To those for whom the title of this note is compelling rather than sleep-inducing, you may be interested to know that an article I co-wrote with the chair of the School of Leadership and Development at Eastern University has been published in Transformation, the quarterly journal of the Oxford Centre for Mission Studies. Though Transformation is a legitimate scholarly journal that costs serious money, the current issue is available electronically for free on a limited basis here. Just a little FYI.

I’ve spent the past three days retracing my roots here in Guatemala City, where twelve days past the due date and weighing in at ten pounds, six ounces I came into this world back in the year of 1982. An evangelical televangelist was the president of the country at the time - or dictator, I guess I should say - and once the dust settled on the 36-year civil war it turned out he was one of the most ruthless offenders of indigenous human rights the country had ever seen. And the country has seen its fair share, tragically.

I share that for no reason other than that this country is a land of contradictions, which was perfectly illustrated earlier in the week at a restaurant way out in the highlands when the faucet in the restroom didn’t work - instead you had to dip a bowl into a bucket of water sitting in the corner - and yet the automatic hand-drier worked just fine. As I was pondering this afterwords it occurred to me that Guatemalans ought to really like Johnny Cash because he too was quite contradictory for most of his life.

So here I am in this city of three million in a fairly poor and tumultuous country, this city where I was born and where I have so many memories, and I’ve been going here and there in taxis, without a clue as to the layout of the place. It’s a tricky city to navigate because it is on a plateau but has ravines all around it with little fingers of flatness sticking out as if to taunt the elements of nature, which also means you rarely can get from points A to B in a direct line.

On Thursday I headed over to a bookstore/cafe I had read about because, well, it is a bookstore/cafe and I am Tim Hoiland. It was so posh, though, it made me scratch my head, puzzled that this place and Sipacapa - where I had been just one day prior - could actually exist in the same universe, much less the same developing country. Yesterday I visited a few museums and a market, and on the way back in the taxi I got into a discussion with the driver about world Christianity and the rise of Pentecostalism. He said that in Guatemala City people are leaving the Catholic Church in droves and joining evangelical and Pentecostal churches. I had heard that 60% of the country identified as either Pentecostal or charismatic, but I also know about where Guatemala ranks in terms of homicide and corruption, and you wonder how these faith and crime statistics can coexist. But they do.

So today I headed downtown, to Kilometer Zero, to the central plaza which has on two of its sides the National Palace and a cathedral, respectively. During part of the tour of the palace we walked through a photography display of the quetzal, Guatemala’s national bird. Legend has it that when the Mayan warrior Tecún Umán was fighting against the Spanish invaders back in the day, a quetzal descended on him as he was dying, and ever since the bird has a bright red chest on account of spilled Mayan blood, and it refuses to sing. It is also said that the quetzal cannot live in captivity, which alludes, apparently, to the fact that Guatemalans highly value their freedom.

Today on the tour as the guide pointed out the series of photos of quetzals in captivity, an older Guatemalan man said, “What about the saying, about quetzals not being able to live in captivity?” The guide didn’t skip a beat, and responded, “That’s right. They cannot live in captivity.” And we moved on, down the hallway, no questions asked.

Okay, so my plan was to leave Sipacapa this morning and come back to Guatemala City with the mayor of Sipacapa, Delfino, who was headed into town for meetings. Actually, my plan before that was to come back on Friday by myself. But plans change. And they change repeatedly. Yesterday at about 5pm I learned that Delfino had just learned that his meetings were not in the afternoon as he had been told, but actually began at 8.30am, and on account of this he would be leaving very soon, as in, half an hour or so, and driving through the night.

I had completed my interviews by this point, but not my group learning activities. One thing came up after another to derail all such efforts, and it seemed pretty clear that staying around for another day would not yield any different results. So I packed up my stuff and was soon in the backseat of a navy blue Toyota Hilux pickup truck almost identical to the one my family used back in the day on the very same roads.

