The village marimba.
We climbed aboard the truck and the village marimba
was loaded already,
hogging half the deck, rain proofed under
a tarpaulin cover and steadied
against the potholed road with struts of timber.
Our bags leant
solidly on the bulkhead, but us we couldn’t
unclench in the cramped amount
of standing space beside the hulking wooden
instrument.
We jolted through drizzle. Skins leached colour.
Muscles winced. We whimpered.
Pablo our cloud-forest guide was proud to tell us
how much marimbas
enrich the village life of Guatemala.
“Bollocks,” I said. The lorry
dropped us two hours further along the route.
We shouldered belongings
in sunshine, then a hot slog on foot
up to the montane forest.
Howler monkeys raged and toucans called
above the track.
A man waltzed past, the monstrous marimba hauled
mollusc-like on his back
as if the burden had no weight at all.
Today at dawn
we take a stroll to escape the smoke-filled hut,
Pablo’s home. Go down
through jungle clearings where villagers drudge, cutting
and grinding corn,
down to the hollow that does for a social hub.
The school-room and church are shacks.
Tree-coated slopes twitter a little and hiccup
the chip of an axe.
Somewhere deep in the forest a quetzal blubs.
Village elders slumber,
but a teenager sneaks into church and starts pratting about
on the marimba.
He plonks a few blocks and he’s suddenly battering out
a rollicking salsa number.
It rattles from the hut, notes pulsating
like honey bees
fizzing into frenzied agitation,
stinging preconceived
ideas I’ve held that this is a joyless nation.
notes
We climbed aboard the truck and the village marimba
was loaded already,
hogging half the deck, rain proofed under
a tarpaulin cover and steadied
against the potholed road with struts of timber.
Our bags leant
solidly on the bulkhead, but us we couldn’t
unclench in the cramped amount
of standing space beside the hulking wooden
instrument.
We jolted through drizzle. Skins leached colour.
Muscles winced. We whimpered.
Pablo our cloud-forest guide was proud to tell us
how much marimbas
enrich the village life of Guatemala.
“Bollocks,” I said. The lorry
dropped us two hours further along the route.
We shouldered belongings
in sunshine, then a hot slog on foot
up to the montane forest.
Howler monkeys raged and toucans called
above the track.
A man waltzed past, the monstrous marimba hauled
mollusc-like on his back
as if the burden had no weight at all.
Today at dawn
we take a stroll to escape the smoke-filled hut,
Pablo’s home. Go down
through jungle clearings where villagers drudge, cutting
and grinding corn,
down to the hollow that does for a social hub.
The school-room and church are shacks.
Tree-coated slopes twitter a little and hiccup
the chip of an axe.
Somewhere deep in the forest a quetzal blubs.
Village elders slumber,
but a teenager sneaks into church and starts pratting about
on the marimba.
He plonks a few blocks and he’s suddenly battering out
a rollicking salsa number.
It rattles from the hut, notes pulsating
like honey bees
fizzing into frenzied agitation,
stinging preconceived
ideas I’ve held that this is a joyless nation.
notes