April 21, 2008
Friends,
Gloria and I just returned to Cobán after what seemed like weeks on the road. It was, however, only a number of days, but I’m tired. Sometimes I think that comes from age, but the truth is I’m in pretty good shape and in excellent health. Still, traveling for hours in cramped vans takes a toll on anyone, let alone a fellow who spent most of his life in comfortable, suburban, middle America where no one walks anywhere, and where some even drive to the end of the driveway to pick up the morning paper!
We used to have temporary residency in Guatemala. Long processes are involved, and we erred in not obtaining permanent residency, but we didn’t understand the finer points at the time. Our temporary residency expired, which means we must leave the country every three months now, spend two days in another country, and then re-enter Guatemala, regaining the right to stay three more months before we have to leave again.
I am embarrassed to admit that in 2002 we did participate in mild corruption by paying fifty dollars to have our passports stamped as having left the country even though we were comfortably ensconced in Cobán all the while. This taught me that corruption is an easy thing in which to get involved. Who was hurt, after all? No one was physically injured or traumatized, I saved some money and time, a low-level functionary made a few bucks, so what did it matter? Maybe we helped the local economy or at least we helped a poor, struggling person to make ends meet. With such reasoning is the road to hell paved.
But getting our Guatemalan visas updated now means we have to travel to either Mexico or Belize or some distant country. At one time, we were allowed to travel to the nearby countries of El Salvador, Honduras, or Nicaragua. All of these countries are easy to reach but all that changed when the countries mentioned, along with Guatemala, agreed that entering one country meant entering them all, which meant going there didn’t help us update our visas.
Mexico abuts Guatemala, but traveling there represents a real chore. From Cobán we traveled to Flores in the Petén, a distance of some six hours by crowded microbus. (We have no idea how far it is in miles, since distance here is measured in time.) We left the next morning at 5:00 a.m. for the four-hour trip to the border—more than two hours was on rutted, washed out, gravel and dirt roads. The rainy season is nearly over, so the roads will soon be graded to make them a little smoother.
Still, this is an interesting trip. The remote northern department of the Petén is noted as a transfer point for Colombian cocaine as it makes its way into the lucrative markets in the United States. The road to Mexico in this area is not highly traveled, since it is so remote. During the corn-harvesting season there are a few assaults on the road, but those are just common criminals holding up trucks or vans since the people might have money during the harvest. The serious criminals, the narco-traficantes, are not interested in such small fare. The petty criminals, sometimes kids with guns, are more likely to be involved but that, too, is so rare as to be of no concern.
Frequently the land along the road has been cleared to make room for cattle grazing or corn planting. Vast areas have been burned to clear and clean it and empty hulks of trees, sometimes the rare ceiba tree—the national tree—stand out in stark, ugly contrast to the bright, morning sky. Corn harvesting is beginning in some places. Campesino friends of mine tell me the harvest has been poor—especially for those who cannot afford to buy fertilizer. Prices for fertilizers have more than doubled due to the production of ethanol from corn in places like Brazil, Argentina, and the United States, which bids up the prices while limiting the availability beyond what is within reach of our friends.
Arriving in Bethel, Guatemala, we find the border town to be thinly populated—the customs and migration offices even more so. We are asked to pay 40 quetzales each for leaving Guatemala. This is a fee we have not previously paid at other border crossings. We received no receipt, which suggests it was mere graft, but since there were only a few ratty dogs, and a couple of pairs of skinny European backpackers, and a couple of kids looking for tips to lug our own backpacks to the boat for the crossing, we elected not to make an issue of the five dollars.
We maneuvered our way on to the lancha, a boat about 20 feet long and only about four feet at its widest point. The pilot skillfully directed it between the ominous river boulders and headed upriver for about 20 minutes through what was pristine jungle at one time. The howler monkeys still give it an eerie quality, but the plastic bottles and trash floating by us is a jarring reminder of how things have changed.
Arriving at our destination, we struggle off the boat and are fortunate not to fall into the river or slip on the wet river rocks. We wend our way to the customs office, complete some papers, show our documents, receive the necessary stamp in our passports, then wander to a small tienda and buy a bottle of water. A driver of a microbus tells us he’s heading to Palenque, our objective, so we follow him to his van. The ubiquitous European backpackers are already sitting in the van, but there is plenty of room for us, a welcome change. After another three hours or so, with a few stops to be inspected by Mexican police we think are looking for undocumented Guatemalans, we arrive in Palenque, exit the van, walk around a bit to get our bearings and something to eat, find a hotel, and then rest.
After a full day in Palenque we begin the return trip, again at 5:00 a.m. I engage the driver and his supervisor in conversation about the wall at the U.S. border, President Bush, (they didn’t like either one of them), the Presbyterian Church, (they didn’t know it), their work (they liked it), and we arrive at the border in less time than the trip to Palenque took. We pay another unexpected fee of 15 pesos each for saving the environment and 23 dollars each for leaving Mexico.
After negotiating the river and finding a van on the other side, we head back to Flores. It’s not long before I know we’re on Guatemalan soil because my phone rings to remind me of messages left the previous two days by Domingo, Lorenzo, José, Luisa, and Rebecca.
Rebecca calls me as soon as my phone has a signal. Her father wants her to get married, but she’s not sure she wants to do that—probably will, though, since there is nothing else to do. She’s working 10 hours a day making tortillas for 25 quetzales a day. She doesn’t like it, and her hands sometimes hurt. She wants to go back to school but if she marries she can’t do that. Her father made her quit a couple of years ago, saying he needed her in the house and on the land. Now a young man has asked her father for Rebecca. (This is not exactly asking to marry her but to be with her. Marriage is often another matter, and many if not most folks are not married. This arrangement doesn’t have the social stigma it might in the United States and is part of the social custom here.) Rebecca tells me she has two rotten teeth that ache and she needs them pulled. It costs 25 quetzales to pull a tooth—a day’s wages. One is a front tooth, and her concern shows that her education, as meager as it is, has made her conscious of her appearance and she doesn’t want the huge gap in her mouth so common among campesinos. She’s 20 years old, already older than most young ladies without a husband, and wants to know what I think about the tooth, her father, the young man, school, and her job, and asks me to keep our conversation confidential from anyone in Guatemala. Yes, we are clearly home again. Maybe we’ll go to Belize next time.
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage.
Ps. 16:6
Roger and Gloria Marriott The 2008 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 258 |
