On the balcony earlier, Evertsz said that some time ago God had come to her in a dream, instructing her to visit the gang member with whom we had spoken outside of the school. While she was afraid, she went anyway. Later on, he was shot. This was one of the first times he had been out of bed in months.

 

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“See all the shotgun blasts? That’s why people don’t like to have windows.” While the rest of the group continued their teaching, I ventured “al otro lado,” to the other side. There is no fence separating the two sides; the gangs decide the perimeters.

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A four year old child responding to an inquiry about how to solve problems or conflicts made a comment about bringing a machete. This begs the question, what has he seen? La Limonada is one of the most dangerous and poverty-stricken areas of Guatemala City, and seventy percent of the children have been physically, emotionally or sexually abused. Nevertheless, the children there have the same needs as children in the safest gated communities of America.

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The days were devoid of the rain that came daily at the beginning of our trip, and they lacked the intensity of prison visits, overnight stays with Mayan families and trash dump observations. Wrapping up our first week in Guatemala, Friday, Saturday and Sunday were certainly less mentally draining than the preceding days had been, but we stayed busy exploring and learning about city life and culture.

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Think of a postcard of a beautiful blue lake surrounded by volcanoes. Now, think of dirt hills covered in trash. From afar, the hills look covered in a light coat of snow, sprinkled with touches of color here and there. Now, add hundreds of people picking through the trash to make their living. The contrast in sights, sounds, and, especially, smells between Lake Atitlan and the trash dumps of Guatemala City was almost ridiculous.

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David Melby-Gibbons, an Eastern Graduate student, played guitar while we sang several songs, among them: Amazing Grace—first in English, then Spanish.We concluded the bonfire by roasting some “angelitos,” marshmallows, which we enjoyed with the children.

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It’s hard to pick the high point of our second full day in Guatemala. It could be the three hour ride from Guatemala City to the Lake and surrounding Mayan villages—the farms, the colorful towns, mudslides and mountain vistas. Perhaps it was the choppy ride across Lake Atitlan during an afternoon downpour. Or maybe it was the nighttime ride hanging off the back of a pickup truck with about 20 other passengers, followed by a wonderful dinner and bonfire sing-a-long with our Mayan hosts.

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Approaching the prison, small markets and payphones lined the streets. A line was forming outside of the gates so guards could inspect visitors prior to entering the facility. Dogs and cats roamed the streets; mountains were visible in the distance. And there were soldiers walking around the outside of the fence with automatic weapons, accompanied by a tank.

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Mona Tavaao is used to the loud, incessant chatter of kids. As a School District of Philadelphia Bus driver and this summer as a driver for Artology, it comes with the job.

 

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Circled around a hole with shovels in hand, the kids dug up skeletons and spears as part of their lesson on indigenous people—sort of.

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The kids arrive at a church, but they soon head out to the field.

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