Just before the afternoon session began, it started to rain—really, really hard. It was raining sideways, and, because the school is at the base of a valley, all of the water flows downhill towards it. While it normally trickled down the steep bank towards the sewage creek, the water shot out of the pipe, roughly five feet across, at a frighteningly high velocity. The water came out almost horizontally and nearly cleared the entire creek. It was almost as if created for an amusement park—only more intense. I could picture the raft full of shrieking passengers going through the torrent and over the rapids.

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The afternoon storm had threatened houses and created swirling rapids in the sewage creek. The following day, as the children arrived for their final presentation, “mineros,” miners, took advantage of the lowered water level to search for recyclables to sell. The color and enthusiasm inside the school seemed to exist in a world outside of the slum, but the dirt on the kids’ clothes and the miners outside brought back the reality of their situation and the world in which they live.

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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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We didn’t have the proper party we were hoping for when we finished the mural today. The tall, sturdy ladder we needed to reach the top half of the wall was in use at the prison hospital most of the day. I had brought with me a change of nice clothes for the event, but someone spilled black paint on the blouse while it was poking out of my purse on the ground. We actually were painting up until

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Today the men made us lunch. It was a nice surprise! Two fries eggs with beans and a lot of bread. One of the chaplains who translates for us was excited to take several photos of me eating it. One or two chaplains sit with the men every day. While I am here they are my guides and guards.

The men who gather to watch the mural process learned my name today. I only know four of them by name

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Leah Samuelson. It's hard to know what to think about the painting gangsters. They have such a strong and violent reputation here (no one will work with them), and I'm getting feedback from different outside sources:

One opinion is that these guys aren't a good use of our resources, which
would be better spent in poor villages with people who aren't murdering people. </

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