In the early morning darkness of November 18, 2006, five of us from First Presbyterian - Pat and Debbie Montgomery, Greg and Paula Dimler, and I - were joined at the airport by Doug and Jane Malone of the Mountain View Church to undertake what was to be one of the most meaningful and memorable trips of my life. We were headed to San Felipe, Guatemala, to install a water purification system, under the auspice of Living Waters for the World, a mission resource of the Presbyterian Church USA. At the same time, the good people of La Nueva Esperanza (New Hope) Presbyterian Church were eagerly awaiting our arrival and the prospect of pure water and improved health. Included in our covenant with them to provide the components of the system, were the provisions that they would learn to construct and maintain it, and would provide ongoing health and hygiene education to the recipients of the water. The educational component of the Installation incorporated spiritual lessons and activities as well, so that the church members and their children and neighbors could see a practical outpouring of God's love and experience the Living Water of His Son. Every five gallon jug of water that goes out will bear a label that states: "Jesus Christ is living water for our bodies and souls". What I hope to do in this article is share some of my observations and impressions from the trip - all purely subjective. Each of us, I'm sure, experienced Guatemala differently, and came away with unique recollections. Regrettably, the most memorable feature of our flight to Central America was our eleven hour layover in Los Angeles. Our initial excitement gradually gave way to stultifying boredom as we passed the time reading, strolling, people watching and, mercifully, snoozing. After flying through the night we filed into the Guatemala City air terminal bleary-eyed, stiff and rumpled. We wrestled our impressive amount of luggage onto carts and headed for the exit, looking as nonchalant as possible in the hope of avoiding yet another inspection of our bags filled with 'suspicious' equipment. We emerged into the bright sunlight and the chaos of the pick-up area. Horns honking. People shouting. Children tugging at my sleeve, begging. And, suddenly, only Spanish was heard, and the hugeness of the language barrier intruded. From this point on we became totally dependent on Greg and Paula to be our voices. I was grateful to climb into the prearranged transportation and head out of the city. Our driver, Martin, was having troubles of his own navigating through road construction. The circuitous route he was forced to take allowed us to see, for the first time, the astounding contrasts of the place. Exotic beauty and filthy squalor. Riches and destitution. Bright colors and mud. Just after passing an elderly, bent over woman pilfering surveying stakes for firewood, we cruised by a huge Mercedes Benz dealership with a gleaming glass facade and manicured lawns. The traffic was heavy and the driving bodacious and creative, in spite of a conspicuous police presence. I hung on, as we dodged dogs and bicycles. The turquoise, pink, green and yellow buildings flew by in a blur. As we neared the edge of the city the narrow streets gave way to a broad, well maintained highway, and I was surprised at the presence of several large Korean clothing factories, as well as the prominent Coca Cola and Pepsi installations that were devouring the local sugar cane harvest. I was not prepared for the visual feast that awaited us in the country. (I felt a bit like Lucy emerging from the wardrobe into Narnia.) It was green, green, green. Everywhere unfamiliar shades and shapes of green. And then, standing there as if they were commonplace and patiently waiting to be noticed - the volcanoes! Plural! (Thirty five in Guatemala). Smoking! Sometimes puffs and sometimes wisps that resembled wreaths of cloud. Needless to say, we couldn't take our eyes off them. As cameras clicked we were reassured by our PRESGOV guide that as long as they're smoking they're not building up pressure - so not to worry. Little by little I relaxed, and a wonderful feeling of happiness and expectancy came over me. I noticed that most of the others were smiling too - except Doug, who had given in to exhaustion and was asleep in the back of the van. I remember a kaleidoscope of sights. Graceful women balancing baskets on their heads, or bundles of wood, and one washing clothes in the river. Children playing in the dirt, and pigs and chickens free-ranging. Men on bicycles (never girls or women) careening along at the edge of the road, inches from the passing trucks. Old school busses painted bright colors and loaded to the hilt with people and cargo. Fruit stands and little markets at the junctions. Rows of sugar cane burning in the fields. Dogs everywhere - 'lowest common denominator' brown dogs. And as we got farther from the city we saw numerous herds of cattle - mostly Brahman - and it was puzzling that they were so skinny despite their abundant lush pasture. Food was very much on our minds by this time, and I was grateful when we pulled into a very attractive restaurant. We all had some trepidation about ordering, as we had been forewarned about contaminated food and water, but we needn't have worried. We enjoyed a light meal while watching another volcano and the armed guards who materialized in the flower beds when the till was being