Great Commission Air provides emergency medical air transport and air transport for Christian missions and humanitarian relief projects in north-central Guatemala (the Ixcan and surrounding regions). This MedEvac was from the town of Sayaxche in the Peten. Our friends, the Stoltzfus family, called on behalf of the clinic there. The patient was a young man, critically injured by stab wounds during an armed robbery. Though not the typical villager that we more commonly serve, this man's life was in the balance and saving it meant getting him to Guatemala City fast.
Thank you for helping to make flights like this possible. Please continue to support this ministry with your prayers and donations.
http://www.GreatCommissionAir.org/donate.php
Showing posts with label gca. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gca. Show all posts
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Airstrip Fly-By with Music
OK, so the music may be a bit much, but it comes on automatically in my head when I drop below 300' AGL (above ground level) and it does spice up the video. Without it you would only hear the droning of two IO-360 engines. When I have any flight, it is common for me to make close fly-bys of other airstrips along the way in order to examine the condition of them. This video shows two airstrips GCA has served in the past. The first is a very difficult mountain strip called Saraguate. We won't be using it anymore. At one time, it was serviceable with a Cessna 206, but just barely. Now there is a fence across the middle of it, almost visible in this video. The second airstrip is at Las Flores Tzeja. You can see the shadow of our Cessna 336 Skymaster (N538JP) speeding across the ground, which is in pretty good shape but a little too short for a Skymaster. There is another, longer, better airstrip only one hour away (on foot).
Thursday, January 17, 2008
GCA Med-Evac 1/9 Maria Franciso age 11
Her family found her on the ground, unconscious. She began having seizures and so they carried her to the clinic in Pojom, run by Vivir en Amor and staffed by volunteers. Vera, the volunteer in Pojom, knew that the child was in very serious condition and called us, Great Commission Air, asking if we could pick them up for transport to a location where the girl could get treatment. The closest airstrip was on the other side of a high ridge in Ixquisis.
In Mayalan, Robert prepared the aircraft for departure while Jennifer called Mosca-Med in Guatemala City to obtain permission to land in Ixquisis, just on the Mexican border.
It took twenty minutes to fly from our base in Mayalan to Ixquisis. It took well over an hour for the girl´s father to carry her on the road from Pojom, over the ridge and then to find a truck in the hamlet on the other side, finally arriving at the airstrip in Ixquisis.
We loaded the child, the father, uncle and Vera, into N538JP and departed for Guatemala City, an hour's flight away. En route, we arranged to have an ambulance meet us at the airport there. Vera accompanied the child and family to the hospital. Double-click on the video to see actual footage.
Great Commission Air makes flights like this all the time. We work with organizations like Vivir en Amor, with individual villages and simple Mayan campesinos that arrive on our doorstep in need. From 2003-2005, hundreds of medical patients were served in this way. We do this work to help those in need because it is our Christian mandate and we love to serve. To continue we need you to support this project. Thank you!
In Mayalan, Robert prepared the aircraft for departure while Jennifer called Mosca-Med in Guatemala City to obtain permission to land in Ixquisis, just on the Mexican border.
It took twenty minutes to fly from our base in Mayalan to Ixquisis. It took well over an hour for the girl´s father to carry her on the road from Pojom, over the ridge and then to find a truck in the hamlet on the other side, finally arriving at the airstrip in Ixquisis.
We loaded the child, the father, uncle and Vera, into N538JP and departed for Guatemala City, an hour's flight away. En route, we arranged to have an ambulance meet us at the airport there. Vera accompanied the child and family to the hospital. Double-click on the video to see actual footage.
Great Commission Air makes flights like this all the time. We work with organizations like Vivir en Amor, with individual villages and simple Mayan campesinos that arrive on our doorstep in need. From 2003-2005, hundreds of medical patients were served in this way. We do this work to help those in need because it is our Christian mandate and we love to serve. To continue we need you to support this project. Thank you!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Three for One Day in Mayalan
Thursday, Januar 9, 2008:
Our village - Mayalan - is a fair-sized rural town. About 3000 people here overall but there is no running water, electricity (except that provided by solar panels or generators) or sewage system, except the old-fashioned variety that has served well for eons. We have no post office, no official police, no radio station, etc... You get the idea.
What we do have, as of about a year ago, is a brand-new solar powered digital cell phone tower care of ComCell! With the advent of modern cell phone system, it seems that a large segment of the local population has been able to scrape together enough Quetzales to buy one of the disposable phones that are sold so cheaply now. For a mere q200 (about $25) you can buy a phone and talk-time for 250 minutes!
This tower has revolutionized communications in this place. These days, it is common to see a small Mayan woman walking down the street with a large bowl of corn or maza on her head, a baby in a sling on her back, talking on a cell phone! Absolutely incredible. It is a good thing too, as it allows families here to stay in touch with the missing sons and husbands who have had to find work in Mexico or the US.
One of the old communication technologies here is still firmly operational, TALKING REALLY LOUD to make announcements. Actually, a megaphone hooked up to a car battery is used to make community announcements and to publicize special deals at the local tiendas.
Today was a three-fer day. Across the road from us there is a three-walled building about the size of a garage. The ground level of this building houses the tienda, “El Tigre”. The top level constitutes the living quarters of the proprietor, Don Andres, and his extended family, a group of about twenty. There is a roof over the second level but no walls. Most everyone sleeps in hammocks strung from the posts that support the roof. Potted plants strategically placed along the perimeter help prevent accidental gravity induced injuries.
This morning at about 7:00 am, El Tigre´s very, very loud loud-speaker was turned on for the purpose of publicizing today´s once-in-a-blue-moon event (three for one). The megaphone, mounted at the top of a tall pipe, was turned so as to make it more directionally effective.
For the longest time, a young lady by the name of Amelia has been tending the store and making the announcements. She was very good at what she did. Amelia was especially good at making the three-fer-one announcements that could get quite complicated, mathematically. She did have the unfortunate habit of yelling into the microphone – an unnecessary pre-amplification technique that was especially not necessary at 7:00 in the morning. Particularly when the speaker pole was rotated so that the megaphone points directly at our house, only a couple hundred yards away!
Yesterday, Amelia bolted. She up and ran off to Mexico with a mystery partner to seek her fortune as an independent agent. Due to her absence, her father and the owner of the tienda, Don Andres, decided to make the announcement himself. Mind you, Don Andres is not a completely unsophisticated Mayan campesino, but his skills lay more in the machete sharpening department than they do in public speaking or mathematics.
On Three-fer day, you can buy a phone card, used to charge-up your cell phone, and get three times the face value of the card. A Q25 (25 Quetzale) phone card will charge your phone up with Q75. A Q50 card will charge your phone with Q150 and a Q100 card that will apply Q300 - you get the picture. What a deal, right? Well, don’t underestimate the amount of math required to figure all that out AND make a public announcement at 7:00 in the morning. While Amelia had this script completely memorized and could rattle it off five or six (or more) times in a row, each in a slightly different direction, Don Andres had not.
The announcements always begin with a blazingly loud rendition of Mexican Pop Polka music, interrupted with a squeel as the cassette tape is ejected mid-stream. The announcements typically sound like (in Spanish, of course):
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmphhh – Bueno. Today in the tienda El Tigre, you can buy live chicken, potatoes (special, eh), fresh cabbage, and phone cards. Buy a Q25 card and get a Q75 credit. Buy a Q50 card and receive a credit for Q150. Buy a Q100 card and you will get Q300 credit on your phone!" and so on.
This basic message is repeated perhaps five or size times, with the loud-speaker periodically pointed in different directions, having an astounding impact on the volume, depending of your location.
Because of Amelias absence, this morning, Don Andres took the mic and began the announcement in the standard fashion:
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmmph. Today, ah, we are selling phone cards with a special, ah. Hmmmphhh, tap, tap tap. Ah Bueno!"
And, thus, he verbally fumbled for about three or four minutes without actually saying anything.
Presently, a new voice could be heard over the loudspeaker. A young lady, probably sister-in-law of Amelia, took the mic. She managed to say Bueno about six times, tapped the mic, got some of the phone card prices mixed up and gave up.
Next, one of the teenaged boys took over. He began with gusto and was well into the announcement when suddenly three or four of the other, less successful, family members began trying to coach him. The sound of urgent coaching was easily audible in the background over the PA. He hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and finally gave up.
Passing the mic over to his five-year-old little cousin, Frasi.
Frasi is a spunky little five-year-old fireball of a girl and had practiced this particular script a few times under the tutelage of Amelia and done very well before. She also began with gusto, speaking at a volume level that would not be legal in most airport traffic areas, and was well into the announcement when suddenly the voices of the failed announcers could again be heard in the background. She hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and after a few moments, seemingly ignored everyone and made a perfect rendition of what would be the official three-fer announcement. We know who is going to be making these announcements in the future, don't we?
Our village - Mayalan - is a fair-sized rural town. About 3000 people here overall but there is no running water, electricity (except that provided by solar panels or generators) or sewage system, except the old-fashioned variety that has served well for eons. We have no post office, no official police, no radio station, etc... You get the idea.
What we do have, as of about a year ago, is a brand-new solar powered digital cell phone tower care of ComCell! With the advent of modern cell phone system, it seems that a large segment of the local population has been able to scrape together enough Quetzales to buy one of the disposable phones that are sold so cheaply now. For a mere q200 (about $25) you can buy a phone and talk-time for 250 minutes!
This tower has revolutionized communications in this place. These days, it is common to see a small Mayan woman walking down the street with a large bowl of corn or maza on her head, a baby in a sling on her back, talking on a cell phone! Absolutely incredible. It is a good thing too, as it allows families here to stay in touch with the missing sons and husbands who have had to find work in Mexico or the US.
One of the old communication technologies here is still firmly operational, TALKING REALLY LOUD to make announcements. Actually, a megaphone hooked up to a car battery is used to make community announcements and to publicize special deals at the local tiendas.
Today was a three-fer day. Across the road from us there is a three-walled building about the size of a garage. The ground level of this building houses the tienda, “El Tigre”. The top level constitutes the living quarters of the proprietor, Don Andres, and his extended family, a group of about twenty. There is a roof over the second level but no walls. Most everyone sleeps in hammocks strung from the posts that support the roof. Potted plants strategically placed along the perimeter help prevent accidental gravity induced injuries.
This morning at about 7:00 am, El Tigre´s very, very loud loud-speaker was turned on for the purpose of publicizing today´s once-in-a-blue-moon event (three for one). The megaphone, mounted at the top of a tall pipe, was turned so as to make it more directionally effective.
For the longest time, a young lady by the name of Amelia has been tending the store and making the announcements. She was very good at what she did. Amelia was especially good at making the three-fer-one announcements that could get quite complicated, mathematically. She did have the unfortunate habit of yelling into the microphone – an unnecessary pre-amplification technique that was especially not necessary at 7:00 in the morning. Particularly when the speaker pole was rotated so that the megaphone points directly at our house, only a couple hundred yards away!
Yesterday, Amelia bolted. She up and ran off to Mexico with a mystery partner to seek her fortune as an independent agent. Due to her absence, her father and the owner of the tienda, Don Andres, decided to make the announcement himself. Mind you, Don Andres is not a completely unsophisticated Mayan campesino, but his skills lay more in the machete sharpening department than they do in public speaking or mathematics.
On Three-fer day, you can buy a phone card, used to charge-up your cell phone, and get three times the face value of the card. A Q25 (25 Quetzale) phone card will charge your phone up with Q75. A Q50 card will charge your phone with Q150 and a Q100 card that will apply Q300 - you get the picture. What a deal, right? Well, don’t underestimate the amount of math required to figure all that out AND make a public announcement at 7:00 in the morning. While Amelia had this script completely memorized and could rattle it off five or six (or more) times in a row, each in a slightly different direction, Don Andres had not.
The announcements always begin with a blazingly loud rendition of Mexican Pop Polka music, interrupted with a squeel as the cassette tape is ejected mid-stream. The announcements typically sound like (in Spanish, of course):
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmphhh – Bueno. Today in the tienda El Tigre, you can buy live chicken, potatoes (special, eh), fresh cabbage, and phone cards. Buy a Q25 card and get a Q75 credit. Buy a Q50 card and receive a credit for Q150. Buy a Q100 card and you will get Q300 credit on your phone!" and so on.
This basic message is repeated perhaps five or size times, with the loud-speaker periodically pointed in different directions, having an astounding impact on the volume, depending of your location.
Because of Amelias absence, this morning, Don Andres took the mic and began the announcement in the standard fashion:
"Bueno! Bueno! Hrmmmmph. Today, ah, we are selling phone cards with a special, ah. Hmmmphhh, tap, tap tap. Ah Bueno!"
And, thus, he verbally fumbled for about three or four minutes without actually saying anything.
Presently, a new voice could be heard over the loudspeaker. A young lady, probably sister-in-law of Amelia, took the mic. She managed to say Bueno about six times, tapped the mic, got some of the phone card prices mixed up and gave up.
Next, one of the teenaged boys took over. He began with gusto and was well into the announcement when suddenly three or four of the other, less successful, family members began trying to coach him. The sound of urgent coaching was easily audible in the background over the PA. He hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and finally gave up.
Passing the mic over to his five-year-old little cousin, Frasi.
Frasi is a spunky little five-year-old fireball of a girl and had practiced this particular script a few times under the tutelage of Amelia and done very well before. She also began with gusto, speaking at a volume level that would not be legal in most airport traffic areas, and was well into the announcement when suddenly the voices of the failed announcers could again be heard in the background. She hesitated, briefly tried to start-over, and after a few moments, seemingly ignored everyone and made a perfect rendition of what would be the official three-fer announcement. We know who is going to be making these announcements in the future, don't we?
A Drunk Mayan Cowboy
Later in the day I walked over to the El Tigre tienda and bought a few phone cards in honor of Three-Fer day. Not wanting to spend all my quetzals in one place, I also walked up to the village center and inquired with one of the other phone-card sellers regarding availability of additional cards. The man in charge explained that they were out of cards but that he could transfer funds from his cell phone to my cell phone and that the value would triple in the exchange. This little feat of technological wizardry, especially considering the overwhelming rusticity of our location, seemed almost unbelievable. Despite my doubts, I asked him to demonstrate, which he quickly and professionally did. In only moments, my phone had been charged up with hundreds of quetzals, for which I paid him only one-hundred. Impressed, and anxious to take advantage of the great deal, I asked him to do the same for Jennifer’s phone.
As I stood in the open face of the tienda, protected by the sun by overhanging corrugated roof, my elbows resting on the wooden counter, I watched in amazement as the fellow on the other side rapidly typed in the commands required to transfer funds to Jennifer’s phone. I pulled my own cell phone out of my right-hand pocket and dialed my wife to warn her that a credit was about to be transferred to her phone, so that she could confirm the transaction. Being a bit hard-of-hearing on the left-side, I held the phone up to my right ear.
While I listened to the phone ring on the other end, an old drunk campesino with a cowboy hat and bright pink eyes staggered towards me from out on the road in a zig-zag pattern. The custom in this village is to simply ignore drunks. Most people don’t even walk away when one of them gets too friendly, though I am not sure why. There seems to be a tacit acceptance of their presence, if not their condition. This old Mayan cowboy, carrying a half-crushed plastic bottle of cane rum in one hand was definitely slobberingly drunk. He bellied up next to me, actually, he bellied up to me, standing to my left, and rested his head on my shoulder as he mumbled something unintelligible in mixed Spanish and Mam. He drooled slightly and was looking down as if at my foot. He kept pointing at my left pants pocket with his free hand as if to say that he wanted some money or something. After mumbling for a few moments and being much too close, he began to use foul language. The few words I could make out I didn’t like much. I began to sweat and noticed that a small crowd of locals, who had been enjoying each other’s company under the same shady overhang, were watching me and my new best friend. I hesitated to walk away because, as I said, nobody here seems to do that. The other reason I did not was that the fellow in the tienda was not done transferring gobs of quetzals to my wife’s phone. I called Jennifer over and over again while tried to edge away, without success. For some reason, Jennifer never answered the phone. The drunk followed me around, holding out both hands as if to say he wanted what was in my pockets. The small crowd also watched with an odd look of detached amusement.
