Smoke is every where in Guatemala. The volcanoes occasionally send plumes of smoke mixed with ash up into the sky. On Volcan Pacaya, hot, flowing lava incinerates everything that touches it, including the dropped cameras and backpacks of the lines of tourists who climb up Pacaya daily so that they can say they climbed a volcano. The lava bubbles under its thin, slightly cooled-off crust and people plod on, dropping stuff as they go and counting the loss as their possessions turn into smoke. But they get great pictures, as long as the thing lost is not the camera. I am not going to climb Pacaya. I have heard enough stories about injuries caused by falling on razor-sharp lava and burns from flying globules that I just don't think I need to climb up in order to say I cooked a hotdog over flowing lava, which is, by one account, the best reason to climb. I guess if I ate meat, I would see things differently. Still, seeing plumes of smoke and ash is oddly thrilling. Nothing like 1980 when Mount St. Helens did her thing, but nonetheless, thrilling.

There is also something ironic about the displays that the volcanoes put on, for they are are reminders of the immense geothermal power that sits just below the surface of the pueblos and ciudades of Guatemala. If tapped, the geothermal power could provide enough power to keep the entire country lit up forever. Yet there doesn't seem to be much of a plan in place, mostly because the cost is prohibitive. So instead of cheap, natural and available fuel, people pay electricity bills that are higher than their mortgages and poorer people live without the use of electricity. The most common source of fuel is lena (tilde on the n, which means the word is pronounced lay-nia)--firewood. And firewood means smoke. Walking in Antigua, one is often met with a smell that, for most North Americans, brings up memories of family camping trips or cold winter nights in front of the fireplace and roasting marshmallows. For me, the smell reminds me of the firepit Richard bought a year or so ago that we occasionally like to nestle up to while he burns scrapwood from his projects.

In Ciudad Viaja, though, smoke is not an occasional smell, but a constant one. As I trudge up the Volcan Agua towards the school, the smell that often brings a sense of nostalgia is not my friend. I am sucking in air as it is (volcanoes, after all, are a type of mountain), and when the air is mingled with smoke, my lungs rebel.

Okay, so for those of you who don't want to read about the realities of life in Ciudad Vieja for kids, you can skip this part. For the rest of you (please, somebody read on:)), here is the reality:
These kids at Nuestro Futuro all have runny noses and coughs. At first, my germaphobic North American self thought,"Crap--swine flu." I got over myself, though because my health care provider on Vashon said that the early attacks were expected to be very mild forms of the virus. Also, these kids didn't have fevers and it seemed really implausible that 71 kids would all have the same bug at the exact same stage. Duh--I did a very small bit of remembering--lung disease is one of the most prevelant reasons for death under the age of 5 in this country. People live in very small homes where wood is burned constantly for the purposes of cooking. With only an open hole in the ceiling for ventilation, open fires means that kids breath in smoke ALL THE TIME. These kids might be sick, but it is nothing that I am going to catch.

Okay, now the preachy part. There is a project underway here that is changing this situation one home at a time. For a relatively small fee ( I think it is around $200), these open-fire stoves can be outfitted with an easy-to-install ventilation system that takes the smoke straight up and out, so that, at least while at home ,the air is much cleaner for the family and the small lungs of kids who spend their first 5 years, mostly at their mothers' sides as they cook. Let me know if you are interested in more info...

There is another type of smoke that is prevelant in particular places here in Guatemala. Livingston (which is pronounced, appropriately, "Leeveenstone") is a Garifuna community on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala. Garifunas are decendants of slaves from Africa and most people in Livingston speak, yes Spanish, but also their very own language. I went to Livngston last weekend, and felt as though I had crosseed into another reality. The town is a fishing village that sits at the mouth of Rio Dulce and is bordered by uncrossable selva, so the only real way to get there is by boat (but nothing like getting to Vashon!!!!!). People there live with wet feet. The climate is very humid and hot, so the formality that infiltrates life inland is nonexistent in Livingston. The food is amazing for it is filled with just-caught seafood, coupled with tons of fresh fruits and vegetables, and of course plenty fo rice and black beans.

From Livingston, a short 20 minute lancha trip lands at a place called "Siete Altares"--seven altars--which is a series of waterfalls. There is a swimming spot that we were told had "very cold water." Clearly, the guy had never been in the Puget Sound. The couple I spent that day with were from Denmark. They, too, wanted to know when we would get to the place with the cold water.

After a half hour, we moved back into the lancha, and headed for our real destination for the day: Playa Blanca (white beach). OMG--I have found heaven. Okay, for Richard, I'll say it sucked b/c, while I was basking in warm Caribbean water, sipping cold coconut milk straight out of a coconut, I think he was painting our living room. So really, it was just okay;).

Oh, yea--the smoke part. Like I said, "Leeveenstone." Everywhere wafts a faint odor from my distant past. We're Jammin'. Yellow Green and Red. 'Nuff said, except that I chose not to seek out the source of the smoke:).

Tomorrow I start my last week at Nuestro Futuro. I am going to bring 6 kids back with me for the afternoon. Sylivia, the social worker & I are going to buy them some clothes. For three weeks, they have had on the same things, and no, they are not wearing their good school clothes. Old flannel PJ pants from Old Navy that smell like pee because there is no toilet paper at home, do not count as good school clothes. Sorry, I am starting to sound like Sally Struthers on those old commercials where she whines on and on and on about the children.

I almost have the picture thing figured out--so my next entry will be lost of pictures, God and technology willing! Stop laughing, Lisa, and I can see your eyes rolling

Next week I wil be going to Tikal, which is a Mayan ruin, and then I will spend three days on the beach in EL Salvador. After that, home.
Peace, Holly