Dear Friends,

Interesting how a person can get familiar and comfortable with new situations relatively quickly. Guatemala has begun to feel like an inviting place. Our struggles with the language continue and they are our primary source of discomfort. We’ve been at it little more than a month but verb tenses, especially the seemingly endless options in the past tense and the proper placement of pronouns, have slowed down my ability to communicate. I was better when I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’m encouraged when I remember Henri Nouwen, the well-known priest, educator, and spiritual writer, wrote of his frustrations with the language.

Gloria tells me I need a haircut and that I’m beginning to look like Schweitzer; all I need now is to learn to play the organ, become a physician, and write insightful tomes about Jesus and Christianity and I’ll have it made.

I continue conversations with the people from whom we rent a room. It seems everyone I speak with is aware of the corruption in the government. Some drug traffickers were released for lack of evidence here in Coban because they were in league with the cops, who apparently stole the evidence. There is no faith in the government that I can see. The sad part seems to be there is no one with any moral authority to marshal any kind of opposition to such widespread corruption. I have to remind myself that I am not a social scientist and that the Presbyterian church has been here 130 years and this situation still exists despite the efforts of hundreds of well-meaning people. The government does allow in country about 180,000 people a year from the U.S. and many are associated with churches. I see fresh gringo faces in Coban frequently, and many have badges about their work with one church or another. Most are very young. I’ve been known to offend (but only mildly so) with the observation that mission work seems to be the province of the old and retired and the young and irresponsible. The thought slips in now and then that I may be among a unique group: the older and irresponsible.

We went to Chisec recently to meet with the church there. Coban seems now to represent an up-scale city compared with Chisec. When we left by bus we noticed that Chisec was only about 50 miles from Coban. Three hours later, after an agonizing ride through mountain roads, we arrived. Three hours, 50 miles. I had taken this trip more than 2 years ago and the road at that time was one lane in places and mostly dirt. Hard to believe it could have improved that much in such a short period of time. The road has improved but seems to hang precariously on the side of the mountains, and evidence of rock slides is apparent and erosion control is not evident. Overloaded buses add to the excitement. The buses, especially this one, had seen better days, but it is impressive how their mechanics keep these tired, old, wrecks running. That represents a level of skill and determination that is instructive. We were the last ones off the bus. We weren’t sure we had arrived in Chisec but the driver convinced us we had. We were in central park and we found a hotel which had been recommended earlier. When we arrived at the check-in, which was in the kitchen, we were advised at once there were three gringos in town. Later, we were so advised once again. I think people wanted us to feel comfortable. We learned two were with the Peace Corps and the other with the Catholic church. This is a town of probably 2,000 to 3,000, maybe more, and gringos apparently don’t spend a lot of time here. Everyone knew we were there, so we took a stroll around town down the middle of the street acknowledging all who would look at us. We looked for some bottled water. The first two tiendas had none, which I found odd. I could get all the Coca Cola anybody could ever use but water wasn’t readily available. We went back to the hotel where we were told there was no water. I thought they meant no water to purchase but they meant—no water! But they weren’t alone. There was no running water anywhere in town and had not been for a month. Suddenly I had a strange urge to shower but, alas, there was not enough bottled water. Our friend Domingo had planned to meet us at the hotel at 6:00 p.m. We sat in the patio nursing a Coke. Six came and went as did 6:30 and 7:00. No one has a phone here so we went to our room debating whether to eat in a place that had no water; how do they wash dishes after all? Before we decided, Domingo showed up at 7:30 so it was decided for us—we wouldn’t, that is, until later when the desire to have dinner fought off concern about how dishes may or may not be washed. We were escorted to his church in his car, driven by a very young man over rutted, rocky roads with the occasional boulder and rain-filled ditches through a pitch black night. The church was not especially well-attended this night but we were warmly welcomed and made to feel very comfortable with a seat on the front row in front of the amplified music which was, I’m guessing now, amplified about 1000 times. Still, there was a spirit there that I recognized as a deep faith—maybe one born of necessity—that transcended any differences between us. We were asked to participate, to preach or sing or do something. I said a few things in Spanish which may have passed for a sermonette but who knows what the translator made of it.