After calling Jennifer six or seven times, I began to get agitated at the fact that my wife had neglected to keep her phone with her, as we agreed she would. Or, she wasn’t answering because, perhaps, she was having another, more important, call! I began to sweat profusely as I slowly walked just out of range of the drunk, calling Jennifer again and again. I finally simply paid the man at the tienda without confirmation and headed in the direction of home so that I could express my angst to my wife for her lack of procedural integrity - not having her phone with her. I would then confirm the transaction myself – because, after all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!
As I reached our home and stepped up on the cinder blocks that we use for steps, Jennifer called out a cheery hello and asked me if I had seen her phone anywhere. I was about ready to begin my speech about “why can’t you keep track of your cell phone” when I decided to make a quick check of my own pockets. I was somewhat amazed to discover that there was another cell phone in my left pocket, but I always keep mine in my right pocket. Upon further investigation, I was equally amazed to discover that there was one in my right-hand pocket too.
It took me a few moments to piece together what had actually happened, as my perception of the drunk followed everything I had expected from drunks. In reality, what had transpired at the phone tienda was this:
After dialing my wife and putting the phone to my good (right) ear, Jennifer’s phone began to ring, in my left pants pocket. As my own phone was occupying my only really good ear, I couldn’t hear her phone ringing softly in my left pants pocket. The drunk, being a socially responsible kind of guy, heard my pocket ringing and was on his way over to help me notice the obvious, as drunks are prone to do. When he rested his head on my shoulder, he was looking down into my pocket, wondering why the heck my pants were ringing while I was talking on another phone. As I nudged away from him and called Jennifer again and again, it made him all the more curious as to why I had a phone on my ear, but my pants were ringing. Naturally he followed me around, trying to point out this apparent incongruity. I can only guess what the group of folks in the shade of the overhang were thinking.
Honestly, I am the source of endless amusement here in Mayalan. I should charge admission.
As I stood in the open face of the tienda, protected by the sun by overhanging corrugated roof, my elbows resting on the wooden counter, I watched in amazement as the fellow on the other side rapidly typed in the commands required to transfer funds to Jennifer’s phone. I pulled my own cell phone out of my right-hand pocket and dialed my wife to warn her that a credit was about to be transferred to her phone, so that she could confirm the transaction. Being a bit hard-of-hearing on the left-side, I held the phone up to my right ear.
While I listened to the phone ring on the other end, an old drunk campesino with a cowboy hat and bright pink eyes staggered towards me from out on the road in a zig-zag pattern. The custom in this village is to simply ignore drunks. Most people don’t even walk away when one of them gets too friendly, though I am not sure why. There seems to be a tacit acceptance of their presence, if not their condition. This old Mayan cowboy, carrying a half-crushed plastic bottle of cane rum in one hand was definitely slobberingly drunk. He bellied up next to me, actually, he bellied up to me, standing to my left, and rested his head on my shoulder as he mumbled something unintelligible in mixed Spanish and Mam. He drooled slightly and was looking down as if at my foot. He kept pointing at my left pants pocket with his free hand as if to say that he wanted some money or something. After mumbling for a few moments and being much too close, he began to use foul language. The few words I could make out I didn’t like much. I began to sweat and noticed that a small crowd of locals, who had been enjoying each other’s company under the same shady overhang, were watching me and my new best friend. I hesitated to walk away because, as I said, nobody here seems to do that. The other reason I did not was that the fellow in the tienda was not done transferring gobs of quetzals to my wife’s phone. I called Jennifer over and over again while tried to edge away, without success. For some reason, Jennifer never answered the phone. The drunk followed me around, holding out both hands as if to say he wanted what was in my pockets. The small crowd also watched with an odd look of detached amusement.
After calling Jennifer six or seven times, I began to get agitated at the fact that my wife had neglected to keep her phone with her, as we agreed she would. Or, she wasn’t answering because, perhaps, she was having another, more important, call! I began to sweat profusely as I slowly walked just out of range of the drunk, calling Jennifer again and again. I finally simply paid the man at the tienda without confirmation and headed in the direction of home so that I could express my angst to my wife for her lack of procedural integrity - not having her phone with her. I would then confirm the transaction myself – because, after all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!
As I reached our home and stepped up on the cinder blocks that we use for steps, Jennifer called out a cheery hello and asked me if I had seen her phone anywhere. I was about ready to begin my speech about “why can’t you keep track of your cell phone” when I decided to make a quick check of my own pockets. I was somewhat amazed to discover that there was another cell phone in my left pocket, but I always keep mine in my right pocket. Upon further investigation, I was equally amazed to discover that there was one in my right-hand pocket too.
It took me a few moments to piece together what had actually happened, as my perception of the drunk followed everything I had expected from drunks. In reality, what had transpired at the phone tienda was this:
After dialing my wife and putting the phone to my good (right) ear, Jennifer’s phone began to ring, in my left pants pocket. As my own phone was occupying my only really good ear, I couldn’t hear her phone ringing softly in my left pants pocket. The drunk, being a socially responsible kind of guy, heard my pocket ringing and was on his way over to help me notice the obvious, as drunks are prone to do. When he rested his head on my shoulder, he was looking down into my pocket, wondering why the heck my pants were ringing while I was talking on another phone. As I nudged away from him and called Jennifer again and again, it made him all the more curious as to why I had a phone on my ear, but my pants were ringing. Naturally he followed me around, trying to point out this apparent incongruity. I can only guess what the group of folks in the shade of the overhang were thinking.
Honestly, I am the source of endless amusement here in Mayalan. I should charge admission.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sharing the Gospel with Neighbors
Sharing the Gospel with Neighbors:
Many of the kids that come to play on our porch are from families that speak Mam at home. Though most also speak Spanish and that is the language they use with us. An organization called “Faith Comes by Hearing” and an individual contributor were kind enough to donate several “Proclaimer” audio Bibles in several of the local Mayan languages including Mam, the most prevalent language in our village and in Spanish as well.
The children love to hear the New Testament both in their Mam language and in Spanish, as can be seen in the accompanying video. These audio Bibles are essentially amplified MP3 players and will run on solar power and also have an internal crank generator that can be used to charge an internal battery. A simple button-operated menu on the front of the device allows the user to scan through various books and chapters in the New Testament. The narration is of extraordinary quality and even includes background music. I highly recommend this product to anyone that wishes to bring the gospel to life in a community where Bibles are virtually non-existent or where most of the population does not read. They are especially useful here as many of these folks do not read, don’t have a Bible at home and many speak Mam at home. We wish we had a whole crate of these things! God bless the folks that worked for years translating the Bible into a their “heart language” of the people and the folks that made these devices!
Many of the kids that come to play on our porch are from families that speak Mam at home. Though most also speak Spanish and that is the language they use with us. An organization called “Faith Comes by Hearing” and an individual contributor were kind enough to donate several “Proclaimer” audio Bibles in several of the local Mayan languages including Mam, the most prevalent language in our village and in Spanish as well.
The children love to hear the New Testament both in their Mam language and in Spanish, as can be seen in the accompanying video. These audio Bibles are essentially amplified MP3 players and will run on solar power and also have an internal crank generator that can be used to charge an internal battery. A simple button-operated menu on the front of the device allows the user to scan through various books and chapters in the New Testament. The narration is of extraordinary quality and even includes background music. I highly recommend this product to anyone that wishes to bring the gospel to life in a community where Bibles are virtually non-existent or where most of the population does not read. They are especially useful here as many of these folks do not read, don’t have a Bible at home and many speak Mam at home. We wish we had a whole crate of these things! God bless the folks that worked for years translating the Bible into a their “heart language” of the people and the folks that made these devices!
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to Fetch a Tinaja de Agua
Monday, December 31, 2007:
WX: 7:30, 65 degrees, partly cloudy, no wind. There seems to be a pattern…
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to fetch a pail of water…
Jennifer and Beto took a walk down to the creek to get some water. We use what is locally called a tinaja. It looks like one of those ancient water jars you see in greek paintings. That particular shape actually serves several purposes. For one thing, water does not slosh around in it when it is completely full. Secondly, it is easy to pour water from it even when it is full. It is also mechanically strong shape to hold a liquid. The ones we use here are made of plastic, but otherwise look identical to the clay versions of yore.
While I was still wiping sleep from my eyes, Jennifer and Beto took two tinajas (a baby one for him and a 3 gallon size for Jennifer) to get water from the creek for cooking and washing. Walking down to the creek is relatively easy, as it is only a couple hundred meters away and downhill about seventy feet or so. The harder part is coming back up, with full tinajas of water. Jennifer has nearly perfected the skill of carrying a full tinaja on top of her head – balanced with the help of two hands. Beto is getting the hang of things as well.
Jack fell down…
There are some fairly steep and slippery parts of the path that lead back up to the house from the creek. Beto has not mastered the complete art of climbing steep, dusty and slippery hills while carrying an eight pound water jar yet. At the steepest part of the trail, he hesitated and then balked – whining and squealing like a stuck piglet for mama to come and pick him up! This distracted Jennifer, who was ahead of him (and above him on the trail). She set her tinaja down and headed downhill to help Beto. After a few steps, the big round jar with three gallons of water in it, not being a particularly stable shape, tipped over and began to roll**. Downhill is the direction everything rolls here, including thirty pound jars of water. Beto, being on the trail directly below Jennifer, happened to be in the path of the sloshing, spilling, rolling green-and-white-striped projectile. Jennifer clearly and loudly instructed Beto to “get out of the way”, but, alas, he did not respond with sufficient alacrity. He was momentarily preoccupied with what he must have thought was hopeless hill climbing chore carrying an unbearable load – by the time he looked up to see why his mother was shouting, it was too late to avoid being flattened by the speeding and now muddy tinaja. His whining and complaining about his previous predicament ceased immediately. Jennifer was truly afraid that he had been injured as the tinaja apparently had time to reach substantial speed before its progress was interrupted by my stalwart son. Even though he is only three-years-old, he weighs in at over forty pounds. Of course, that isn’t much when you consider that the tinaja might have still had twenty or so pounds of water in it when it hit him. You never have a video camera when you really need one! I would have paid good money to have seen the action in person.
Jennifer send Beto up to the house ahead of her. She shouted to me from outside indicating that she would like a little assistance if I was not too busy. Beto was a wet, muddy mess. I rinsed him off and stripped his muddy cloths and sat him on a bench to wait for his mother who was now recovering, and re-filling and retrieving the tinaja.
Breakfast: Somebody stopped by with a pound of sow-belly. Jennifer had a really hard time cutting it and started to get a bit testy after I suggested using a sharper knife. I guess having to make two trips for a jar of water is irritating.
I made toast and the kids and I ate toast and juice for breakfast while the pork fried – mmmm!
Later, Jennifer and Beto and I went back down the hill to fetch some more water.
** Most accidents happen close to home
WX: 7:30, 65 degrees, partly cloudy, no wind. There seems to be a pattern…
Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill to fetch a pail of water…
Jennifer and Beto took a walk down to the creek to get some water. We use what is locally called a tinaja. It looks like one of those ancient water jars you see in greek paintings. That particular shape actually serves several purposes. For one thing, water does not slosh around in it when it is completely full. Secondly, it is easy to pour water from it even when it is full. It is also mechanically strong shape to hold a liquid. The ones we use here are made of plastic, but otherwise look identical to the clay versions of yore.
While I was still wiping sleep from my eyes, Jennifer and Beto took two tinajas (a baby one for him and a 3 gallon size for Jennifer) to get water from the creek for cooking and washing. Walking down to the creek is relatively easy, as it is only a couple hundred meters away and downhill about seventy feet or so. The harder part is coming back up, with full tinajas of water. Jennifer has nearly perfected the skill of carrying a full tinaja on top of her head – balanced with the help of two hands. Beto is getting the hang of things as well.
Jack fell down…
There are some fairly steep and slippery parts of the path that lead back up to the house from the creek. Beto has not mastered the complete art of climbing steep, dusty and slippery hills while carrying an eight pound water jar yet. At the steepest part of the trail, he hesitated and then balked – whining and squealing like a stuck piglet for mama to come and pick him up! This distracted Jennifer, who was ahead of him (and above him on the trail). She set her tinaja down and headed downhill to help Beto. After a few steps, the big round jar with three gallons of water in it, not being a particularly stable shape, tipped over and began to roll**. Downhill is the direction everything rolls here, including thirty pound jars of water. Beto, being on the trail directly below Jennifer, happened to be in the path of the sloshing, spilling, rolling green-and-white-striped projectile. Jennifer clearly and loudly instructed Beto to “get out of the way”, but, alas, he did not respond with sufficient alacrity. He was momentarily preoccupied with what he must have thought was hopeless hill climbing chore carrying an unbearable load – by the time he looked up to see why his mother was shouting, it was too late to avoid being flattened by the speeding and now muddy tinaja. His whining and complaining about his previous predicament ceased immediately. Jennifer was truly afraid that he had been injured as the tinaja apparently had time to reach substantial speed before its progress was interrupted by my stalwart son. Even though he is only three-years-old, he weighs in at over forty pounds. Of course, that isn’t much when you consider that the tinaja might have still had twenty or so pounds of water in it when it hit him. You never have a video camera when you really need one! I would have paid good money to have seen the action in person.
Jennifer send Beto up to the house ahead of her. She shouted to me from outside indicating that she would like a little assistance if I was not too busy. Beto was a wet, muddy mess. I rinsed him off and stripped his muddy cloths and sat him on a bench to wait for his mother who was now recovering, and re-filling and retrieving the tinaja.
Breakfast: Somebody stopped by with a pound of sow-belly. Jennifer had a really hard time cutting it and started to get a bit testy after I suggested using a sharper knife. I guess having to make two trips for a jar of water is irritating.
I made toast and the kids and I ate toast and juice for breakfast while the pork fried – mmmm!
Later, Jennifer and Beto and I went back down the hill to fetch some more water.
** Most accidents happen close to home
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Dateline Guatemala: Cure for Chigger Itch Discovered in Guatemala by Missionary Pilot!
The Chigger itch has definitely abated. The hot knife treatment works! Read earlier posts in this blog describing the procedure in detail. One note – it is possible to apply heat, the temperature of which is bearable, that is also capable of blistering sensitive skin. I found this out today by blistering my leg with the hot knife during one of my own experimental treatments. Moderation is crucial! A bit of Bedadine ointment and gauze was required to cover the ugly accident. The pain has subsided now, as it has been over six hours since the incident. I can say for sure that that bite does not itch at all! Sounds a bit like the scorpion sting treatment (see earlier story).
Chiggers
Sunday, December 30, 2007:
WX: 8:00 - Sunny, 65, no wind.
We listened to a sermon recorded by the pastor of the church we frequent in the US, Scio Community Aliance Church (a C&MA church). His sermons are always really good and recorde in mp3 format on their website: http://www.ScioCommunity.Org We were very pleased and it made us feel good to hear familiar voice and a good sermon!