emptied. (Though we eventually got used to them, it was amusing and surrealistic to see the guards fast asleep in doorways or lounging beside the big inflatable Santa Clauses and snowmen, which seemed so out of place.) Instead of installing curbs or guard rails around the parking lot, the restaurant owner had painted the lower parts of the tree trunks white. Guatemalan ingenuity. We arrived at the finca - the Santa Elena coffee plantation - around noon, and although we were very tired, we were too fascinated with our new environment to rest immediately. All around us was an amazing array of tropical plants, and although I didn't know their names, I recognized some that I have bought in WalMart, only to see them wither and die in Wyoming's dry climate. From the patio style living room of the finca, we could see bright green parrots cavorting in the coconut palms, and humming birds flitting over the passion fruit arbor. Beyond that was the forest of banana trees, and toward the river the giant machan leaves waved continually in the breeze. Exotic flowers of all colors bordered the yard of the abandoned cook's cottage, and exploring there, we were able to closely examine the giant purple-brown flower that morphs into a bunch of bananas. A 20+ foot poinsettia arched over the lane, prompting someone to comment that they'd enjoy the reaction if they were to order one like that from Northern Gardens! The hard rain that poured straight down while we were napping later in the afternoon left the ground muddy, but the air was not as muggy and humid as I had anticipated. Mark and Ana Maria, owners of the finca, were warm hosts and interesting conversationalists. They served us delicious meals, which featured their own abundant produce - pineapples, mandarin oranges, juices, and, always, bananas. Mark proved to be a helpful resource for us, with his wealth of information about the local people, culture and business practices. We soon realized how fortunate we were to have found such good accommodations. We were expected for Sunday worship at La Nueva Esperanza at 6 p.m., and as we filed into the little cinder block church I was aware that all eyes were on us. Clearly we were the object of much curiosity, and we were curious about them, as well. The little room was filled to capacity with people of all ages. They greeted us shyly and formally, and I was distressed by my inability to talk to them. We sat at the front on plastic chairs, and, as I glanced around, I was struck by the poverty that was evident in the stained walls, the cement floor, the junk stacked in the corners, and the meager ornamentation. I wanted to ask someone why the telephone was hanging precariously from a nail above the door. The strangeness of the physical surroundings fell away as we were united in worship. Enthusiastic singing, communion with real wine, and five baptisms were punctuated by startlingly loud fireworks right outside. No one seemed to notice the commotion and street noise - the dogs barking and the children yelling and the bottle rockets streaking by the open windows. The banner we presented to the church suddenly seemed far too grand and imposing. Unfamiliar sounds awoke me Monday morning - the river outside my open window, the jungle birds, and an unidentifiable bang, bang, banging. We were up early, anticipating a busy day with many unknowns. As we arrived at the church, it was gratifying to find that a sufficient number of men and women had committed to the project. Our men were immediately faced with a major obstacle. The ozonator - a critical component of the system - had been broken in transit. This afforded us an opportunity to witness God at work firsthand. Improbable as it may seem, we were able to swap our broken ozonator for one from a nearby installation that had been rendered inoperable by a flood. As that solution unfolded, there was no doubt in our minds that God was providing for us. In the meantime, we women introduced ourselves to the group of women and older children who had come, and tried to establish a personal connection with them by sharing some things about ourselves and showing pictures of our homes and families. I felt a warm bond forming between us as we sang and worked and prayed together. In many ways our spiritual and hygiene lessons were like preaching to the choir, as these women were educated and already doing many of the things we were advocating. Most importantly, however, we were giving them the tools to teach others - the children, and the people outside the congregation who now must resort to using polluted water right from the river. Back at the finca in late afternoon, curiosity got the best of Debbie, Jane and me and we approached the coffee pickers who had just returned with full baskets and were sorting the ripe red coffee 'cherries' from the greener ones. Mostly women and children, they giggled shyly and averted their gazes from Jane's camera. Not so one little guy, who grinned, pointed at us and announced "Gringos!" The laughter that followed broke the ice, and soon the bigger boys were showing off their impressive soccer skills on the large concrete patios where the coffee is spread out each morning to dry. And we found out where the noise was coming from. The machine that removes the coffee beans from the pulp and then washes them is powered by a water wheel and goes bang bang bang bang bang. At 2 a.m. I was wakened by a howling wind