We were to come back the next day so we vowed to be more prepared. We were. We did a dandy a capella version of "Revive Us Again," amplified about 1000 times. Still, no one left. Later that evening we went past a bar loaded (so to speak) with young men in their teens. We had seen earlier in the evening a number of young people stumbling drunk, which was disconcerting in itself, but here there were many more. "Life is hard in Chisec," Domingo told me. That was obvious just looking around but here is how it manifests itself in the lives of too many young Guatemalans who have no hope. Hope is the thing that always comes to mind here in Guatemala because it is hard for me to see it and I have to remind myself, "Surely there is a future and our hope will not be cut off." That has to be true lest we all languish in despair.

We visited in Domingo’s tienda, another grim reminder of how hard life is in this town. There were two small beds/cots/or hammocks for his 3- and 6-year-old girls, which were covered in mosquito netting, and his hammock, which too was covered in netting. There was a very dim light but it was difficult to see well. I tried to buy something—water would have been nice, but he only had Cokes and a poor imitation orange juice drink and some cookies. We bought a little.

Corruption continues apace. The president, Arnolfo Portillo and some of his cronies, are charged now with stealing another Q2,500 million and placing it in a bank in Panama. It’s so common here, the populace simply shrugs it off. It seems to be expected. In a country with a 45% unemployment rate one would believe there would be rioting in the streets, but the people have become inured to this sort of thing. There also appears to be parallel economies: one for people with jobs, the other for the rest of the people. There are those who live very good lives, indeed comparable to those reading this memo, drive good cars, live in fine homes, eat well, and go to good schools. Superficially, the casual visitor would think this was indeed a Third World country but that the people were happy, all was well, etc. But scratch the surface and there is widespread discontent and too many things are beyond the reach of the huge majority of the people. We visited a coffee plantation, which is considered a good place to work. The workers get paid by the pound, 20 centavos, and they pick, on a very good day, maybe 200 pounds and earn Q40, about $5. The season is about 8 months and there are no benefits, in fact, benefits are only for the select few who work in government, naturally, and a few primarily foreign companies. There are no social services and there are many homeless kids on the streets here in Coban who shine shoes or get handouts, and who knows where they sleep. I’ve had some educated Guatemalans tell me these people are lazy, thick-headed, and that they like living this way. Sounds familiar in a way. Rigoberta Menchú has been described to me as a liar who simply wanted to make money, the guerrillas as people who only wanted to take what others had and not work for it themselves, and that there is plenty of work here if only people would do it. Others lament the situation and indicate it all revolves around money or the lack of it. Corruption is endemic and impacts all governments. Essentially, it is my understanding, there is only one government since nearly everything is filtered through Guatemala City, where decisions are made concerning nearly everything. I see groups who stay here a while, paint a fence or two, feel good about themselves, and go home talking about how they visited Guatemala. How God wants us to peel back this veneer and work with the church here is a real challenge. In a country with such widespread corruption one must ask if it can impact the church and the answer is not one I care to ponder too deeply. We are encouraged that our task is primarily to be with the people. We do have to ask ourselves how the choices we make in the U.S. can impact lives here.

We made another trip to a place called El Estor for a few days to visit with the church there. After eight hours of eating dust through gravel roads along treacherous roads we at last, and thankfully so, arrived. I have learned that dust is a great hair thickening agent, which is useful since mine is getting so thin. I have yet to figure what to do when it rains, however. A mud pie on my head could be hard to explain under the best of circumstances. Our bus was direct from Coban to El Estor—at least that’s what the driver told us. However, five hours into the trip he stopped at a place called Teleman and told us that was the end of the line. Two of the first words we’ve learned are "mentiras" and "mentiroso," lies and liar. The papers are full of these words since it applies to the government so readily and also to selected bus drivers. After an hour we caught a rickety bus for another grueling three hours. It stopped frequently to pick up passengers and to have water poured in the radiator. Three and four in a seat many times, surrounded by men with machetes and the fragrance of three hard days’ work in the field, women with nursing babies, and one, in particular, with a makeshift bottle made by tearing the corner off a plastic sack and sucking Coke through that made it an educational trip. Dust rolling through the windows into your eyes and nose, creating a grit on your face that would serve as a facial if you needed one. I kept looking for a miracle and I think I found one: Gloria, who likes her creature comforts, smiled bravely through the whole experience (we had to return the same way after all), and was gracious to all near her, offering what comfort she could if it were nothing but a smile. We spent time that evening in a church service with people who praised and worshiped God with sincerity and energy. It removed any feelings of discomfort we may have felt. Their life continues hard. We are privileged to work with them.

Yours,

Roger and Gloria Marriott