Itchy chiggers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harvest_mite) were really bad last night. This little buggers are common here, especially in tall grass. Beto and I must have picked-up a load while we were visiting the cattle ranch. Both of us have bites about every 10” over most of our torso and lower bodies. The bites itch like mad, especially at night, for about a week. I have learned that the nymph stage of the animal is what bites people and that they do not burrow under the skin as is commonly thought. They do inject an enzyme fluid that breaks down skin tissue that they then eat. The enzyme is what causes the extreme itchiness long after they have fallen off or been washed off.
Today, our friend Luciana who lives in the village, stopped by to visit and we talked for a long time. She suggested that very, very hot compresses help. Jennifer and I had noticed that a hot shower always makes them itch less. I adapted that idea by heating the metal handle of a butter knife, until is was as hot as I could stand it, and pressing that against the small spot comprising the bite. To my delight, this crazy idea has seemed to work! The itchy spots I have treated like this at lunch time have not itched all day. I honestly don’t know if it has something to do with heat or if it is just a very strong placebo effect – but I don’t care either. I have tried the treatment on bites on my stomach, legs, and back. So far I have a 90% rate of success.
Now, I know a barber in the town of Coban that used to give me a free haircut if I brought him a live scorpion. We have plenty of them, so I would routinely take one with me when I knew I was going there and needed a haircut. He, in turn, would use them to treat some of his “patients”. He explained to me that there is a certain clientele that believe that the sting of a scorpion helps to alleviate the pain of arthritis and even angina. I suppose it is possible that the pain induced by the sting of a scorpion probably does take their mind off of their arthritis and angina! They pay this fellow q10 for each sting – about double the cost of a haircut.
It is possible, I suppose, that the pain induced by a hot knife on the skin is enough to desensitize me to the relatively mild itching of a chigger bite. But that might not explain the long-term relief I have gotten. I’ve read elsewhere that using ice on a scorpion bite is not advised because the venom actually breaks down and dissipates with heat but the reverse is true when it is cooled. Perhaps the enzyme from chiggers is broken down at a certain temperature – much like a turkey at 400 degrees. I really don’t care. Just getting relief from the itch is all I want! I’ll report later as to weather it works overnight.
WX: 8:00 - Sunny, 65, no wind.
We listened to a sermon recorded by the pastor of the church we frequent in the US, Scio Community Aliance Church (a C&MA church). His sermons are always really good and recorde in mp3 format on their website: http://www.ScioCommunity.Org We were very pleased and it made us feel good to hear familiar voice and a good sermon!
Itchy chiggers (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harvest_mite) were really bad last night. This little buggers are common here, especially in tall grass. Beto and I must have picked-up a load while we were visiting the cattle ranch. Both of us have bites about every 10” over most of our torso and lower bodies. The bites itch like mad, especially at night, for about a week. I have learned that the nymph stage of the animal is what bites people and that they do not burrow under the skin as is commonly thought. They do inject an enzyme fluid that breaks down skin tissue that they then eat. The enzyme is what causes the extreme itchiness long after they have fallen off or been washed off.
Today, our friend Luciana who lives in the village, stopped by to visit and we talked for a long time. She suggested that very, very hot compresses help. Jennifer and I had noticed that a hot shower always makes them itch less. I adapted that idea by heating the metal handle of a butter knife, until is was as hot as I could stand it, and pressing that against the small spot comprising the bite. To my delight, this crazy idea has seemed to work! The itchy spots I have treated like this at lunch time have not itched all day. I honestly don’t know if it has something to do with heat or if it is just a very strong placebo effect – but I don’t care either. I have tried the treatment on bites on my stomach, legs, and back. So far I have a 90% rate of success.
Now, I know a barber in the town of Coban that used to give me a free haircut if I brought him a live scorpion. We have plenty of them, so I would routinely take one with me when I knew I was going there and needed a haircut. He, in turn, would use them to treat some of his “patients”. He explained to me that there is a certain clientele that believe that the sting of a scorpion helps to alleviate the pain of arthritis and even angina. I suppose it is possible that the pain induced by the sting of a scorpion probably does take their mind off of their arthritis and angina! They pay this fellow q10 for each sting – about double the cost of a haircut.
It is possible, I suppose, that the pain induced by a hot knife on the skin is enough to desensitize me to the relatively mild itching of a chigger bite. But that might not explain the long-term relief I have gotten. I’ve read elsewhere that using ice on a scorpion bite is not advised because the venom actually breaks down and dissipates with heat but the reverse is true when it is cooled. Perhaps the enzyme from chiggers is broken down at a certain temperature – much like a turkey at 400 degrees. I really don’t care. Just getting relief from the itch is all I want! I’ll report later as to weather it works overnight.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Rebuilding the Latrine
Tuesday, December 11:
Latrine Rebuilding:
Two men from the community stopped by, presumably at the bequest of the Directiva, to help build a new latrine. Our old one, built into the side of a hill about 100 feet down from the house, was about ready to fall over. They had a pick and machetes in hand, nothing else. I explained that the hole was good and deep with a concrete footing (constructed by our good friends and volunteers Ezra and Josyah Jay) and all it needed was a new floor and framework for the walls. They wanted to make walls with boards but I explained that we preferred to use blue tarp because it allowed air to pass through and allowed light to enter, thus reducing the number of bugs – mostly cock-roaches – that would take up residence.
The existing structure collapsed with a slight push as it was mostly eaten away by termites.
They began their work and I mostly let them do their job, asking them to fabricate a door at a particular location but allowing them to do what they felt was right. What they did was mostly right, except that roof sloped towards the uphill side of the latrine, emptying rain water into a spot that would not only drench anyone entering the structure through the door but also would puddle on the uphill side of the hole, eventually, I fear, filling the hole with water during the rainy season. They also used a rotten, termite infested piece of wood for part of the door frame. I gave them two metal hinges and a set of screws, but the used nails on the hinges instead, bending them in half to secure the hinges, as the head of the nails would otherwise have gone through the screw holes. Instead of building the new framework on the cement footing, protecting it from termites, they dug holes outside the concrete and sank the corner posts into it. I hate to cast aspersions upon men that came to help, but, the workmanship can only be described as, shall we say, rustic. At one point, one of the guys came up to the house and asked if we had some rope to tie the roof on with, which I did not understand. He found some short lengths of barbed wire and was heading downhill when I decided it was probably time for me to intervene. They had put the old corrugated roofing over the frame they had constructed and put a couple of 2x4’s on top of it to hold it down. They were going to use the barbed wire to secure the 2x4’s on top to the 2x4’s underneath, a technique commonly used, I guess, on their own sheds out in the fields. I suggested that we use nails instead, and they agreed that it might work but said that they didn’t have a ladder in order to get up there to hammer them in. I ran up the hill and got one out of the house and brought it down. I held it up while one of the guys climbed with a clutch of nails and hammer. Before I could figure out what he was doing, he had nailed through the 2x4 on top of the roof, through the roof and into the 2x4 beneath the roof!
Jennifer reminds me that these two particular Mayan hicks, as I would have called them, also survived 15 years of civil war, evading the Guatemalan army in the jungles with their families – those that were not killed. Instead of going to school and learning all of the things we take for granted, they were surviving, mostly, by their wits, doing what they had to do moment by moment, day by day. Not planning very far in advance and rarely ever using tools more sophisticated than machetes and shovels. I need to keep these things in perspective.
Audio Bible in Mam – Proclaimer:
Before they finished, I found out that one of them, Mr. Andres, was in charge of the local Evangelical CAM church. CAM is Central America Mission and is very popular here in Guatemala. His church is near the end of the runway and had existed for a very long time without a roof. I noticed that he spoke Mam and asked if he would be interested in an audio Bible that would speak the New Testament in Mam for his congregation. This is a “Proclaimer” Device donated by “Faith Comes by Hearing”. It is about the size of a carton of cigarettes and can run on a build-in solar panel or charged by an internal crank generator. I ran up to the house and grabbed the one with the label “Northern Mam” and brought it down for him to hear. He agreed that it was fine Mam and said that they would like to borrow it for their Bible study on Sunday morning at 8:00 am.
Wednesday, December 12:
WX: 8:00 am, partly cloudy, 70 degrees, no wind.
Breakfast: Eggs, plantains, toasted buns with butter.
Solar Panels:
The peak of the house is situated almost due North and South. I have already placed three solar panels on the East facing slope of the roof to take advantage of the morning sun, which is often quite strong. The afternoons are frequently cloudy, so putting many panels on the West side does not make sense, however, I took one of the 50 watt panels that I had not yet placed on the roof and mounted it on the west facing side, hoping to increase the charge on the batteries in afternoon – something the east facing panels do not do well at all.
Latrine:
Reinforced the ties for the tarp that covers the walls of the latrine with nylon string. Since the door was attached in such a way so that it swings wide open when not latched, I created a type of hook for securing it from the inside.
Reinforced the nylon string fasteners on the latrine tarp to hold it firmly in strong winds.
Visitors: Freddy Viatoro, the Guatemalan who owns the ranch several miles to the West – Rancho Palmera, stopped by just at dinner time (I common practice for him). He brought his son, who is celebrating his 14th birthday and his 15 year-old cousin, Juan Carlos.
Thursday, December 13, 2007:
Breakfast: Eggs, biscuits with Jam, coffee
Spent the morning determining that the PicPac packet radio decoder was defective.
Lunch: Peanut butter and jelly biscuits
Spent good part of PM recovering from gastro. distress.
Examined problem with Cessna Regulator issues:
When #1 Regulator selected and field on Front alternator is on, over-voltage is indicated on amp-meter
Measured voltages:
When #1 Regulator is selected, 24 volts is present on the #2 regulator input (0 volts on #1)
When #2 Regulator is selected, 24 volts is present on the #1 regulator input (0 volts on #2)
Apparently the wires on the switch are reversed.
Front alternator field winding voltages:
When #1 regulator selected, 24 volts is present on field on the front alternator.
When #2 regulator selected, 19 volts is present on the field of the front alternator.
Rear alternator field winding voltages:
When either regulator (#1 or #2) is selected, 20 volts or 19.5 volts respectively is present on the field winding.
There should be a shunt resistor for each alternator (and the battery) in series with the amp-meter.
Unexpected Visitors:
So say visitors are un-expected is the norm. All visitors are un-expected because nobody calls ahead, few have phones and few plan that far in advance anyway. Freddy Viatoro, a big Guatemalan rancher that we knew from several years ago, stopped by just after dark, as is common for him. He brought his 15-year-old cousin Juan Carlos, and his son, who was celebrating his 12th birthday. Freddy owns the ranch several miles to the west, Rancho Palmera, where he raises beef cattle. They have about 150 head. He spends much of his time in the city of Huehuetenango (pronounced wheywheytenango) where much of his family lives. Of course, we insisted that they stay for dinner, even though all we had was a pot of boiled cabbage with carrots and three pieces of fried chicken. We were about to go out and buy some more bread when one of our neighbors arrived, unexpectedly, with a load of food:
Angelina lives in the big house/tienda owned by Don Andres (Don – a title of respect). She lives there with the other daughters-in-law of the Don Andres. Angelina’s husband, like most of Don Andres sons, works in the US. It was her daughter Olga’s 12th birthday and so they had a LOT of extra tamales. She brought over about 8 or so, still hot and very tasty. These are not like the tamales in the US. The Mayans use real banana leaves and real corn dough (masa). Each one contains about 1 cup of masa and into each one is placedpiece of roasted chicken and mole, just about the size of a grape. These are steamed and kept hot in a container until eaten. Good food.
Latrine Rebuilding:
Two men from the community stopped by, presumably at the bequest of the Directiva, to help build a new latrine. Our old one, built into the side of a hill about 100 feet down from the house, was about ready to fall over. They had a pick and machetes in hand, nothing else. I explained that the hole was good and deep with a concrete footing (constructed by our good friends and volunteers Ezra and Josyah Jay) and all it needed was a new floor and framework for the walls. They wanted to make walls with boards but I explained that we preferred to use blue tarp because it allowed air to pass through and allowed light to enter, thus reducing the number of bugs – mostly cock-roaches – that would take up residence.
The existing structure collapsed with a slight push as it was mostly eaten away by termites.
They began their work and I mostly let them do their job, asking them to fabricate a door at a particular location but allowing them to do what they felt was right. What they did was mostly right, except that roof sloped towards the uphill side of the latrine, emptying rain water into a spot that would not only drench anyone entering the structure through the door but also would puddle on the uphill side of the hole, eventually, I fear, filling the hole with water during the rainy season. They also used a rotten, termite infested piece of wood for part of the door frame. I gave them two metal hinges and a set of screws, but the used nails on the hinges instead, bending them in half to secure the hinges, as the head of the nails would otherwise have gone through the screw holes. Instead of building the new framework on the cement footing, protecting it from termites, they dug holes outside the concrete and sank the corner posts into it. I hate to cast aspersions upon men that came to help, but, the workmanship can only be described as, shall we say, rustic. At one point, one of the guys came up to the house and asked if we had some rope to tie the roof on with, which I did not understand. He found some short lengths of barbed wire and was heading downhill when I decided it was probably time for me to intervene. They had put the old corrugated roofing over the frame they had constructed and put a couple of 2x4’s on top of it to hold it down. They were going to use the barbed wire to secure the 2x4’s on top to the 2x4’s underneath, a technique commonly used, I guess, on their own sheds out in the fields. I suggested that we use nails instead, and they agreed that it might work but said that they didn’t have a ladder in order to get up there to hammer them in. I ran up the hill and got one out of the house and brought it down. I held it up while one of the guys climbed with a clutch of nails and hammer. Before I could figure out what he was doing, he had nailed through the 2x4 on top of the roof, through the roof and into the 2x4 beneath the roof!
Jennifer reminds me that these two particular Mayan hicks, as I would have called them, also survived 15 years of civil war, evading the Guatemalan army in the jungles with their families – those that were not killed. Instead of going to school and learning all of the things we take for granted, they were surviving, mostly, by their wits, doing what they had to do moment by moment, day by day. Not planning very far in advance and rarely ever using tools more sophisticated than machetes and shovels. I need to keep these things in perspective.
Audio Bible in Mam – Proclaimer:
Before they finished, I found out that one of them, Mr. Andres, was in charge of the local Evangelical CAM church. CAM is Central America Mission and is very popular here in Guatemala. His church is near the end of the runway and had existed for a very long time without a roof. I noticed that he spoke Mam and asked if he would be interested in an audio Bible that would speak the New Testament in Mam for his congregation. This is a “Proclaimer” Device donated by “Faith Comes by Hearing”. It is about the size of a carton of cigarettes and can run on a build-in solar panel or charged by an internal crank generator. I ran up to the house and grabbed the one with the label “Northern Mam” and brought it down for him to hear. He agreed that it was fine Mam and said that they would like to borrow it for their Bible study on Sunday morning at 8:00 am.
Wednesday, December 12:
WX: 8:00 am, partly cloudy, 70 degrees, no wind.
Breakfast: Eggs, plantains, toasted buns with butter.
Solar Panels:
The peak of the house is situated almost due North and South. I have already placed three solar panels on the East facing slope of the roof to take advantage of the morning sun, which is often quite strong. The afternoons are frequently cloudy, so putting many panels on the West side does not make sense, however, I took one of the 50 watt panels that I had not yet placed on the roof and mounted it on the west facing side, hoping to increase the charge on the batteries in afternoon – something the east facing panels do not do well at all.
Latrine:
Reinforced the ties for the tarp that covers the walls of the latrine with nylon string. Since the door was attached in such a way so that it swings wide open when not latched, I created a type of hook for securing it from the inside.