There were four of us in the cab and we picked up two others who rode in the bed. The road out to the highway meanders through the mountains with a great many bumps and switch-backs, and since it is dry season and we were driving in the dark, the headlights danced off clouds of dust whenever we-d pass another vehicle. Soon after we reached the highway I was able to fall asleep, resting my head on a pillow consisting of three yellow t-shirts Mario gave me from a recent presidential candidate who lost.

We stopped for a late dinner in a town called Los Encuentos, at a little roadside comedor, and then checked into a hotel across the street. Los Encuentros means The Encounters, and is a somewhat shady place. Fortunately, the only encounter I had - besides a four-hour encounter with sleep - was when I closed the door to my room as we prepared to hit the road again, and the pane of glass above the door fell on my head and shattered on the ground. No worries, I sustained no injuries. But for a moment I did feel like a movie star, at Los Encuentros, at three in the morning, sneaking silently away into the night.

I got dropped off at the place I-m staying at 6am, and shortly thereafter enjoyed my first shower in four days. So here I am, plotting the next four days in the city, and somewhat wishing airlines didn-t charge exhorbitant fees to switch to earlier flights. Also, sort of confused as to why this keyboard will not allow me to use apostrophes.

I´ll try to keep it light after my soapbox earlier today. I am writing from an office at a school in the town of Sipacapa, having spent the day meandering from San Marcos to here. I say meandering because it involved slow roads and several stops along the way. We stopped at Tres Cruces, the village we lived in for many years, which is the village in the photo in the letter I sent out prior to the trip. Our home, an adobe building with a tin roof, had been a one-room schoolhouse before our time, and as it happens, it’s a school again, this time for kindergarteners. The teacher unlocked it and let me in to have a look and take some photos. Apart from several new buildings in the village, electricity and running water, and serious road work underway out front (pavement, yeehaw!), the place took me right back to our days living there.

We visited Mario’s mother, and I gave her copies of a couple of photos, including one of me with her family, taken probably twenty years ago. Mom, Dad, and Josh - she sends her greetings. Heidi - sorry, she doesn’t remember you as well.

Continuing on our way we took a slightly out-of-the-way route, which circled part of the mine from a distance, so I got out a few times and snapped some photos. Upon arrival in the town of Sipacapa we went to the municipal building and up to the mayor’s office where the city council was in session. We took a seat in the back, but when the first matter of business was concluded, the mayor held out his hand and said, ¨Timo!¨ I said hello, and then it became clear that I was to go take a seat at the front of the room and speak with him. I hadn’t planned on speaking in front of city council, but it’s Latin America, so you roll with the punches. The mayor said he remembered my family and me from back in the day, and I told him what I hope to accomplish and that while I’m here to listen to their stories, I’m also here because the mine and the community of Sipacapa are part of my own story. He said it was an honor to have me visiting again, and I thanked him.

Then they passed out bottles of soda, and I chose Tiky, a super-sweet pineapple drink. As I sipped on it I thought back to what was probably the last time I had Tiky - a school party in the eighth grade when I brought a two-liter of it, banking on the fact that no one else would want any. I was right, and I was subsequently sick to the stomach. But today that bottle hit the spot.

I appreciate your continuing prayer as tomorrow is a big day for interviews, Lord willing.

Yesterday evening, immediately after posting my brief update, I walked back to my hotel and looking up at the name and address on the wall out front, I called Mario, my Sipacapa contact, to let him know where I´d be in the morning when he´d arrive to pick me up. I told him the name of the hotel and asked if he knew where it was. He said, ¨Hotel K-Fear? I am in front of K-Fear!¨ So I turned around and there, across the street in a pickup truck, I saw him waving. As it happens, he had meetings in town which had brought him here earlier than expected. We spent about 20 minutes catching up on the past 15 years and then he left to go find a hotel of his own. Later, he came to meet us at dinner along with one of my interviewees from the Diocese, at which point I showed him some old photos of us that were probably taken twenty years ago.