and a terrible racket. More banging. This time, it was slamming doors and a loose piece of corrugated tin roof that was being hammered by what my vivid imagination decided must be a hurricane! And here we were in Guatemala! Hurricanes do happen in Guatemala, don't they? And we hadn't been listening to the radio, so for all I knew, we might be right in the path of destruction I As I hurried to shut my window I could see the huge machan fronds thrashing and twisting, and the palms above them bending low from the force of the wind. Just as I was trying to decide whether to crawl back in bed or sound some sort of hurricane alarm, the most awful dog fight broke out down below, and I knew that Kimba, the jealous alpha female dog, was murderously attacking the new litter of puppies born that day to sweet Michita, the youngest of the three household pets. (We had been told that Kimba had already perpetrated a similar heinous deed.) Michita was putting up a good fight in defense of her little ones, and I was relieved when I heard footsteps running to her rescue. No one came upstairs to rescue me, so I was reasonably reassured that we weren't In the throes of a hurricane after all. I felt a little sheepish next morning when no one else seemed to have come through a harrowing imaginary hurricane. Sipping coffee, we watched as some men swept off the patios with large palm branches, while others wielded machetes to clear fallen debris. Guatemala smells ripe and lush, with little whiffs of smoke now and then, especially in the early mornings. There was a smell of fermenting fruit that we couldn't identify until we learned that the coffee beans go through a stage of fermentation prior to being washed, and the 'cherry' pulp also ferments as it is turned into organic fertilizer. During the noon heat the air is heavy with the scent of flowers and vegetation, and on the busy highways the diesel fumes from the sugarcane trucks give you a headache. On Tuesday, back at the church, the men were feeling the pressure of completing the installation and training the San Felipe fellows, while we women were having a little more fun, playing charades to teach appropriate usage of the pure water. Laughter helped the ladies to be less self-conscious and more spontaneous, and we were happy to be able to eat the fruit plate they prepared for us for a snack. (The next day we had to be more surreptitious, as we couldn't risk eating the burrito-like snack and the hot 'mystery drink' that they graciously served us, for fear of getting sick.) In the afternoon we were escorted on a walk by a young Cuban-trained doctor and his brother - sons of the worship leader at the church. The objective was a rickety suspension bridge which could only be accessed via a steep rocky trail. As we made our way down we were met by a steady stream of men carrying firewood in packs slung from their foreheads. Each would politely say "Buenos dias" or "Buenos tardes" as he struggled up the trail. (The wood was apparently salvaged from a village on the other side of the river that had been wiped out by a volcanic eruption.) About halfway down the trail, it occurred to me that climbing back up was not going to be any fun, so I opted to meander back to the worship leader's house to wait. Once again the language barrier tormented me. How could I tell her bewildered daughter-in-law who I was and why I was at her house? Evidently I looked harmless enough, as she invited me in and sat smiling at me expectantly. The wind came up again that night but this time I just pulled the covers over my head and said a prayer. The air felt chilly Wednesday morning, but it warmed up by the time we reached the church. This was an exciting day: Douglas got the water plant running, Pat and Greg went off to do site visits for future installations, and we had twenty-five beautiful children show up to be instructed by one of their own teachers. They were attentive and delightful, and it warmed my heart to be with them. I had a real feeling of accomplishment, seeing our educational program coming together as it was meant to. San Felipe was celebrating a Saint's feast day, and on our way to and from the church we encountered crowded streets, and a parade with floats and horsemen and dancers in macabre masks. There seemed to be no 'rules of the road ', and it was every man for himself at the intersections. Our driver, Umberto, seemed to pride himself in how many close calls he could finesse, and we found ourselves saying, in unison, "Here we go again!" as we careened around the cane trucks, three abreast on a two-lane highway, on our way to see the Mayan ruins at Abaj Takalik. (More than once I wanted to hide my face so I didn't have to look.) Having survived that, we had a very interesting guided walk around the ruins, which were only discovered in 1987 and are now being slowly excavated. Mark wanted very much to interpret his agri-tourist operation to us, and he did so Wednesday evening during a walkabout around the finca (the only time I was bitten by mosquitoes) and later in a more formal presentation. He showed us how he maximizes the use of the land by growing five levels (heights) of plants, from avocadoes to coconuts, in the same area. They have built a solar drier to dehydrate bananas and plantains for the health food market, and they have created a hardier coffee plant by grafting Arabica seedlings to Robusta roots (35,000 plants