Reinforced the nylon string fasteners on the latrine tarp to hold it firmly in strong winds.
Visitors: Freddy Viatoro, the Guatemalan who owns the ranch several miles to the West – Rancho Palmera, stopped by just at dinner time (I common practice for him). He brought his son, who is celebrating his 14th birthday and his 15 year-old cousin, Juan Carlos.
Thursday, December 13, 2007:
Breakfast: Eggs, biscuits with Jam, coffee
Spent the morning determining that the PicPac packet radio decoder was defective.
Lunch: Peanut butter and jelly biscuits
Spent good part of PM recovering from gastro. distress.
Examined problem with Cessna Regulator issues:
When #1 Regulator selected and field on Front alternator is on, over-voltage is indicated on amp-meter
Measured voltages:
When #1 Regulator is selected, 24 volts is present on the #2 regulator input (0 volts on #1)
When #2 Regulator is selected, 24 volts is present on the #1 regulator input (0 volts on #2)
Apparently the wires on the switch are reversed.
Front alternator field winding voltages:
When #1 regulator selected, 24 volts is present on field on the front alternator.
When #2 regulator selected, 19 volts is present on the field of the front alternator.
Rear alternator field winding voltages:
When either regulator (#1 or #2) is selected, 20 volts or 19.5 volts respectively is present on the field winding.
There should be a shunt resistor for each alternator (and the battery) in series with the amp-meter.
Unexpected Visitors:
So say visitors are un-expected is the norm. All visitors are un-expected because nobody calls ahead, few have phones and few plan that far in advance anyway. Freddy Viatoro, a big Guatemalan rancher that we knew from several years ago, stopped by just after dark, as is common for him. He brought his 15-year-old cousin Juan Carlos, and his son, who was celebrating his 12th birthday. Freddy owns the ranch several miles to the west, Rancho Palmera, where he raises beef cattle. They have about 150 head. He spends much of his time in the city of Huehuetenango (pronounced wheywheytenango) where much of his family lives. Of course, we insisted that they stay for dinner, even though all we had was a pot of boiled cabbage with carrots and three pieces of fried chicken. We were about to go out and buy some more bread when one of our neighbors arrived, unexpectedly, with a load of food:
Angelina lives in the big house/tienda owned by Don Andres (Don – a title of respect). She lives there with the other daughters-in-law of the Don Andres. Angelina’s husband, like most of Don Andres sons, works in the US. It was her daughter Olga’s 12th birthday and so they had a LOT of extra tamales. She brought over about 8 or so, still hot and very tasty. These are not like the tamales in the US. The Mayans use real banana leaves and real corn dough (masa). Each one contains about 1 cup of masa and into each one is placedpiece of roasted chicken and mole, just about the size of a grape. These are steamed and kept hot in a container until eaten. Good food.
Pet Scorpion Escaped
Friday, December 21, 2007:
WX: 7:00, 65, Cleared early, no wind, very humid.
We are planning to depart for Guatemala City today. Expect to stay at an empty condominium in San Cristobal next to Doug and Sarah Johnson. We’ll pick up packages waiting for us there, including our satellite tracking system and try to obtain a cellular, wireless internet modem from our cell service provider: Tigo.
Pet Scorpion Escaped:
While I was getting the plane ready for our flight to Guatemala City, Jennifer called me on the cell phone and asked if I had let the pet scorpion go last night. We kept this one (of the many we have encountered and killed) partly because of his size. It’s length was about five to six inches, stretched out, and had very large pincers.
We had a little excitement the other night. We had not fed our pet scorpion for a couple of weeks. I was out in the yard in the dark, starting-up the little generator when I noticed the very bright reflection of two eyes on one of the house pilings. I came out with a plastic container and captured a very large wolf spider. I put the open side of the spider’s container on top of the open scorpion container, expecting a fairly short meal preparation time of about 10 seconds, but the spider, possibly sensing the imminent consummation of his condition made a dash for a very slim opening I had accidentally created while tapping on the plastic, trying to get him to fall off the ceiling of his container, as it were. He ran across the table in my direction at an extremely high rate of speed, then jumped off the table very close to my feet, causing me to quickly backup in a reflexive action, causing me to know over the bench that I had been sitting on. It was all quite comical. I put the scorpion’s lid back on and placed his container back on the shelf, offering my condolences regarding the loss of his meal. Perhaps because of his advanced state of hunger – or perhaps because of the example set by the aforementioned escapee, and, perhaps due in part to the fact that I apparently failed to secure the lid with enough force to ensure his security, our little scorpion mascot disappeared at some point late in the night. Keep in mind that the shelf he was on was directly on the other side of a wooden divider from our bedroom. The divider was made of loosely spaced boards, any one of which he could easily have passed through. On the other hand, our floor is also composed of loosely spaced board, any one of which he might have simply fallen though to the ground, sixteen inches below that.
I don’t recall everything Jennifer said, exactly, but I think she questioned the wisdom of keeping a pet if I couldn’t properly care for it. I was saddened by the sudden disappearance of our pet, to say the least.
We piled into the 336 and headed off to Guatemala City. The air was a clear as could be and we quickly climbed from sea-level to 9,500’ and made a bee-line for Guatemala City. From our cruising altitude, we could plainly see almost all of the volcanoes in the country, from Pacaya, rising 8,372’, south of Guatemala City to Agua, at 12,335’ and Fuego and Acatenango, both rising about 13,000’. Farther to the south-west, near Lake Atitlan we could see the volcano Atitlàn and San Pedro. Much farther west, near Quetzaltenango, and San Marcos, Tajumulco rose clearly in the distance to 13,845’. The active volcanoes, Pacaya, Fuego, San Pedro and Santiaguito did not seem to be producing any smoke at all this day. There had been days when I could see thick plums of smoke and ash rising high into the sky, into or above the cruising altitude of most airliners, causing air traffic control to deviate some flights in order to avoid the extremely abrasive and dangerous ash clouds.
My landing at La Aurora Airport in Guatemala City (Elevation 5,000’) was designed to impress any pilots that might happen to be within view or taxiing into position for take-off. As it happened, the crew from the AGAPE hangar, another missionary aviation organizations, was out on the grass next to the west taxiway, portable radios in hand, watching my technique as I approached and landed using my typical short field technique. It is all the more impressive when you consider the length of the runway here, at 9,800’ and the amount of runway we actually used to land, about 800’. The guys there gave me the thumbs-up as I exited on the first taxiway exit – “Kilo”.
WX: 7:00, 65, Cleared early, no wind, very humid.
We are planning to depart for Guatemala City today. Expect to stay at an empty condominium in San Cristobal next to Doug and Sarah Johnson. We’ll pick up packages waiting for us there, including our satellite tracking system and try to obtain a cellular, wireless internet modem from our cell service provider: Tigo.
Pet Scorpion Escaped:
While I was getting the plane ready for our flight to Guatemala City, Jennifer called me on the cell phone and asked if I had let the pet scorpion go last night. We kept this one (of the many we have encountered and killed) partly because of his size. It’s length was about five to six inches, stretched out, and had very large pincers.
We had a little excitement the other night. We had not fed our pet scorpion for a couple of weeks. I was out in the yard in the dark, starting-up the little generator when I noticed the very bright reflection of two eyes on one of the house pilings. I came out with a plastic container and captured a very large wolf spider. I put the open side of the spider’s container on top of the open scorpion container, expecting a fairly short meal preparation time of about 10 seconds, but the spider, possibly sensing the imminent consummation of his condition made a dash for a very slim opening I had accidentally created while tapping on the plastic, trying to get him to fall off the ceiling of his container, as it were. He ran across the table in my direction at an extremely high rate of speed, then jumped off the table very close to my feet, causing me to quickly backup in a reflexive action, causing me to know over the bench that I had been sitting on. It was all quite comical. I put the scorpion’s lid back on and placed his container back on the shelf, offering my condolences regarding the loss of his meal. Perhaps because of his advanced state of hunger – or perhaps because of the example set by the aforementioned escapee, and, perhaps due in part to the fact that I apparently failed to secure the lid with enough force to ensure his security, our little scorpion mascot disappeared at some point late in the night. Keep in mind that the shelf he was on was directly on the other side of a wooden divider from our bedroom. The divider was made of loosely spaced boards, any one of which he could easily have passed through. On the other hand, our floor is also composed of loosely spaced board, any one of which he might have simply fallen though to the ground, sixteen inches below that.
I don’t recall everything Jennifer said, exactly, but I think she questioned the wisdom of keeping a pet if I couldn’t properly care for it. I was saddened by the sudden disappearance of our pet, to say the least.
We piled into the 336 and headed off to Guatemala City. The air was a clear as could be and we quickly climbed from sea-level to 9,500’ and made a bee-line for Guatemala City. From our cruising altitude, we could plainly see almost all of the volcanoes in the country, from Pacaya, rising 8,372’, south of Guatemala City to Agua, at 12,335’ and Fuego and Acatenango, both rising about 13,000’. Farther to the south-west, near Lake Atitlan we could see the volcano Atitlàn and San Pedro. Much farther west, near Quetzaltenango, and San Marcos, Tajumulco rose clearly in the distance to 13,845’. The active volcanoes, Pacaya, Fuego, San Pedro and Santiaguito did not seem to be producing any smoke at all this day. There had been days when I could see thick plums of smoke and ash rising high into the sky, into or above the cruising altitude of most airliners, causing air traffic control to deviate some flights in order to avoid the extremely abrasive and dangerous ash clouds.
My landing at La Aurora Airport in Guatemala City (Elevation 5,000’) was designed to impress any pilots that might happen to be within view or taxiing into position for take-off. As it happened, the crew from the AGAPE hangar, another missionary aviation organizations, was out on the grass next to the west taxiway, portable radios in hand, watching my technique as I approached and landed using my typical short field technique. It is all the more impressive when you consider the length of the runway here, at 9,800’ and the amount of runway we actually used to land, about 800’. The guys there gave me the thumbs-up as I exited on the first taxiway exit – “Kilo”.
Mayan Antiquities
A lady came to the house with a gift of ganaos (little bananas) while Jennifer was telling stories to Genna and Beto. She said she just was passing by and wanted to visit with Jennifer. I explained that Jennifer and the kids take a nap at this time of day and I gave her two candles as a gift in exchange. She sat down and asked if I would like to see some Mayan artifacts that her husband had recently unearthed that she wanted to sell. She carefully unwrapped two small statues, one of a man, the other of a woman, both in remarkably good condition but covered with a light coating of dust, remnants no doubt, of the earth in which they had been covered since antiquity. This is an offer I have had on several occasions in the past. I often wonder if I have ever turned down a real antique Mayan artifact – seems unlikely.
Ratatouille - rætə tuːi
Here in the tropics there exists a plethora of animals. Mostly insects but also reptiles, amphibians, monkeys, birds, fish, rodents, you name it. Among the more troublesome for us lately have been the rodents, specifically rats. Our house is a very simple affair, basically a wooden structure about 20’ wide by 40’ long, with a wooden floor, all cut from timbers with a chain saw. It is built on top of short posts with a corrugated tin roof. It has an open ceiling and is open at the eaves and has no shortage of other openings both in the floor and walls as the boards shrunk considerably after it was built. There are two interior walls, each seven feet high that are open above to the roof, providing visual privacy only, much like tall cubicle walls. Any kind of animal that wants to get in, can get in. Needless to say, screens won’t help. Naturally, we use mosquito nets on our beds. Since there is a ½ inch gap between each floorboard, insects that do come in, don’t stay very long before the walk right out again. Sweeping is a simple matter, since anything you push with a broom will fall right through the floor at the next gap! Ventilation is not a problem. When we have bananas in the house, fruit bats will sometimes visit in the middle of the night for a snack. They are very noisy eaters as they have a habit of noisily licking the bananas with a very loud smacking sound, like a cat lapping up water. We have never seen a snake, neither in our house nor in our yard. We live very close to the center of the village and most snakes don’t survive the trip from the edge of the village to where we live since every kid has been trained from infancy to kill any snake on sight, without question or hesitation. Chickens also like to eat them.
That brings us to the topic of this essay: Rats. Had we more snakes, and less food, we would probably not have rats. We are not overrun with them, but even a two rats that have decided that they like you is two, too many. Among other unique features of our home is an invention of my own: Interior gutters. Because we have a tin roof and the air here is extremely humid most of the time and the temperature change from mid-day to night can easily reach 40 degrees – condensation on the inside of the roof is a nightly event. If sufficient, the condensation runs down the corrugation until it reaches the wooden supports that run perpendicular to the rafters, known here as “reglas”. When it does reach this obstruction, the water drips straight down to the floor, or whatever is below it. When the water drips down and strikes the top of a mosquito net, for example, it splatters into a zillion smaller droplets and sprays over the occupant(s) of said net. In the middle of a pitch dark night, it is hard to move into a position on a very small bed where the water will not get you. After several months of moving beds and furniture around, I finally decided to mitigate this problem using tin gutters placed on top of the short walls that constitute our three room house. The gutters are positioned directly under the “reglas” such that any dripping water will fall into them and not cause problems for whatever lies below. This brings us to the subject if “dancing rats”. It began on a quite completely dark in our house at night. There are no outside lights and if the moon is not supplying light, it is really, really dark. It is also profoundly quiet most of the time. The sound of little footsteps on tin woke me in the middle of one of these very dark nights. I laid in bed and listened as the sound progressed across the house from the far end, over my head and into the kitchen. Clearly they were the steps of a substantial rodent using the interior gutters as a kind of bridge from one end of the house to the other. Mind you, they didn’t need to use the gutters because the top of the exterior wall was only seven feet high as well and the eves are open, supplying ample passage. For some reason, a particularly large rate had decided that he liked the sound of his own footsteps and was noisily walking back and forth inside the interior gutter. After some time, I heard another similar sound. Now, apparently, two rats were walking back and forth in the gutter. Laying in bed I wondered if I should get up and chase them out, thus waking the entire family, or just let it go and hope that they would leave quickly. They didn’t. The walking back and forth became more and more animated until at one point I could clearly hear them coming closer together, just over my head. At the point where I would have expected them to cross over each other there was a momentary pause and then a confusion of loud squealing and jumping around inside the gutter. Then the sound of each of them prancing off in two different directions. It was clearly getting to the point where I wished I had turned on a flashlight and chased them away, but I waited a bit longer. Before long, I hear one of them approaching the open end of the gutter that juts out over the kitchen counter (a wooden board covered with sheet plastic). After a very brief pause, the sound of a very large rat hitting the plastic, about four feet below the height of the gutter, could plainly be heard. Before long, items in the kitchen were being knocked over and I think I heard him jump from the counter to the floor. The other rat followed suit and soon both were on the floor of the kitchen, knocking things about. At the time, I could only guess what they were doing but the next morning I found my children’s toy blocks scattered around the kitchen. The obviously were playing with the blocks, knocking around the ones that would roll. I had images of these two rats dancing around in our kitchen like a couple of ballet dancers – skidding blocks here and there and periodically taking a break to play in the gutters. As far as I could tell, no food was taken at all. They simply seemed to enjoy playing at our house. This sort of thing went on over a period of a week or so. Sometimes I would wake-up, get my flashlight and walk to the kitchen and shine the light around. Sometimes I could just barely see them as they lept back up on the counter and scaled the wall as though gravity didn’t apply to them. Sometimes I could see the shadowing image of their portly bodies, about the size of a Nerf football, running along the top of the exterior or interior wall that forms the perimeter of our bedroom. Before long, I purchased a very large rat trap. I tried peanut butter but they simply licked it off the bait pan without setting off the trap. Then I rolled the peanut butter up into part of a tortilla and put that on the pan but they deftly picked it off without setting off the trap. Finally, I tied the peanut butter and tortilla sandwich to the bait pan with a wire twisty fastener. That did the trick. The next night, as I lay there listening to them jumping around and dancing on the floor, there was a loud WHACK! Moments later I could hear the sound of a large rodent shuddering in it’s death throws smacking the counter with the trap firmly attached to it’s body. After about a half-minute of this, silence. In the morning, I disposed of the dead rat, all two pounds, by throwing over the hill that forms the perimeter of our back-yard. After a couple more nights, the second, a smaller female, was done in the same manner. After that, we had no more rats!