In an hour and a half or so we´ll be heading on to Sipacapa where I’ll be staying at his house and will be conducting the remaining interviews and participatory learning activities. I’d appreciate prayer for that. I hope to take care of my remaining work today and tomorrow, because Thursday Mario’s brother is heading to the capital and I’ve been offered a ride with him.

I should also say that prior to coming out here several people somewhat familiar with the situation offered words of caution, which I´m thankful for and believe are based at least in part on fact. And maybe it´s just that I have been with people who can vouch for me, but I have not experienced a trace of animosity or suspicion, even when moving around on my own. Already I´ve had several conversations with perfect strangers and all have been very friendly and welcoming. One elderly man I asked for directions asked where I was from and after a brief chat concluded by saying he is honored that I´m visiting the area.

Of course the situation with the mine is serious and of course there are incidents of crime. But at the same time, as I walk these streets and meet these people and consider what they are facing, I also believe that the Enemy is quite happy to see well-intentioned followers of Christ diverted from pursuing righteousness and justice because of fear and misinformation, whether deliberate or not. There’s a difference between courage and stupidity; I get that. But I think there’s also a big difference between being faithful and being timid. The people I´m meeting out here are demonstrating a faithful courage from which I know I can learn a lot.

But enough of my soapbox. Mario just called and we´re leaving sooner than expected. I may or may not have internet access while in Sipacapa, but thanks for your continued prayer and support.

Another quick update just to say I spent the afternoon at the Diocese, and was able to conduct not one but two (!) interviews, the second of which was a very unexpected surprise and quite rushed, but will be a great addition to the body of research. I got to meet the rest of the staff working on issues related to peace and ecology as they happened to be gathered for a rare day in the office. Also, in addition to the interviews I obtained some key literature along with a few anti-mining bumper stickers which I might be willing to auction off to benefit my chicken bus fund. Tonight I have dinner with my Eastern contact, one of his local coworkers I got to chat with a bit earlier, and some folks visiting for the week from Virginia. Tomorrow at 8.30am it’s off to Sipacapa.

It’s only mid-day on Monday so I don’t have a whole lot to report, but I have arrived in San Marcos, where I’ll be spending the rest of the day and night before leaving for Sipacapa in the morning. My contact here is an Eastern alum from my program a few years back who is working for an NGO in the area. This afternoon I have an interview with someone from the Diocese (the Catholic Church’s social arm) and I think he’ll be an excellent source of information.

So about the ride out here… There were just three of us in the minivan this morning - myself and two Dutch women who are volunteering at a school in Xela. I sat in the front and had a nice long chat with the driver, which allowed me to ask him anything I could think of about Guatemala: do the police still pull people over and fine them for no reason? do the university students still block off city streets leading up to Holy Week in order to collect money for their parties? is Lake Amatitlan (not Atitlan) clean enough to swim in? do you think the future is bright for Guatemala? do you know how the heck I can get to San Marcos without taking a chicken bus? He had answers to these questions: yes, yes, heavens no, no way, I don’t know, respectively.

I got dropped off at the bus terminal in Xela with my eyes open for the two bus companies that were apparently less shady than the rest, but hadn’t taken more than a step or two before I heard a guy yelling ‘’San Marcos'’, so I talked to him and arranged a ride in another minivan for about $1.25 (double that to include my stuff on the seat beside me). The ride was harrowing at times as we passed buses and trucks on hairpin turns up and down steep hills, but I just kept reminding myself that the driver probably wanted to stay alive as much as I did. Probably.

But at one point during this ride it occurred to me that I felt right at home, and in some ways more so than I ever had when we lived in Guatemala. Back then I did all I could to stay inside an English-speaking, Americanized bubble. I was clearly not Guatemalan and every day reminded me of that. But now that I have lived in the US for more than a decade and have become accustomed to the North American way of life, I have been able to embrace my roots in Guatemala, because among my friends this background is a distinguishing feature of my story. Add that to the fact that my Spanish is better now (by leaps and bounds, I think) than it ever was when we lived here and voila! - my sense of belonging here, now, makes some sense. But still, ain’t no place like Lancaster.