per year). Coffee growing is the largest industry in the third world, and it is very labor intensive, as all of the steps are done manually. The finca supports three families, and hires seasonal coffee pickers between September and January. I now have a much greater appreciation for all that goes into my morning cup of coffee. Thanksgiving Day at breakfast we overheard the news that someone had raided the finca overnight and pulled up a number of coffee plants by the roots. Another armed guard would be necessary. The problem of theft is omnipresent, and Mark commented that, while he loves the local people, he is repeatedly surprised and disappointed by some of their unscrupulous behaviors. As our work at the church was done, we were invited by Aura and Sheny - two new friends - to take stroll downtown and check out the market. As we threaded our way through the crowded, noisy aisles we were surrounded by an incredible array of merchandise - fruits and vegetables, fabric, clothing and toys, spices and meat, including baskets of chicken feet and hairy pigs' ears. Some were cooking over open fires, and it was smoky and hot. Debbie and Jane bought beautiful Guatemalan skirts and tops for just a few quetzals. Back at the church the other women were preparing dinner for us. The 'church kitchen' consisted of a table in an open porch, where they were busy chopping garlic and vegetables for the big pot of rice and chicken stew, and an open fire in the alley. They worked industriously and cooperatively, like women in church kitchens all over the world, and the meal was very tasty. We held a brief worship service to dedicate the system and celebrate the completion of the project. We drank the water, as a demonstration of our confidence in its purity. Mark led us in an impromptu hymn before Thanksgiving dinner, and Ana Maria served up a delicious Guatemalan chicken dish, garnished with fruit and vegetables. No one seemed to be missing turkey and pumpkin pie. A few of us e-mailed our families at home to reassure them that we weren't enduring any hardships on this American holiday. We packed our bags and retired to bed early. Next morning, after another fine breakfast, we said our goodbyes at the finca and set off in the PRESGOV van for Antigua and Guatemala City. Much to our relief, the traffic was lighter this morning, as the cane trucks weren't on the road yet. We were feeling jovial and comfortable with one another, in the way people are who have gone through a significant experience together. By this time we were able to identify more of what we were seeing - the pineapple fields and the chicken busses and the rows of burned sugarcane - and again we were awestruck by the splendid volcanoes. Antigua is a beautiful old city, once the capital of Guatemala, and renowned for its Spanish colonial architecture. The streets in the old part of the city, where we had lunch in a charming building erected in the 1600s, are cobblestone, and with a little imagination you could hear the hoof beats of the conquistadors. Bougainvillea spilled over the walls of the pastel houses we passed on the way to the market. We were in search of souvenirs, and found lovely articles crafted by artisans in this more up-scale venue. I wanted to buy more of the beautiful woven and embroidered fabrics, but was careful to save enough quetzals to pay the 'exit tax' at the airport the next day. We arrived in Guatemala City in mid-afternoon - this time seeing a nicer part of this city of three million people. We booked into a 'strange' hotel, where voices echoed all the way up the stairways (no elevators) to the third floor, and where there was only one other guest, as far as we could tell. The restaurant evidently had to send out for the food, and since we were pretty giddy by this time we wondered if it would be brought from McDonald's by the delivery boy on the motorbike we had seen earlier. Later, as I locked the door of my room, shivering from the cold, I could hear Greg's voice echoing from somewhere, 'We're in the twilight zone!" After very little sleep we congregated in the lobby before first light, and were whisked off to the airport in a pickup truck (the hotel's limo service). The city was quiet and pretty at that hour, and the departure area of the airport gave a better impression than what we had upon arrival. While waiting for our flight, I struck up a conversation with an elderly retired doctor from New Orleans, who runs a clinic In Guatemala to help the poor. He told me that he had lost his home to Hurricane Katrina and that it was Presbyterians who had provided him and his neighbors with the most immediate and practical help. The flight back was uneventful - pleasant, even - until we encountered some difficulty in the customs and security check points in the L.A. airport. We were rushed and harried. Greg and Paula got separated and had to take a later flight, which concerned us, as Paula wasn't feeling well. But we were on our way home, and our spirits were buoyant. 0ur mission was accomplished. When we landed in Cody it was frosty, and there was snow on the ground. Truly, we had returned from another world. What a privilege it was to participate in this service for the Lord. I benefited in so many ways, and received more than I gave. I hope that you, too, will have an opportunity to stretch out of your comfort zone and do a mission trip. It can change your life. - Marilyn Montville