That was over two years ago. We have been gone for a long time and various animals have been making liberal use of the house while we were in the US. The unmistakable signs of rats nests could be found in various nooks and crannies. I thought I had found them all and cleaned them out – but recently Jennifer and I noticed an odd smell in the kitchen. We couldn’t exactly determine where it was coming from, but we both noticed that if we stood between the dining table and the stove, it was most prevalent there.
For several days, we tried to find out where the smell of a dead rat could possibly be coming from. I looked under the house. I looked on the roof. I looked in the interior gutters. I looked on top of the wall. No luck. Once, passing the stove, I noticed some trash behind in on the floor. I pulled it away from the wall and cleaned up the refuse; a half eaten bar of soap, some wrappers from various food items and several large pieces of plastic bubble wrap. Nothing that would explain the smell. Then, almost in passing, I noticed the two-inch wide hole in the back that led into the combustion chamber, where the gas burns that heats the oven above. The bottom of the oven was easy to remove and what we found in the area below, where the gas actually burns, was nothing short of horrifying. Most accidents they say, happen at home. What happened in that recess below the oven was one of those unfortunate coincidences that sadly resulted in the untimely death of what appears to have been one or more rats, possibly a small family of babies, partially encased in melted bubble wrap, soap and an assortment of other half-burnt common household detritus. Keep in mind that the last time we used the oven was on Thanksgiving day (about a month previous) when we celebrated by baking a chicken purchased from our neighbors across the street. It tasted good to me. Jennifer dutifully cleaned out the oven with a spatula and abrasive cleaning products. Strangely, it still smells funny in that part of the kitchen. Perhaps the smell has soaked into the wooden floor.
A few nights ago, I heard the telltale sound of a large rodent prancing down the length of the interior gutter, jumping off the top of the wall onto the counter and knocking things over. I didn’t bother to wake Jennifer or turn on the light. I have left the baited rat trap out for three nights without any luck so far. This is a battle of wits and I intend to be more witty than my opponent! I’ll take pictures of my prey this time. Perhaps I can trap it and teach it tricks.
That brings us to the topic of this essay: Rats. Had we more snakes, and less food, we would probably not have rats. We are not overrun with them, but even a two rats that have decided that they like you is two, too many. Among other unique features of our home is an invention of my own: Interior gutters. Because we have a tin roof and the air here is extremely humid most of the time and the temperature change from mid-day to night can easily reach 40 degrees – condensation on the inside of the roof is a nightly event. If sufficient, the condensation runs down the corrugation until it reaches the wooden supports that run perpendicular to the rafters, known here as “reglas”. When it does reach this obstruction, the water drips straight down to the floor, or whatever is below it. When the water drips down and strikes the top of a mosquito net, for example, it splatters into a zillion smaller droplets and sprays over the occupant(s) of said net. In the middle of a pitch dark night, it is hard to move into a position on a very small bed where the water will not get you. After several months of moving beds and furniture around, I finally decided to mitigate this problem using tin gutters placed on top of the short walls that constitute our three room house. The gutters are positioned directly under the “reglas” such that any dripping water will fall into them and not cause problems for whatever lies below. This brings us to the subject if “dancing rats”. It began on a quite completely dark in our house at night. There are no outside lights and if the moon is not supplying light, it is really, really dark. It is also profoundly quiet most of the time. The sound of little footsteps on tin woke me in the middle of one of these very dark nights. I laid in bed and listened as the sound progressed across the house from the far end, over my head and into the kitchen. Clearly they were the steps of a substantial rodent using the interior gutters as a kind of bridge from one end of the house to the other. Mind you, they didn’t need to use the gutters because the top of the exterior wall was only seven feet high as well and the eves are open, supplying ample passage. For some reason, a particularly large rate had decided that he liked the sound of his own footsteps and was noisily walking back and forth inside the interior gutter. After some time, I heard another similar sound. Now, apparently, two rats were walking back and forth in the gutter. Laying in bed I wondered if I should get up and chase them out, thus waking the entire family, or just let it go and hope that they would leave quickly. They didn’t. The walking back and forth became more and more animated until at one point I could clearly hear them coming closer together, just over my head. At the point where I would have expected them to cross over each other there was a momentary pause and then a confusion of loud squealing and jumping around inside the gutter. Then the sound of each of them prancing off in two different directions. It was clearly getting to the point where I wished I had turned on a flashlight and chased them away, but I waited a bit longer. Before long, I hear one of them approaching the open end of the gutter that juts out over the kitchen counter (a wooden board covered with sheet plastic). After a very brief pause, the sound of a very large rat hitting the plastic, about four feet below the height of the gutter, could plainly be heard. Before long, items in the kitchen were being knocked over and I think I heard him jump from the counter to the floor. The other rat followed suit and soon both were on the floor of the kitchen, knocking things about. At the time, I could only guess what they were doing but the next morning I found my children’s toy blocks scattered around the kitchen. The obviously were playing with the blocks, knocking around the ones that would roll. I had images of these two rats dancing around in our kitchen like a couple of ballet dancers – skidding blocks here and there and periodically taking a break to play in the gutters. As far as I could tell, no food was taken at all. They simply seemed to enjoy playing at our house. This sort of thing went on over a period of a week or so. Sometimes I would wake-up, get my flashlight and walk to the kitchen and shine the light around. Sometimes I could just barely see them as they lept back up on the counter and scaled the wall as though gravity didn’t apply to them. Sometimes I could see the shadowing image of their portly bodies, about the size of a Nerf football, running along the top of the exterior or interior wall that forms the perimeter of our bedroom. Before long, I purchased a very large rat trap. I tried peanut butter but they simply licked it off the bait pan without setting off the trap. Then I rolled the peanut butter up into part of a tortilla and put that on the pan but they deftly picked it off without setting off the trap. Finally, I tied the peanut butter and tortilla sandwich to the bait pan with a wire twisty fastener. That did the trick. The next night, as I lay there listening to them jumping around and dancing on the floor, there was a loud WHACK! Moments later I could hear the sound of a large rodent shuddering in it’s death throws smacking the counter with the trap firmly attached to it’s body. After about a half-minute of this, silence. In the morning, I disposed of the dead rat, all two pounds, by throwing over the hill that forms the perimeter of our back-yard. After a couple more nights, the second, a smaller female, was done in the same manner. After that, we had no more rats!That was over two years ago. We have been gone for a long time and various animals have been making liberal use of the house while we were in the US. The unmistakable signs of rats nests could be found in various nooks and crannies. I thought I had found them all and cleaned them out – but recently Jennifer and I noticed an odd smell in the kitchen. We couldn’t exactly determine where it was coming from, but we both noticed that if we stood between the dining table and the stove, it was most prevalent there.
For several days, we tried to find out where the smell of a dead rat could possibly be coming from. I looked under the house. I looked on the roof. I looked in the interior gutters. I looked on top of the wall. No luck. Once, passing the stove, I noticed some trash behind in on the floor. I pulled it away from the wall and cleaned up the refuse; a half eaten bar of soap, some wrappers from various food items and several large pieces of plastic bubble wrap. Nothing that would explain the smell. Then, almost in passing, I noticed the two-inch wide hole in the back that led into the combustion chamber, where the gas burns that heats the oven above. The bottom of the oven was easy to remove and what we found in the area below, where the gas actually burns, was nothing short of horrifying. Most accidents they say, happen at home. What happened in that recess below the oven was one of those unfortunate coincidences that sadly resulted in the untimely death of what appears to have been one or more rats, possibly a small family of babies, partially encased in melted bubble wrap, soap and an assortment of other half-burnt common household detritus. Keep in mind that the last time we used the oven was on Thanksgiving day (about a month previous) when we celebrated by baking a chicken purchased from our neighbors across the street. It tasted good to me. Jennifer dutifully cleaned out the oven with a spatula and abrasive cleaning products. Strangely, it still smells funny in that part of the kitchen. Perhaps the smell has soaked into the wooden floor.
A few nights ago, I heard the telltale sound of a large rodent prancing down the length of the interior gutter, jumping off the top of the wall onto the counter and knocking things over. I didn’t bother to wake Jennifer or turn on the light. I have left the baited rat trap out for three nights without any luck so far. This is a battle of wits and I intend to be more witty than my opponent! I’ll take pictures of my prey this time. Perhaps I can trap it and teach it tricks.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Flying Low Over Xalala
Great Commission Air has provided emergency medical air service to many villages in the Ixcan and surrounding areas. Xalala is one of those villages, situated along the Rio Negro. Emergency medical transportation from here is very difficult. This low pass reveals a number of problems with that airstrip at this time, including trees that need to be cut-back, animals on the airstrip, tall grass. We hope the villages will act quickly to address those issues. This week I will be picking-up a case of thin, yellow fliers that I will drop on villages like this so that they'll know we are back and here to help. The fliers also ask them to clean the airstrip and call me for more infomation!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Flight Following Made Simple with FindMeSpot!
For those of you unfamiliar with missionary aviation and all it entails, flight following is one of the more tedious, and important activities of the non-flying partner(s). My non-flying partner happens to be Jennifer, my wife. She actually is a pilot and also a great navigator too - but most of the time, when I am flying, her role is that of flight-following and dispatching.
We have an HF radio in the house and in the plane. In the past, when I had a flight, Jennifer would keep the radio in the house turned on and listen to the static while doing her thing with the kids or around the house. Every now and then I would transmit my position or a landing or take-off or situation and Jennifer would write it down and acknowledge the transmission. Listening to HF static for hours on end is, to say the least, tedious. It also means that she can't walk across the road to shop at the tienda or clean cloths at the creek, etc...
When I am responding to a medical emergency, I must talk to her and ask her to arrange to have ground transportation at my destination, and that might change depending on the nature of the patient. At other times, multiple emergency flights might be requested while I am airborne. When that happens, Jennifer determines which are most important and tries to coordinate my flight accordingly. At those times, an HF radio is indispensable. The rest of the time, when I am simply making position reports, it is not.
Newer, better... We recently started using a new system that allows me to notify Jennifer of my position while I am flying or on the ground, by pushing a button. The device, from "Find-Me-Spot", is about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It transmits my check-in position to a "low-earth-orbit satellite" that relays the information to a server on the internet. That server stores a copy of my position and also will e-mail a copy of it to anyone I want, including Jennifer's Cell Phone (or you)!
This map shows each airstrip GCA has served since beginning here in Guatemala. Our home is marked by the YELLOW HOUSE in the upper center area (mostly covered by other airstrips). Yellow balloons indicate airstrips that are currently not usable due to poor maintenance. Blue tacks are for reference only. You can click on this map, zoom in, and generally explore with it.
Click Here to View a Larger Map
FindMeSpot also has a "Help Me" button, in case I happen to land in a place from which a take-off is not possible, and I need help. The recent installation of a solar-powered digital cell tower in our village has made it possible for Jennifer to receive text messages on her phone in this way. Technology is cool, ain't it?
All this for $150 a year (plus $150 for the SPOT unit). We bought it with help from you, GCA donors. It's making flying safer, Jennifer's job easier and improves communications overall. Thank you!
For those of you that are technically inclined: The check-in messages that FindMeSpot sends to Jennifer's e-mail includes coordinates of my location. The e-mail message includes a hyperlink that allows her to view my position on a Google Map page. That map page is also populated with the coordinates of all the airstrips that Great Commission Air has served in the past.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Flight to Coban
Air Drop Leaflets:
I am looking forward to making a ½ hour flight to Coban today for supplies. Among other things, I’ll contract with a printer to purchase a large box of leaflets. These are small, yellow fliers, that I will toss out of the airplane window, with a request for the village to repair their airstrips and a phone number where they can reach us in case of a medical emergency or other missionary or humanitarian transport needs. Many villages have simply let their airstrip get overgrown while we were gone. All the phone numbers have changed now that there are digital cell towers in the area – so leaflets are a convenient way to make a plea to an entire village, all at once and with a LOT of fanfare.
Other Items on my shopping list include:
Hydro-cortisone crème, for various itchy body parts.
Water filter – stone cylinder type - to clean the rain water
A visit to an internet café to up/down load e-mail and to pay bills online
I need to send a QSL card (acknowledgement) to a ham radio operator I talked to in Avila, Cuba
Wine in a box (not as bad as it sounds)
Butter (real butter)
Powdered milk (whole crème powdered milk – mighty good stuff – can’t get it in the US).
Blackberry Jam – if I can find it!
Cash – for villages expenses
Plumbing Parts:
Plumbing parts for our hillbilly sink on the front porch. This advanced technological system is composed of a garden hose that leads to an elevated rain barrel and a plastic wash basin with a regular sink drain installed on it. I could not bring myself to buy an actual sink, as it would make the rest of the system look too un-sophisticated (and they cost $100). This is all fixed to a board, that acts as a counter, fixed to the railing of the porch. While we were gone on furlough, someone took the parts that I had rigged-up earlier, so I now need to purchase new parts that will attach to the garden hose and act as some kind of faucet that I can mount on the railing. It’ll be set-up so that water can be turned on and off and run into any one of three wash basins we use to clean our plates. Currently, we simply hang the end of the hose from a couple of closely spaced nails near the roof so that the water does not run out. This solution is too low-tech of my tastes. In the picture, you see Jennifer standing on a bench to was dishes. When the “guys” from the Directiva came over to help replace some of the boards on the porch, they pulled apart my hillbilly counter, that was at the correct height for washing dishes, then, for some unknown reason did NOT replace the floor boards in that area of the porch. They did replace my counter-top arrangement, about 1 foot higher than it originally was located, thus necessitating the ladder in order to use it.
Friday, December 15, 2007:
Made a flight to Coban today:
I took an empty propane gas cylinder, the outgoing mail, our laptop computer in a black nylon case and my flight kit.
My flight Kit:My flight kit is basically a black nylon satchel, just large enough to contain a standard clip-board and about six-inches thick. The clip board has a legal pad on which I record all the details of each flight, including the fuel in the tanks before and after the flight. On the back is a check-list for almost every aspect of aircraft operations and a list of all the airstrips I have landed at along with their lengths, altitude, orientation and how much weight I can depart with from the airstrip. I also carry a handheld VHF (backup) radio, my GPS (when not mounted on the yoke), sunglasses, calculator, a leatherman tool, pens, water purification tables, aircraft instruction manual and so on. Like all flight kits, it has too much stuff and weighs too much. When I leave the aircraft in a place like Coban or Guatemala City, I take anything with me that would make me cry to loose.
My plan was to first find a printer and get started on the job of creating fliers that I can throw out the window of the plane. Then go to the post office, send the mail and get a PO box. If I could find the internet café I might upload and download e-mail and then go to the hardware store to purchase some supplies needed for the house. If there was still time, I would go to the grocery store and buy some items that we have been craving – like butter, powdered milk, wine and cheese. How I figured I could do all that and still leave before dark I do not know. I have not been back in Guatemala long enough to loose my youthful optimism when it comes to “getting things done”. Americans are pretty good at “getting things done” and “quickly”. These concepts don’t translate the same here in Guatemala, where things get done, eventually, mostly, and where the concept of “quickly” only produces an counter-productive resistance that will guarantee that whatever it was you wanted quickly, won’t come quickly.
