old daughter - who was being home schooled for the duration of the trip, wherever "home" might be at any particular moment. Mother and daughter were a self sufficient unit - in constant movement and unbounded by fixed time-lines or destinations.

The apartment was judged to be perfect, but simply beyond their budget. They would return to the bed they shared in a mixed hostel dormitory. This seemed far from an ideal environment for a young child, so we offered them the rent free use of our spare room for a few days - until they found something more suitable. They moved in later that day.

The following night I was invited to meet my new flatmate´s friends - an international group of recent refugees from San Marcos, the new age chill-out colony on the shore of Lago De Atitlan. We ate together, joining hands before our meal to share what each of us felt thankful for at that moment.

This last act of emotional openness was not something that came naturally to me. A few weeks previously, while still at work, my lexicon was dominated by "outcome orientation" "performance" and "hitting milestones". The fibres of my being were thus still easy to provoke into rebellion by something devoid of clear strategic objectives - spontaneous group sharing, for example.

I also needed to choke-off some innate wariness of people who appear unusually free from anger - particularly at too young an age. An outward show of tranquility, peace and love can be a convenient mask for a controlling, self-interested and duplicitous nature. However, my dinner companions mostly seemed really lovely and genuine in the gentleness of their feelings. So I put cynicism and corporate socialisation aside and joined hands to give thanks.

After our meal (a vegetarian dish, decorated on top with a bright optimistic pattern made from corn kernels) the fire-dancing began. The setting was perfect - a rooftop garden on a warm clear night, with the moon and Agua volcano combining to provide a backdrop of any artist´s dream.

The first of the poi were dipped in kerosene and lit. My dinner companions then began to swap roles casually between dancing and playing the accompanying drums and didgery doo. The flaming poi, the physical dexterity of the dancers and the primal calls of the instruments became syncronous pulses of energy in which the dance transformed the dancer.

Ben, a global itinerant artist, originally from the States, normally moves and speaks with the laconicism of the extremely chilled. Yet when dancing, he is remade as raw kinetic energy of explosive physicality, skill and athleticism - expressions of his former life as a professional soccer player in Europe.

After Ben, my new flatmate got up for her dance. This would be her first time. For weeks she had been practicing with unlit poi but tonight she would dance with fire. A little apprehensive, she checked her clothing for trailing traces of flammability and, satisfied, lit her poi.

At that point all traces of nerves disappeared. The flaming poi where twirled above, in front of and beside her body with confidence. Flames licked her skin without any flinching - each movement was decisive, graceful, rhythmic and hypnotic. Then the flames flickered and died and she smiled for her applause. She was now a firedancer.

The Firedancer´s daughter wove even more magic - she transformed our living space in a most wonderful way. A really intelligent child, she bubbles with the happiness and affection of the truly innocent - her mother´s love ensuring that she has yet to know real darkness. Giving love openly, she will probably break many hearts when grown up. As a friend shrewldy observed to me, her early years of constant movement will school her well in how to detach.

Sharing your life with someone so unspoilt makes it easy to re-find what is best in you. So I missed this child as soon as she was gone. The departure of mother and daughter was abrupt, unexpected and without goodbyes. My flat-mates and I returned home to a rapidly scribbled note, some dirty dishes and unpaid bills at the local laundry and bookstore. The mystery of these two visitors continues and even extends to The Firedancer´s name - the one she gave to our household was different to the one supplied to others in Antigua. Mother and daughter no doubt continue their odyssey - leaving just uncertain fragments of their story as traces of their time in Antigua.