This morning I awoke to my last day where there are tourists before I head on to the highlands. It is Sunday, but because I am in a lake town that is not particularly devout (based on appearances) I didn’t plan to go to church. Instead, lying in bed I read a few entries from Devotional Classics, namely John Calvin, Blaise Pascal, and Thomas a Kempis. Lightweights, I know.

Eventually I wandered down to the lake for a stroll, and in doing so I passed a group of people under a tree, singing. I kept walking, and when I got to the end of the easily walkable shoreline I turned back and when I came upon this group again they were all standing up and reading Scripture in unison. I went ahead and stuck around for the sermon on the beginning of Jesus’ ministry from the book of Mark, which in Spanish is of course San Marcos, which happens to be the name of the place I’m headed tomorrow. I followed along in my ESV pocket Bible as the pastor spoke from his Spanish version. Maybe it just struck me this way as a naive, enamored outsider, but it seems to me that despite all the theological training and meeting facilities and conferences and books and padded seats at 72 degrees that we tend to enjoy as normal parts of our church experiences, the congregation of the Pentecostal Church of God in Panajachel had a lot less cultural baggage to sort through today to get to the heart of the gospel than would have a church I consider normal back home. He spoke of Jesus, the son of a carpenter whose name wouldn’t have meant anything to anyone in the city, who is therefore introduced by Mark as the Son of God. He spoke of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness and when the pastor pointed up at the steep hillsides surrounding the lake to make his point, I think the people got it in a way that might normally escape us. And I skimmed ahead to the passage they’ll cover next week: Jesus making ‘fishers of men’. Wow.

This afternoon I spoke on the phone with my contact in Sipacapa, who didn’t immediately seem to understand who I was, but after repeating my name a few times, saying I am the son of Pablo and Susana, he got it. But it had me worried for a moment, since a lot is riding on this guy. As it turns out, he will be driving to San Marcos first thing Tuesday morning and will give me a ride to Sipacapa in his car, thus relieving me of the stress of wondering if there is any sort of mass transit system in those parts.

So that’s it from here. Tomorrow at 7am I catch a ride to Quetzaltenango, where I hope to then find a bus out to San Marcos wherein my stuff will not be stolen and I will not have to deal with the smell of chickens. But if chicken buses are the only option, then by golly, chicken bus it will be.

Last night, after writing up my little ditty about the day, I ate dinner, enjoyed a nice phone call with a certain young lady I happen to think quite highly of, and then went ahead and got a solid ten hours of sleep - which not even the pulsing beats from the dance club next door was able to stop.

This morning after discovering that ¨huevos fritos¨ is precisely the kind of egg I find disgusting, I set out around town with my camera and a photocopied map of the city. I visited Capuchinas, a convent in ruins which was an old family favorite whenever we were in Antigua. May the record show that mannequins of nuns - both dead and alive - have the exact same effect on me now as they did then. Basically, they freak me out. No need for them on this planet. At all. Period. Yes, I am a 26-year-old grown man, and I am freaked out by mannequins.

The one other place I wanted to be sure to visit in Antigua for old time´s sake was Doña Luisa´s bakery. It is just a fantastic little place with a courtyard filled with more Europeans than you could ask for. And they also make amazing bread. I remembered the raisin bread being really good, but lo and behold, ¨raisin¨is not in my Spanish vocabulary, or at least it wasn´t this morning, so I settled for two croissants. Can´t go wrong with croissants, right? Wrong. Who makes meat-stuffed croissants, seriously?? Doña Luisa, apparently.

With the time remaining before my shuttle to Lake Atitlan, I wandered into a couple of churches. In one of them there was a sign about obtaining ¨indulgencias¨ but only one per day. In the other, a wedding was taking place and the priest was really letting them have it about the significance of the commitment before he´d pronounce them man and wife. It was a strange scene: priest raising his voice and waiving his arms; couple standing quietly; kids smacking each other and laughing a few rows back; tourists taking photos of statues lining the sides.