The Coban Airport:
The airfield in Coban is a quaint place. It is couched in a mountain basin, frequently closed in by low clouds. The airstrip is paved, one of very few paved airstrips in the country, and oriented north-west and south-east. It is about 2000’ long and situated at an altitude of 4,350’ above sea level. The far end of the runway (to the north-west) is about 4,310’ above sea level. The altitude difference is mostly the result of a the tall hill on which the runway begins. The hill drops sharply for the first two or three-hundred feet, making take-offs to the north-west a bit of a roller-coaster ride, and greatly assisted by gravity. In fact, a lightly loaded aircraft can usually be airborne before it gets to the bottom of the hill, attaining a flying state in an extremely short distance. This “state of flying” can be a bit deceptive as the novice pilot soon discovers that “flying” and “climbing” are two very different things. A heavily loaded aircraft is actually required to climb, fairly quickly, if one hopes to avoid the pine trees at the far end of the airstrip. It can be surprisingly hard to climb in a heavily loaded plane at this altitude, as the thin are reduces both the effectiveness of the propeller, wings and especially the engine. My personal technique for determining how much of a load I can take-off with is to experiment by gradually adding weight until I no longer feel comfortable with the take-off performance. This has to be done considering winds and temperature, as a headwind or cooler than normal temperatures will greatly aid the performance of the take-off. Even a small tail-wind will negatively affect performance greatly. I arrived at a fairly chicken-hearted cargo take-off weight of 1200 lbs. This would include the pilot, fuel and cargo. I arrived at this, something most local pilots would scoff at, by careful experimentation. After making several departures with 1300 or 1400 lbs., easily clearing all obstacles, I departed one day, with missionary volunteers on board no less, and was astonished to suddenly discover that my climb performance was not good enough to clear the pine trees along the perimeter of the airport. Not only that but I was approaching them at an extremely high rate of speed. Finding a small gap between a couple of the trees, I aimed for it and managed to avoid a collision that would probably have ended my flying career. I struggled to turn, every so carefully, to the east and circle quite low over the city until I could climb sufficiently to depart the area over the mountains to the West. Almost certainly, the reason for the poor performance was due to a tail-wind that did not advertise itself on the ground but was painfully effective just above the ground. Unpredictable winds are an ever-present danger in mountainous areas like this. Even though the local pilots will take-off overloaded all the time, it is also well known that many, many of them have crashed in close proximity to the airport. The 1200 lb. limit will mean 100-200 lbs less cargo on each flight. It will also help to insure that there is plenty of margin for error in case something does not go according to expectations.
Another peculiar aspect of the airstrip in Coban is the fact that the location, as advertised by the GPS database, is nowhere near where the airport really is. I notified the database publisher, a well respected authority in charge of instrument approach charts all over the world. Its been over three years now and I don’t believe they have gotten around to updating their information.
Also, there is a large, faded, “X” painted in white, on the approach end of the north-west runway. The internationally understood meaning of this is that the runway is closed. Presumably it was put there because of the fact that that the first two-hundred feet of that end of the runway consists of a 40 foot drop and is a bit tricky to land on. Its been like this for at least five years and is universally ignored by everyone, as far as I can tell.
After arriving at the airstrip in Coban, I secured the aircraft and pulled out the gas cylinder, my flight kit, laptop computer and bag of outgoing mail. There were two small aircraft still operating on the field and I knew the pilots of each. I stopped and said hello to those operators before making my way to the gated entrance, where a taxi awaited. I asked the driver, whom I also recognized, how much for a ride to centro (center of town) would cost and he replied, twenty Q. Even though that is less then three dollars, it seemed a bit high to me and I tried to talk him down. He wouldn’t budge. I asked him to wait while I carried the gas cylinder across the street intending to leave it at the gas recharging shop, but when I arrived at the door, a sign said that they were closed – probably for lunch. Lunch typically starts around 11:30 and frequently lasts until 1:30 or 2:00. Most businesses close during this time of the day in Coban and trying to get things done during mid-day is difficult.
While I was standing outside the closed gas tienda, a bus came along the street and I figured I would save 19q by hoping on board, which I did. Not a particularly easy thing, carrying a gas cylinder, laptop computer and full flight kit and bag of mail. I found a seat near the back and got comfortable, expecting to recognize all the landmarks on our way to centro. The bus veered off onto a diagonal street and made some odd excursions onto streets that I had never seen before. Before I knew it, we had passed centro and were on the far side of Coban. The fellow next to me assured me that we could walk to centro with no problem, so I got off with him and followed him up a steep hill for a couple of blocks. He pointed farther up the hill and bid me good-day as I continued without him, carrying all of my cargo on my back as I went.
Eventually, I began to recognize some landmarks and pretty soon found my way to the post office.
The Post Office (La oficina de Correos): There were two young men in the office. I asked if they had any PO boxes available, known here as an apartado. One of the attendants walked behind the open, unlocked and unguarded cabinet of boxes next to the counter and searched around for one that did not have somebody’s name taped to it. He indicated that they had some open boxes (most of them) and that I could have one but needed to give a copy of my sedulas (ID). I asked if my Michigan driver’s license was good enough, and, surprisingly, he agreed that it would suffice. I asked him to figure the cost of sending fifteen letters and two large envelopes to the US. The total was about q330 ($44). Not only was this significantly more than the annual cost of a PO Box, It was also q4 more than I had in my wallet. I asked where I might make a copy of my license and the fellow directed me to a shop along the main square. I picked-up my gas cylinder, flight kit and computer and sack of mail and headed out the door.
Foto-Copias of Sedulas:
Americans might find it strange that a shop would be dedicated to making photo-copies, but in Guatemala, copies of sedulas (ID) is a thriving business. I asked for a double sided copy of my license (yes, you need to copy both sides of everything) I paid my q.5 ($.07) and aksed where I might find an off-set printer. The lady in the window asked if I were familiar with St. Martin’s Squiare (I wasn’t) and then proceeded to give me directions to a place I was pretty sure I could not walk to. Knowing that I would need lots of cash for the post office, the printers, a taxi, lunch and getting gas cylinder filled, I headed for the nearest ATM machine.
The Money Machine:
Amazingly, this is a service that has existed and functioned in Guatemala for years. It seems like the most likely place to get mugged, so I always exercise extreme caution when withdrawing money from these things. As I approached the small, enclosed booth, built into the side of a building on a relatively quiet street, I noticed that there was a man already inside, conducting business. I waited patiently outside and periodically glanced in to see what stage of the process he seemed to be in. I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be doing the same thing over and over again, with different cards each time. After about five minutes, I began to wonder what he could possibly be doing and why he was going through a stack of cards to do it with. Presently, I began to suspect that the cards he was using might not be his own, perhaps he was a pick-pocket and was trying various PINs with each of the stolen cards – as I waited patiently outside, possibly positioning myself to become his next victim, I become a bit self-concious and started to glance around for another ATM. These are the kinds of funny tricks your mind plays with you when your tired and far from home and a strange land where nothing works right and everyone speaks in a different language. I think some folks refer to it as culture shock. In my case, it frequently manifests itself with a decidedly paranoid bent. After another five minutes or so, the man emerged, without having actually gotten any cash, as far as I could tell. I entered, quickly, making space for all my stuff, including the gas cylinder – lest someone walk away with it while I was doing my business. I felt for my wallet and suddenly realized that it was missing as my hand felt my pocket without the reassuring bulge indicating it’s presence. I quickly checked my other pockets and was soon relieved to find it in my other back pocket, something I must have done accidentally at the post office. Then, for a moment, my heart skipped a beat as I recalled a story relayed to me by my friend who had once had his wallet removed from one pocket, money and cards extracted and the wallet put back into another pocket, all while he was standing on a public bus in Guatemala City. Opening my wallet I was relieved to find everything where I and left it and felt silly for allowing myself to get jittery and paranoid. The day wasn’t going as I had planned and that always put me a little off-balance. I put my card into the machine and typed in my PIN. The instructions, in Spanish and English, instructed me to push the appropriate buttons and before long I had q1000 ($133) in band new, crisp, clean q100 bills in my hot little hands. Since q1000 was as much as I could get in one transaction, I did another, then another. Now, having withdrawn $399, I felt quite rich and very vulnerable.
Returning to the post office, I found nobody manning the desk. The cabinet full of PO boxes was wide open along the back and quite accessible from where I was standing, situated as it was next to the counter (not behind it). I made several loud noises for several minutes, periodically clanging my gas cylinder against the cinder-block wall that composed the counter. Eventually, one of the young men appeared in the doorway at the end of the office and made a hand signal indicating that he would be available soon, then he disappeared again. After another five minutes or so, I accidentally on purpose knocked over the gas cylinder, making sufficient noise to wake up the other young man who appeared from behind another door and immediately starting taking care of another customer that had arrived AFTER me. This is a common problem in places like Coban, where “difficult to understand” customers with complicated problems get shifted to the end of the line, indefinitely. Eventually, the first guy came out of his hiding place and went through the process of weighing and computing the postage of all the letters I had brought the first time. The total, q330, was paid and he dutifully wrote me a receipt and took the letters. I can only hope that he will actually put postage on them and send them. Who knows? I again asked about a PO box and was told that the person that could actually process my request was not there but should arrive in twenty minutes or so. I took that as a hint to get lost for a while so I left to go find the printer’s office. As I stepped outside, I could not help but notice the Pollo Campero restaurant across the street.
Pollo Campero:
I carried my gas cylinder, computer and flight kit across the street to the local ‘Pollo Campero’ which is roughly the equivalent of a Guatemalan Kentucky Fried Chicken, but very popular. I got in the ‘to go’ line and made my order of ‘pechujitas’ or chicken strips. Apparently, I am the only person in Guatemala that actually orders pechujitas because every time I have done it during lunch hour, it takes forever for me to get my order. I was given my little receipt and send down to the far end of the counter to await my meal. This is the equivalent of being put in the “wait forever” part of the pick-up counter. After about fifteen minutes, during which time about 6 other customers’ orders were processed, the pechujitas magically appeared from somewhere. They were pitifully dry and shriveled. I don’t even know why I like them. The place was packed, so I found a table with a spare seat and asked the woman if I could sit there. She had two kids with her that were extraordinarily dirty and had runny noses – but they didn’t seem to mind me, strange as I was to them. So we all sat together and ate our lunch.
Private Security:
Many business establishments in Guatemala employ armed guards. This practice seems to be the result of a number of factors, one of which is that the police are seem to be outnumbered, under paid, and so on. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it, but recently, a group of Guatemala City Police were investigated for the gangland murder of a group of gang members (rival gang members – if you can get that concept in your mind). The reason they were even investigated is because the GPS transmitters in their police cars, transmitters that they were all perfectly aware of, were not turned off during the aforementioned atrocity. Their route was perfectly traced from the location where they apprehended the rival gang members to where the deed was done and the bodies were found. I won’t go into the corruption issues here, just know that the problem is wide-spread according to the newspapers. Add to this the fact that Guatemala City is the most crime ridden city in Central America and you can see the demand for a private security service. The armed guards are typically kids or young men, wearing nice looking uniforms, carrying 12 gauge shotguns and bandoliers of shotgun shells full of buckshot. They are probably paid about $3.00 a day and certainly have little or no training. Virtually every bank has at least two of these guards standing outside AND frequently two more inside. Every pharmacy, hardware store, grocery store or other retail establishment of any appreciable size has one or two. All McDonalds and Pollo Campero restaurants have at least one as well. Coban does not have the same crime problems that Guatemala City does but the culture of private security is alive and well here. For this reason, there was one of these armed guards standing outside the door at Pollo Campero.
Trapped while leaving Pollo Campero:
After my quick lunch, I picked-up my gear and made a classical gringo error of expecting things, any thing, to be the same and as predictable here in Guatemala as it is in the US. A fatal combination of being momentarily lulled into a state of mental complacency and the simple mistake of not properly interpreting the signs in front of my nose, suddenly caused me to become the object of momentary amusement for the entire restaurant. As it happens, at Pollo Campero, there are two sets of doors, separated by about two feet, as is the case with many stores in the US. The vestibule between them presumably helps keep out flies and warm air. Loaded up as I was with my computer, flight kit, gas cylinder and all, it was a bit of a clumsy act getting through the first set of doors, compounded by the fact that only the left-side door would move, the right side being secured. This momentary clumsiness was aggravated by the fact that, after going through the first door, the one that say “push”, I tried to “push” through the second set of doors. Not expecting the obvious, I pushed with a bit too much vigor and made a large banging noise when the door suddenly did NOT open, against my considerable force. The fact that the sign on it says “hale” didn’t register. In a moment of gringo confusion, I turned around and pushed on the door I had just come through, thinking that I should exit and re-read the signs on the doors, not being completely sure of what had just happened. Of course, when I attempted to push open that door, the one I had just pushed to get through, the one that only says “push” if you are exiting, it did not open. At this point, loaded up as I was and in such small quarters between the two sets of doors, I could hardly turn around. I felt a bit like a cow in a kitchen. The guard with the shotgun just outside the exit, a Mayan kid of about twenty, turned around with a surprised look on his face, grabbing his shotgun in a rather assertive manner. The look on his face increased my level of anxiety a couple of notches as I suddenly felt trapped in what is essentially a glass box with a restaurant full of noisy Guatemalans on one side, some of whom were now trying unsuccessfully to exit the restaurant and on the other side, a kid with a startled look on his face carelessly pointing a 12 gauge shotgun full of buckshot at me, more or less blocking my way out. Quickly composing myself, I put the gas cylinder down, took a deep breath, smiled at the kid pointing the gun at me and pointed at the sign on the door. I laughed, he laughed, everyone in the restaurant seemed to be laugher and smiling at the stupid gringo in the glass box. These are the moments that test the mettle of gringo pilots lost in Guatemala. I proceeded to pull open the door (in the manner suggested by the sign that read: “hale”) and leave, walking quickly away and trying not to make eye contact with the people in the restaurant who could clearly see me through the long row of windows that lined the entire side of the building. Sweat was now profusely soaking my shirt, a condition that I seem to be afflicted with often in situations like this, which I frequently find myself in. Now I know why gringos are treated a little differently.
My path took me immediately through the produce market street. As I walked I was amazed at the vast variety of things you can buy here. Every kind of handicraft, every type of tropical food, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of women sitting on the streets selling every type of food and commodity you can image. Behind the Mayan women on the street, and on both sides of the street there are small tiendas, each completely open on the front, each about 15 feet wide and each one specializing in some specific product. One would be full of paper products, pens, pencils, paper, notebooks, ink, erasers, stencils, stickers and so on. The next might be full of glassware, cups, dishes, bowls, mirrors of every description. As much as you could fit into a fifteen by ten foot recess, these small stores were packed. The next tienda might be full of cell phones and related merchandise, then one full of hardware store items, then one full of plumbing, then one full of plastic products like bins, boxes, trash cans, dishes, bowls, buckets and so forth. Every one seems to have evolved over the years so as to find a niche in his or her nook as it were. The variety of tiendas and sheer number of them, combined with the multitude of Mayan street vendors and the crowd meandering through this maze of merchandize, periodically plied by a slow moving pick-up truck and the cacophony accompanying the scene made an appropriately bizarre background for me, a tall gringo wearing blue Dockers and a clean, red, button-down shirt, carrying a gas cylinder on one shoulder, a laptop computer slung from the other and a large black satchel strapped across my back, soaked with sweat and glancing around nervously looking for something that he could not possibly find here – a Quickie Printer or Kinkos.
