Surprise

Nearing the airfield, we circled the tropical bowl lying between lush green and cotton white mountains. Their tall hats were fringed in the white lace of coffee plantations in bloom. Some of the mountains were actually volcanoes; one was steaming in the distance. I live near volcanoes, but I never experienced an active one. This, I could see, would be an interesting place. I meant to write often in my journal so that I would forever remember the experience. My thoughts were quickly interrupted as the seatbelt light came back on.

Descending steeply out of the blue was like a thrill ride at the county fair. It left me breathless, my heart in my throat, yet I loved the excitement! The pilot was a hot shot to be sure. He had to be in order to get a commercial jet down into the final approach, down into that tropical punchbowl. This definitely was not Sacramento with its flat, seemingly endless tarmac. This was Guatemala City with an elevation of five thousand feet. The pilot cut the power, pointed the nose to the ground, and banked steeply. I was impressed. I was also extremely glad to have a window seat to enjoy the beauty of this lovely scene from above. Descending and banking gave me a great view of those coffee trees. They were simply beautiful on their terraced hillsides. They grew in steep terrain in what appeared to be almost jungle vegetation with hardwood trees I could not identify. Birds of every color could be seen flying here and there. The national bird is the quetzal, dressed in bright green tuxedo with long tails many times its body length,and a red vest with traces of yellow and blue to complete its pallet. I was hopeful of seeing one up-close! The soil was dark, almost black, and in some places very red. I couldn't wait to see our destination. I was impatient as a child anticipating a big surprise.
Rick and I were the leaders of that team of thirty-nine people; thirty-four of them were teenagers. We were to build an addition to an existing orphanage in Mixco, a suburb of Guatemala City. All of us were quite excited that day. It was the culmination of three weeks of intense training in Florida. It had felt more like three months, but here we were---this was the real thing.

Thankfully, I was not one of our team members who succumb to airsickness. Poor Allen was moaning, eyes closed, as he rubbed his left ear and rocked back and forth in his seat, praying that we would soon land. We hit hard on the rough asphalt with a loud bang, bouncing as we landed. I could see the wings bounce up and down as if the plane, indeed, was a huge bird ready to take off again into the sky. A sigh of relief came from Allen, even after such a rough landing. I could only imagine his suffering and felt a sincere sympathy for him. Although it hadn't been a exceedingly long flight, only two and a half hours, he had been sick the whole time.

The condition of the runway told me I was not in the United States anymore by its cracks sprouting weeds and grasses. Buildings on the perimeter of the airfield appeared unkempt, yet colorful, in their coatings of bright yellow, pink, and green. I took in everything at once: the lacy, green trees, the distant volcanoes that I had seen from the air, the ruggedness of the asphalt, the stucco buildings, the steep landscape. All were new to me, and all were very foreign. It was as if I was watching a movie on the big screen; now I was one of the actors. I was not surprised at the abandoned looking terminal where we entered the gates. Nothing was very modern. Leaving the plane at the gate, we were directed to a metal door leading to the inside of the terminal. We entered, climbed an old, concrete stairway with rusty railing, and walked into an almost empty baggage room. The out-of-date style and colors added to the musty smell of abandonment. I had asked myself "where are all of the people?" but never voiced my thoughts. At the customs desk we were asked to show our passports and to wait. No one was there to meet or greet us. Rick and I felt disappointed. Our missionary was to be there before we arrived! Where was she? We had no way of getting to the orphanage without her direction, and how were we to transport thirty-nine people and all of the baggage? There was no welcome scent of brewing coffee in this land of coffee abundance, no friendly face to ease our tension, so we waited some more. Something was wrong.

We were denied entry! Customs wanted to inspect every bag, all thirty-nine of them! Each of us on the team had a large dufflebag. We each carried canned food as well as our clothes in those heavy bags, each weighing as much as seventy pounds. "Are they carrying contraband?" their suspicious looking eyes seemed to ask. "Sit over there, please, and wait for our inspector" the clerk had said in broken English as he pointed to the left of the desk. We had no choice, and there was no choice of seats, either----only cold, hard tile. For over two hours we waited, always waited. It seemed to fit here; this was, afterall, the land of manana. Why be surprised at this, either? Propping our duffles up against the paneled wall, like blue soldiers standing at attention, they became our backrests. I made thirty-nine peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our team to stave their hunger. We had intentionally packed these foods in an easily accessible bag for this reason. This had been a long day already, which had started at the break of dawn. We drank water from our canteens, not trusting any available water sources there. "I sure could use a cup of coffee right now" was my thought. Some of the team read, others slept, and I studied my Spanish as I was pretty "rusty" from lack of use.

We passed the time as best we could in that dreary terminal, awaiting someone to come to our rescue. I had no desire of spending the night on that cold, hard floor.
Finally, a short, rather handsome man came striding to the customs desk. He spoke very low and quick to the clerk in his fluid Spanish. I was taking notice of the softness of this Spanish in comparison to the harsher sound of the language I was used to hearing. He wore a dark blue jacket with an identification badge looking very official. He then asked us to line up and display our passports again as we filed through the line past the desk. Smiling, he welcomed us, apologizing for our inconvenience upon arriving in his country. This was Jose Castanedas, the immigration offficer. "No, the inspection was not necessary" he told us. With a sigh of relief, we were able to relax. We learned later, on leaving the country, that this was not the terminal most people see. We were downstairs from the more modern part of the terminal. Mr. Castanedas then told us how to get to the transportation area outside the terminal.

It was wonderful to finally get out of that depressing room! The light was fading outside and dark was upon us, but the fresh air instantly revived my oppressed mood. We finally saw other people--- families, locals, the well-to-do and the destitute. We saw Mayan women and children dressed in all the colors of the rainbow. It made quite a constrast with their long, dark braids bound in ribbon. The upper class dressed in suits. There did not appear to be anyone in between the two classes in that country. Our contact finally showed up with her daughter and an old, yellow schoolbus. "Delays," she had said. "I just returned from the States only yesterday" was her reply with non-chalance. There was not much to say in this land where time stands still. The lettering on the schoolbus gave us assurance that we were, in fact, in the right place. "Agua Viva Hogar de los Ninos", it had said in bold, black letters. We piled into our long, yellow carriage, but its engine would not start. Not to be surprised at this, we waited again! While a new battery was being found, ah yes, we waited over an hour. It would give us patience in our five-week stay in Guatemala, for this was where our summer adventure began, in an airport terminal, in a third-world country, and, surprise again, Mr. Castanedas as our bus driver and head of the orphanage!