I booked my ride to the lake on a shuttle (minivan) through a guy I met at the hotel named Oscar whose company, appropriately enough, is called Oscarito´s Travel. The van was supposed to arrive at the hotel at 12.30pm and Oscar showed up a few minutes beforehand, saying the van was on its way. We waited at the front of the hotel for it to arrive, and so we chatted. And chatted. And chatted. For an hour. He asked about Nike and Reebok and Trek bikes and Toyotas and told me about his travel company and told me about the underground tunnels that were built for the nuns but that are not open to the public today because of both a lack of oxygen and an abundance of bats. He also asked if I was into astronomy, and when I said ¨not really¨ he let me know that according to YouTube an asteroid ten times the size of the earth is going to hit us. Basically, we talked for a really long time. Finally I did get on that shuttle and sat in the back between a couple of middle-aged women, who talked for a while with the elderly woman sitting ahead of us who for the past four years has lived with her husband on their sailboat which is currently docked at a marina on the Rio Dulce, which is quite nice because they have a pool there and they can drink martinis. The nature of conversation by my fellow travelers would have been markedly different had I chosen to ride the chicken bus.

So here I am at Lake Atitlan in the town of Panajachel, which is a hub for both short-term tourists and long-term hippies. The hippies, from North America and Europe, are mostly left over from the 60s and 70s after which being a hippie became a lot less socially acceptable than it still is here. Plus, there are less beautiful places to settle. Aldous Huxley, a famous writer dude, narrowed it down to Lake Como in northern Italy and this place for distinction of being the most beautiful lake in the world. He went with Como, apparently, because Atitlan was too overwhelming for him with its volcanos and flowers and vibrant indigenous cultures. Having visited Como a few years ago myself, I can objectively report that Atitlan takes the cake, volcanos and all.

I’m back in Guatemala. It’s been eleven years since we moved to the US, and eight since I’ve been back to visit. As might be expected, some things change but others stay exactly the same. Last night I slept in our former apartment, in my former bedroom. Today I wandered around the old neighborhood in Guatemala City. I walked up to a big black metal gate on 7th avenue and told the guard that back in the day, when the place belonged to the Instituto Linguistico de Verano, I’d lived there and I wondered if I might be allowed in to have a look. He took great pleasure in welcoming me in, saying I wasn’t the only one who’s been back to relive old memories. It struck me that at that moment, the friendly guard who let me in and told me to explore was in a very real sense grace embodied. When we had left Guatemala and I heard that the center was being sold, it made me very sad, because I pictured myself returning to Guatemala in, say, eleven years, and wanting to visit my old home but being turned away. Grace is when you’re surprised with something good, when it didn’t have to work out the way it did. Today, it was grace.

From there I went to the shopping center a few blocks away where I changed my dollars into quetzales, purchased a pen, and made prints of some digital photos to replace the ones I was supposed to bring with me, but on account of absentmindedness, currently lie on the floor of my bedroom in Lancaster.

In the early afternoon I caught a ride out to CAG - Christian Academy of Guatemala - where I again got the chance to relive old memories. I talked with the three remaining people from my time there - Mr Rosa, the director; Ms Rensch, a teacher I never had but who is apparently awesome; and Mrs Ovalle, an older Mennonite lady who also happened to be my fifth grade teacher. Her students and I collectively did the math on how long ago that could have possibly been.

From CAG I got a ride to the town of Antigua with some people I just met: a pastor, his wife, and their two kids who are headed to a retreat for missionaries. They dropped me off at the central park as a procession with a statue of Jesus made its way down a side street with a hodgepodge following, which struck me as somehow poignant.

After a little bit of wandering, I found a hostel sort of place I had read about in my travel book, and it’s where I’ll be staying the night. I’ve got my own room, my own bathroom, and there’s a nice quiet plaza where fellow travelers mingle. Tomorrow I’ll visit a couple of the sites here in town before heading on to Panajachel, a town at Lake Atitlan where on a warm spring day I came down with chicken pox in the ninth grade.