Mayan Kinkos:
After a nice long walk with several excursions onto the wrong streets and sometimes in the wrong direction, I finally found what I was looking for – an offset printer shop. None of the directions I had received would have led me to this place, I simply stumbled across it by accident. It was tucked away into one of those 10x15 foot enclaves built into the side of a larger building. It had a sign over it the read “Medina Impresos”. I was impressed. The lady behind the counter was clearly Mayan, of the Q’eckqui (Kekchi) persuasion, and was wearing glasses. I explained that I wanted to print 10,000 fichas, or fliers, similar to the ones I had with me, and placed my samples on the counter. Each was about 4x4 inches made of extremely thin yellow paper. I explained, as she listened expressionlessly, that I would fly low over small villages in the Ixcan and throw hundreds and thousands of these out the window in order to compel the villagers to repair their village airstrips and then to call me on the cell phone in case they needed air transport for medical emergencies or for support of Christian missions or other humanitarian needs. The look she gave me was one of complete passivity as though I were describing how water will flow downhill if not impeded. When I was through talking she looked at me and asked, “So, how many of these did you say you wanted?” I repeated that I wanted an entire box of them, about 10,000. She motioned me to wait end picked up the phone. When she returned she said, it’ll cost q765 for the job. I gave her the same expressionless look and said, that is fine. How long will it take. Amazingly, she started talking about the layout and the wording and suggested locations for graphics. She suggested using a line drawing of the airplane placed in otherwise white spaces, so the villagers would know who’s plane it was. I was very impressed. As we were talking, her father or husband appeared from behind a curtain and greeted me. I asked him if there was a place nearby where I could refill my gas cylinder, pointing at the one on the floor next to the open door. He motioned me to wait and made a quick phone call to a nearby propane shop, instructing them to come and bring a full cylinder for me to exchange. The lady with the glasses asked for some graphics of the aircraft and I noticed that they had an Ethernet hub connected to their computer so I asked if they had internet and if I could connect to it and download the graphics from our website. The owner readily agreed. I pulled out a twelve foot long Ethernet cable from my laptop case (something I now take one with me everywhere) and connected to their hub. Before long, I was on the internet! I downloaded an engineering drawing of the airplane and copied it to a USB key that the lady had hanging around her neck. Then I asked if I could just leave my laptop connected to the internet while it uploaded and downloaded e-mail. They agreed and we continued our discussion of the artwork. In less than 10 minutes, the gas cylinder man drove up to the door with a pick-up containing full gas cylinders. I exchanged my empty one for a rusty, but full, one and paid the man the q120 it cost for 25 lbs. of propane. It was nearly 4:00 and I knew that I didn’t have enough time to wait for the remaining gazillion junk e-mails to download. I thanked them for having better service than any Kinkos I have ever been at and bid them farewell. Stepping out into the street, I flagged down a taxi and headed back towards the airstrip. I asked the driver to stop by the grocery store on our way, which he did and waited while I quickly went in and purchased a few items that I knew I would really miss and could not get in the village; cheese, several types of wine in a box, some Corona extra, Borden’s powdered milk, real butter, grape and blackberry jam and sliced bread (not sweetened). I came out a few minutes later and we continued to the airstrip. I told the driver to go through the gate and drive up along side the plane. He was reluctant, at first and asked me if that were really my plane. I assured him that it was OK and that I was indeed the pilot of that-there aircraft and would he please drive very slowly. The look on his face was priceless. I don’t think he had actually ever driven into the airport, much less talked with a real-live pilot. Of course, I tipped him generously. He helped me unload my gear next to the plane and left.
During my preflight inspection I noticed that someone had moved the propeller and apparently had opened the oil dipstick access door. I suspect that someone had been poking around the aircraft, uninvited. I could not find anything else amiss so I hopped in and started up the plane, taxied to the top of the hill on the south-east end of the runway and turned the airplane around. Taking off, I found that I could get airborne before the bottom of the hill, just like the old days, and climbed quickly over the trees around the perimeter and out over the town to make a big sweeping turn, climbing high enough to pass over the mountains to the west of the airstrip. The clouds had started to build up predictably around the 6,000’ ridges, so and I simply flew around them to the north on my way home. The flight home was quite pleasant, with the sun setting into the west behind the larger Cuchumatanes mountain range.
Since the HF radio didn’t seem to be functioning very well, I decided to try the unthinkable, that is to make an airborne cell phone call to Jennifer and let her know I was on my way. You might be thinking this was unthinkable because of the rules and regulation in the US regarding use if cell phones on aircraft, but I can tell you that nobody cares a hoot about those rules here in Guatemala. I was simply amazed that I could actually get a signal at all! I was quite surprised to find two or three bars on the signal strength. I speed dialed Jennifer and was pleased to reach her voice mail on the first attemp. I reported my position, over Las Margaritas, a village with one analog cell phone that usually does not work, and hung up. A short time later I called again and was amazed to actually speak with Jennifer and know that she could hear me over the noise of the aircraft. Just Amazing! Jennifer said she would send one of the neighbor kids up to the airstrip to help my carry groceries back to the house.
After I landed and tied down the aircraft, I walked home and felt strangely tired. I couldn’t explain it, by any measure I had not accomplished very much and certainly not all of the items on my to-do list. We had a fine dinner of melted cheese on bread, pasta with Jennifer’s fabulous village sauce and a tall glass of mediocre wine from a box. Just a note, the Termidore Vino Tinto from Agentina lacks any real body. It is wine in name only and could as easily be Welche’s grape juice with a shot of grain alcohol. Two thumbs down for the wine. The company, on the other hand, (my family) was of the utmost quality and more than made up for any failings of the day!
I am looking forward to making a ½ hour flight to Coban today for supplies. Among other things, I’ll contract with a printer to purchase a large box of leaflets. These are small, yellow fliers, that I will toss out of the airplane window, with a request for the village to repair their airstrips and a phone number where they can reach us in case of a medical emergency or other missionary or humanitarian transport needs. Many villages have simply let their airstrip get overgrown while we were gone. All the phone numbers have changed now that there are digital cell towers in the area – so leaflets are a convenient way to make a plea to an entire village, all at once and with a LOT of fanfare.
Other Items on my shopping list include:
Hydro-cortisone crème, for various itchy body parts.
Water filter – stone cylinder type - to clean the rain water
A visit to an internet café to up/down load e-mail and to pay bills online
I need to send a QSL card (acknowledgement) to a ham radio operator I talked to in Avila, Cuba
Wine in a box (not as bad as it sounds)
Butter (real butter)
Powdered milk (whole crème powdered milk – mighty good stuff – can’t get it in the US).
Blackberry Jam – if I can find it!
Cash – for villages expenses
Plumbing Parts:
Plumbing parts for our hillbilly sink on the front porch. This advanced technological system is composed of a garden hose that leads to an elevated rain barrel and a plastic wash basin with a regular sink drain installed on it. I could not bring myself to buy an actual sink, as it would make the rest of the system look too un-sophisticated (and they cost $100). This is all fixed to a board, that acts as a counter, fixed to the railing of the porch. While we were gone on furlough, someone took the parts that I had rigged-up earlier, so I now need to purchase new parts that will attach to the garden hose and act as some kind of faucet that I can mount on the railing. It’ll be set-up so that water can be turned on and off and run into any one of three wash basins we use to clean our plates. Currently, we simply hang the end of the hose from a couple of closely spaced nails near the roof so that the water does not run out. This solution is too low-tech of my tastes. In the picture, you see Jennifer standing on a bench to was dishes. When the “guys” from the Directiva came over to help replace some of the boards on the porch, they pulled apart my hillbilly counter, that was at the correct height for washing dishes, then, for some unknown reason did NOT replace the floor boards in that area of the porch. They did replace my counter-top arrangement, about 1 foot higher than it originally was located, thus necessitating the ladder in order to use it.
Friday, December 15, 2007:
Made a flight to Coban today:
I took an empty propane gas cylinder, the outgoing mail, our laptop computer in a black nylon case and my flight kit.
My flight Kit:My flight kit is basically a black nylon satchel, just large enough to contain a standard clip-board and about six-inches thick. The clip board has a legal pad on which I record all the details of each flight, including the fuel in the tanks before and after the flight. On the back is a check-list for almost every aspect of aircraft operations and a list of all the airstrips I have landed at along with their lengths, altitude, orientation and how much weight I can depart with from the airstrip. I also carry a handheld VHF (backup) radio, my GPS (when not mounted on the yoke), sunglasses, calculator, a leatherman tool, pens, water purification tables, aircraft instruction manual and so on. Like all flight kits, it has too much stuff and weighs too much. When I leave the aircraft in a place like Coban or Guatemala City, I take anything with me that would make me cry to loose.
My plan was to first find a printer and get started on the job of creating fliers that I can throw out the window of the plane. Then go to the post office, send the mail and get a PO box. If I could find the internet café I might upload and download e-mail and then go to the hardware store to purchase some supplies needed for the house. If there was still time, I would go to the grocery store and buy some items that we have been craving – like butter, powdered milk, wine and cheese. How I figured I could do all that and still leave before dark I do not know. I have not been back in Guatemala long enough to loose my youthful optimism when it comes to “getting things done”. Americans are pretty good at “getting things done” and “quickly”. These concepts don’t translate the same here in Guatemala, where things get done, eventually, mostly, and where the concept of “quickly” only produces an counter-productive resistance that will guarantee that whatever it was you wanted quickly, won’t come quickly.
The Coban Airport:
The airfield in Coban is a quaint place. It is couched in a mountain basin, frequently closed in by low clouds. The airstrip is paved, one of very few paved airstrips in the country, and oriented north-west and south-east. It is about 2000’ long and situated at an altitude of 4,350’ above sea level. The far end of the runway (to the north-west) is about 4,310’ above sea level. The altitude difference is mostly the result of a the tall hill on which the runway begins. The hill drops sharply for the first two or three-hundred feet, making take-offs to the north-west a bit of a roller-coaster ride, and greatly assisted by gravity. In fact, a lightly loaded aircraft can usually be airborne before it gets to the bottom of the hill, attaining a flying state in an extremely short distance. This “state of flying” can be a bit deceptive as the novice pilot soon discovers that “flying” and “climbing” are two very different things. A heavily loaded aircraft is actually required to climb, fairly quickly, if one hopes to avoid the pine trees at the far end of the airstrip. It can be surprisingly hard to climb in a heavily loaded plane at this altitude, as the thin are reduces both the effectiveness of the propeller, wings and especially the engine. My personal technique for determining how much of a load I can take-off with is to experiment by gradually adding weight until I no longer feel comfortable with the take-off performance. This has to be done considering winds and temperature, as a headwind or cooler than normal temperatures will greatly aid the performance of the take-off. Even a small tail-wind will negatively affect performance greatly. I arrived at a fairly chicken-hearted cargo take-off weight of 1200 lbs. This would include the pilot, fuel and cargo. I arrived at this, something most local pilots would scoff at, by careful experimentation. After making several departures with 1300 or 1400 lbs., easily clearing all obstacles, I departed one day, with missionary volunteers on board no less, and was astonished to suddenly discover that my climb performance was not good enough to clear the pine trees along the perimeter of the airport. Not only that but I was approaching them at an extremely high rate of speed. Finding a small gap between a couple of the trees, I aimed for it and managed to avoid a collision that would probably have ended my flying career. I struggled to turn, every so carefully, to the east and circle quite low over the city until I could climb sufficiently to depart the area over the mountains to the West. Almost certainly, the reason for the poor performance was due to a tail-wind that did not advertise itself on the ground but was painfully effective just above the ground. Unpredictable winds are an ever-present danger in mountainous areas like this. Even though the local pilots will take-off overloaded all the time, it is also well known that many, many of them have crashed in close proximity to the airport. The 1200 lb. limit will mean 100-200 lbs less cargo on each flight. It will also help to insure that there is plenty of margin for error in case something does not go according to expectations.
Another peculiar aspect of the airstrip in Coban is the fact that the location, as advertised by the GPS database, is nowhere near where the airport really is. I notified the database publisher, a well respected authority in charge of instrument approach charts all over the world. Its been over three years now and I don’t believe they have gotten around to updating their information.
Also, there is a large, faded, “X” painted in white, on the approach end of the north-west runway. The internationally understood meaning of this is that the runway is closed. Presumably it was put there because of the fact that that the first two-hundred feet of that end of the runway consists of a 40 foot drop and is a bit tricky to land on. Its been like this for at least five years and is universally ignored by everyone, as far as I can tell.
After arriving at the airstrip in Coban, I secured the aircraft and pulled out the gas cylinder, my flight kit, laptop computer and bag of outgoing mail. There were two small aircraft still operating on the field and I knew the pilots of each. I stopped and said hello to those operators before making my way to the gated entrance, where a taxi awaited. I asked the driver, whom I also recognized, how much for a ride to centro (center of town) would cost and he replied, twenty Q. Even though that is less then three dollars, it seemed a bit high to me and I tried to talk him down. He wouldn’t budge. I asked him to wait while I carried the gas cylinder across the street intending to leave it at the gas recharging shop, but when I arrived at the door, a sign said that they were closed – probably for lunch. Lunch typically starts around 11:30 and frequently lasts until 1:30 or 2:00. Most businesses close during this time of the day in Coban and trying to get things done during mid-day is difficult.
While I was standing outside the closed gas tienda, a bus came along the street and I figured I would save 19q by hoping on board, which I did. Not a particularly easy thing, carrying a gas cylinder, laptop computer and full flight kit and bag of mail. I found a seat near the back and got comfortable, expecting to recognize all the landmarks on our way to centro. The bus veered off onto a diagonal street and made some odd excursions onto streets that I had never seen before. Before I knew it, we had passed centro and were on the far side of Coban. The fellow next to me assured me that we could walk to centro with no problem, so I got off with him and followed him up a steep hill for a couple of blocks. He pointed farther up the hill and bid me good-day as I continued without him, carrying all of my cargo on my back as I went.
Eventually, I began to recognize some landmarks and pretty soon found my way to the post office.
The Post Office (La oficina de Correos): There were two young men in the office. I asked if they had any PO boxes available, known here as an apartado. One of the attendants walked behind the open, unlocked and unguarded cabinet of boxes next to the counter and searched around for one that did not have somebody’s name taped to it. He indicated that they had some open boxes (most of them) and that I could have one but needed to give a copy of my sedulas (ID). I asked if my Michigan driver’s license was good enough, and, surprisingly, he agreed that it would suffice. I asked him to figure the cost of sending fifteen letters and two large envelopes to the US. The total was about q330 ($44). Not only was this significantly more than the annual cost of a PO Box, It was also q4 more than I had in my wallet. I asked where I might make a copy of my license and the fellow directed me to a shop along the main square. I picked-up my gas cylinder, flight kit and computer and sack of mail and headed out the door.
Foto-Copias of Sedulas:
Americans might find it strange that a shop would be dedicated to making photo-copies, but in Guatemala, copies of sedulas (ID) is a thriving business. I asked for a double sided copy of my license (yes, you need to copy both sides of everything) I paid my q.5 ($.07) and aksed where I might find an off-set printer. The lady in the window asked if I were familiar with St. Martin’s Squiare (I wasn’t) and then proceeded to give me directions to a place I was pretty sure I could not walk to. Knowing that I would need lots of cash for the post office, the printers, a taxi, lunch and getting gas cylinder filled, I headed for the nearest ATM machine.
The Money Machine:
Amazingly, this is a service that has existed and functioned in Guatemala for years. It seems like the most likely place to get mugged, so I always exercise extreme caution when withdrawing money from these things. As I approached the small, enclosed booth, built into the side of a building on a relatively quiet street, I noticed that there was a man already inside, conducting business. I waited patiently outside and periodically glanced in to see what stage of the process he seemed to be in. I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be doing the same thing over and over again, with different cards each time. After about five minutes, I began to wonder what he could possibly be doing and why he was going through a stack of cards to do it with. Presently, I began to suspect that the cards he was using might not be his own, perhaps he was a pick-pocket and was trying various PINs with each of the stolen cards – as I waited patiently outside, possibly positioning myself to become his next victim, I become a bit self-concious and started to glance around for another ATM. These are the kinds of funny tricks your mind plays with you when your tired and far from home and a strange land where nothing works right and everyone speaks in a different language. I think some folks refer to it as culture shock. In my case, it frequently manifests itself with a decidedly paranoid bent. After another five minutes or so, the man emerged, without having actually gotten any cash, as far as I could tell. I entered, quickly, making space for all my stuff, including the gas cylinder – lest someone walk away with it while I was doing my business. I felt for my wallet and suddenly realized that it was missing as my hand felt my pocket without the reassuring bulge indicating it’s presence. I quickly checked my other pockets and was soon relieved to find it in my other back pocket, something I must have done accidentally at the post office. Then, for a moment, my heart skipped a beat as I recalled a story relayed to me by my friend who had once had his wallet removed from one pocket, money and cards extracted and the wallet put back into another pocket, all while he was standing on a public bus in Guatemala City. Opening my wallet I was relieved to find everything where I and left it and felt silly for allowing myself to get jittery and paranoid. The day wasn’t going as I had planned and that always put me a little off-balance. I put my card into the machine and typed in my PIN. The instructions, in Spanish and English, instructed me to push the appropriate buttons and before long I had q1000 ($133) in band new, crisp, clean q100 bills in my hot little hands. Since q1000 was as much as I could get in one transaction, I did another, then another. Now, having withdrawn $399, I felt quite rich and very vulnerable.
Returning to the post office, I found nobody manning the desk. The cabinet full of PO boxes was wide open along the back and quite accessible from where I was standing, situated as it was next to the counter (not behind it). I made several loud noises for several minutes, periodically clanging my gas cylinder against the cinder-block wall that composed the counter. Eventually, one of the young men appeared in the doorway at the end of the office and made a hand signal indicating that he would be available soon, then he disappeared again. After another five minutes or so, I accidentally on purpose knocked over the gas cylinder, making sufficient noise to wake up the other young man who appeared from behind another door and immediately starting taking care of another customer that had arrived AFTER me. This is a common problem in places like Coban, where “difficult to understand” customers with complicated problems get shifted to the end of the line, indefinitely. Eventually, the first guy came out of his hiding place and went through the process of weighing and computing the postage of all the letters I had brought the first time. The total, q330, was paid and he dutifully wrote me a receipt and took the letters. I can only hope that he will actually put postage on them and send them. Who knows? I again asked about a PO box and was told that the person that could actually process my request was not there but should arrive in twenty minutes or so. I took that as a hint to get lost for a while so I left to go find the printer’s office. As I stepped outside, I could not help but notice the Pollo Campero restaurant across the street.
Pollo Campero:
I carried my gas cylinder, computer and flight kit across the street to the local ‘Pollo Campero’ which is roughly the equivalent of a Guatemalan Kentucky Fried Chicken, but very popular. I got in the ‘to go’ line and made my order of ‘pechujitas’ or chicken strips. Apparently, I am the only person in Guatemala that actually orders pechujitas because every time I have done it during lunch hour, it takes forever for me to get my order. I was given my little receipt and send down to the far end of the counter to await my meal. This is the equivalent of being put in the “wait forever” part of the pick-up counter. After about fifteen minutes, during which time about 6 other customers’ orders were processed, the pechujitas magically appeared from somewhere. They were pitifully dry and shriveled. I don’t even know why I like them. The place was packed, so I found a table with a spare seat and asked the woman if I could sit there. She had two kids with her that were extraordinarily dirty and had runny noses – but they didn’t seem to mind me, strange as I was to them. So we all sat together and ate our lunch.
Private Security:
Many business establishments in Guatemala employ armed guards. This practice seems to be the result of a number of factors, one of which is that the police are seem to be outnumbered, under paid, and so on. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it, but recently, a group of Guatemala City Police were investigated for the gangland murder of a group of gang members (rival gang members – if you can get that concept in your mind). The reason they were even investigated is because the GPS transmitters in their police cars, transmitters that they were all perfectly aware of, were not turned off during the aforementioned atrocity. Their route was perfectly traced from the location where they apprehended the rival gang members to where the deed was done and the bodies were found. I won’t go into the corruption issues here, just know that the problem is wide-spread according to the newspapers. Add to this the fact that Guatemala City is the most crime ridden city in Central America and you can see the demand for a private security service. The armed guards are typically kids or young men, wearing nice looking uniforms, carrying 12 gauge shotguns and bandoliers of shotgun shells full of buckshot. They are probably paid about $3.00 a day and certainly have little or no training. Virtually every bank has at least two of these guards standing outside AND frequently two more inside. Every pharmacy, hardware store, grocery store or other retail establishment of any appreciable size has one or two. All McDonalds and Pollo Campero restaurants have at least one as well. Coban does not have the same crime problems that Guatemala City does but the culture of private security is alive and well here. For this reason, there was one of these armed guards standing outside the door at Pollo Campero.
Trapped while leaving Pollo Campero:
After my quick lunch, I picked-up my gear and made a classical gringo error of expecting things, any thing, to be the same and as predictable here in Guatemala as it is in the US. A fatal combination of being momentarily lulled into a state of mental complacency and the simple mistake of not properly interpreting the signs in front of my nose, suddenly caused me to become the object of momentary amusement for the entire restaurant. As it happens, at Pollo Campero, there are two sets of doors, separated by about two feet, as is the case with many stores in the US. The vestibule between them presumably helps keep out flies and warm air. Loaded up as I was with my computer, flight kit, gas cylinder and all, it was a bit of a clumsy act getting through the first set of doors, compounded by the fact that only the left-side door would move, the right side being secured. This momentary clumsiness was aggravated by the fact that, after going through the first door, the one that say “push”, I tried to “push” through the second set of doors. Not expecting the obvious, I pushed with a bit too much vigor and made a large banging noise when the door suddenly did NOT open, against my considerable force. The fact that the sign on it says “hale” didn’t register. In a moment of gringo confusion, I turned around and pushed on the door I had just come through, thinking that I should exit and re-read the signs on the doors, not being completely sure of what had just happened. Of course, when I attempted to push open that door, the one I had just pushed to get through, the one that only says “push” if you are exiting, it did not open. At this point, loaded up as I was and in such small quarters between the two sets of doors, I could hardly turn around. I felt a bit like a cow in a kitchen. The guard with the shotgun just outside the exit, a Mayan kid of about twenty, turned around with a surprised look on his face, grabbing his shotgun in a rather assertive manner. The look on his face increased my level of anxiety a couple of notches as I suddenly felt trapped in what is essentially a glass box with a restaurant full of noisy Guatemalans on one side, some of whom were now trying unsuccessfully to exit the restaurant and on the other side, a kid with a startled look on his face carelessly pointing a 12 gauge shotgun full of buckshot at me, more or less blocking my way out. Quickly composing myself, I put the gas cylinder down, took a deep breath, smiled at the kid pointing the gun at me and pointed at the sign on the door. I laughed, he laughed, everyone in the restaurant seemed to be laugher and smiling at the stupid gringo in the glass box. These are the moments that test the mettle of gringo pilots lost in Guatemala. I proceeded to pull open the door (in the manner suggested by the sign that read: “hale”) and leave, walking quickly away and trying not to make eye contact with the people in the restaurant who could clearly see me through the long row of windows that lined the entire side of the building. Sweat was now profusely soaking my shirt, a condition that I seem to be afflicted with often in situations like this, which I frequently find myself in. Now I know why gringos are treated a little differently.
My path took me immediately through the produce market street. As I walked I was amazed at the vast variety of things you can buy here. Every kind of handicraft, every type of tropical food, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of women sitting on the streets selling every type of food and commodity you can image. Behind the Mayan women on the street, and on both sides of the street there are small tiendas, each completely open on the front, each about 15 feet wide and each one specializing in some specific product. One would be full of paper products, pens, pencils, paper, notebooks, ink, erasers, stencils, stickers and so on. The next might be full of glassware, cups, dishes, bowls, mirrors of every description. As much as you could fit into a fifteen by ten foot recess, these small stores were packed. The next tienda might be full of cell phones and related merchandise, then one full of hardware store items, then one full of plumbing, then one full of plastic products like bins, boxes, trash cans, dishes, bowls, buckets and so forth. Every one seems to have evolved over the years so as to find a niche in his or her nook as it were. The variety of tiendas and sheer number of them, combined with the multitude of Mayan street vendors and the crowd meandering through this maze of merchandize, periodically plied by a slow moving pick-up truck and the cacophony accompanying the scene made an appropriately bizarre background for me, a tall gringo wearing blue Dockers and a clean, red, button-down shirt, carrying a gas cylinder on one shoulder, a laptop computer slung from the other and a large black satchel strapped across my back, soaked with sweat and glancing around nervously looking for something that he could not possibly find here – a Quickie Printer or Kinkos.
Mayan Kinkos:
After a nice long walk with several excursions onto the wrong streets and sometimes in the wrong direction, I finally found what I was looking for – an offset printer shop. None of the directions I had received would have led me to this place, I simply stumbled across it by accident. It was tucked away into one of those 10x15 foot enclaves built into the side of a larger building. It had a sign over it the read “Medina Impresos”. I was impressed. The lady behind the counter was clearly Mayan, of the Q’eckqui (Kekchi) persuasion, and was wearing glasses. I explained that I wanted to print 10,000 fichas, or fliers, similar to the ones I had with me, and placed my samples on the counter. Each was about 4x4 inches made of extremely thin yellow paper. I explained, as she listened expressionlessly, that I would fly low over small villages in the Ixcan and throw hundreds and thousands of these out the window in order to compel the villagers to repair their village airstrips and then to call me on the cell phone in case they needed air transport for medical emergencies or for support of Christian missions or other humanitarian needs. The look she gave me was one of complete passivity as though I were describing how water will flow downhill if not impeded. When I was through talking she looked at me and asked, “So, how many of these did you say you wanted?” I repeated that I wanted an entire box of them, about 10,000. She motioned me to wait end picked up the phone. When she returned she said, it’ll cost q765 for the job. I gave her the same expressionless look and said, that is fine. How long will it take. Amazingly, she started talking about the layout and the wording and suggested locations for graphics. She suggested using a line drawing of the airplane placed in otherwise white spaces, so the villagers would know who’s plane it was. I was very impressed. As we were talking, her father or husband appeared from behind a curtain and greeted me. I asked him if there was a place nearby where I could refill my gas cylinder, pointing at the one on the floor next to the open door. He motioned me to wait and made a quick phone call to a nearby propane shop, instructing them to come and bring a full cylinder for me to exchange. The lady with the glasses asked for some graphics of the aircraft and I noticed that they had an Ethernet hub connected to their computer so I asked if they had internet and if I could connect to it and download the graphics from our website. The owner readily agreed. I pulled out a twelve foot long Ethernet cable from my laptop case (something I now take one with me everywhere) and connected to their hub. Before long, I was on the internet! I downloaded an engineering drawing of the airplane and copied it to a USB key that the lady had hanging around her neck. Then I asked if I could just leave my laptop connected to the internet while it uploaded and downloaded e-mail. They agreed and we continued our discussion of the artwork. In less than 10 minutes, the gas cylinder man drove up to the door with a pick-up containing full gas cylinders. I exchanged my empty one for a rusty, but full, one and paid the man the q120 it cost for 25 lbs. of propane. It was nearly 4:00 and I knew that I didn’t have enough time to wait for the remaining gazillion junk e-mails to download. I thanked them for having better service than any Kinkos I have ever been at and bid them farewell. Stepping out into the street, I flagged down a taxi and headed back towards the airstrip. I asked the driver to stop by the grocery store on our way, which he did and waited while I quickly went in and purchased a few items that I knew I would really miss and could not get in the village; cheese, several types of wine in a box, some Corona extra, Borden’s powdered milk, real butter, grape and blackberry jam and sliced bread (not sweetened). I came out a few minutes later and we continued to the airstrip. I told the driver to go through the gate and drive up along side the plane. He was reluctant, at first and asked me if that were really my plane. I assured him that it was OK and that I was indeed the pilot of that-there aircraft and would he please drive very slowly. The look on his face was priceless. I don’t think he had actually ever driven into the airport, much less talked with a real-live pilot. Of course, I tipped him generously. He helped me unload my gear next to the plane and left.
During my preflight inspection I noticed that someone had moved the propeller and apparently had opened the oil dipstick access door. I suspect that someone had been poking around the aircraft, uninvited. I could not find anything else amiss so I hopped in and started up the plane, taxied to the top of the hill on the south-east end of the runway and turned the airplane around. Taking off, I found that I could get airborne before the bottom of the hill, just like the old days, and climbed quickly over the trees around the perimeter and out over the town to make a big sweeping turn, climbing high enough to pass over the mountains to the west of the airstrip. The clouds had started to build up predictably around the 6,000’ ridges, so and I simply flew around them to the north on my way home. The flight home was quite pleasant, with the sun setting into the west behind the larger Cuchumatanes mountain range.
Since the HF radio didn’t seem to be functioning very well, I decided to try the unthinkable, that is to make an airborne cell phone call to Jennifer and let her know I was on my way. You might be thinking this was unthinkable because of the rules and regulation in the US regarding use if cell phones on aircraft, but I can tell you that nobody cares a hoot about those rules here in Guatemala. I was simply amazed that I could actually get a signal at all! I was quite surprised to find two or three bars on the signal strength. I speed dialed Jennifer and was pleased to reach her voice mail on the first attemp. I reported my position, over Las Margaritas, a village with one analog cell phone that usually does not work, and hung up. A short time later I called again and was amazed to actually speak with Jennifer and know that she could hear me over the noise of the aircraft. Just Amazing! Jennifer said she would send one of the neighbor kids up to the airstrip to help my carry groceries back to the house.
After I landed and tied down the aircraft, I walked home and felt strangely tired. I couldn’t explain it, by any measure I had not accomplished very much and certainly not all of the items on my to-do list. We had a fine dinner of melted cheese on bread, pasta with Jennifer’s fabulous village sauce and a tall glass of mediocre wine from a box. Just a note, the Termidore Vino Tinto from Agentina lacks any real body. It is wine in name only and could as easily be Welche’s grape juice with a shot of grain alcohol. Two thumbs down for the wine. The company, on the other hand, (my family) was of the utmost quality and more than made up for any failings of the day!
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Flying the Rio Negro Pass into the Ixcan lowlands
My family and I departed Guatemala City to return to our home in Mayalan in the Ixcan region of the Quiche department. The flight through the Siera de Chama Mountains is always breathtaking, especially this area over the Rio Negro where I frequently find a break in the clouds that allows me to descend into the Ixcan lowlands. Images like this may give you an idea of how remote this area is and how difficult road transporation can be. Many villages here have no road and rely on airstrips for emergency medical transportation, as well as more common cargo transport.
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