There was something uncomfortably casual about the way the tube television rattled atop the stand in Antigua, Guatemala on that afternoon. Tremors are not unheard of in the town, which is surrounded by volcanoes in every direction. The Chapines smirked as this gringo let out universally recognized English words. It seemed like just another day in Antigua.
Residents were unaware, due to heavy cloud cover, that just south of Guatemala City, about 30 miles east of Antigua, one of the region’s active volcanoes and premiere tourist attractions exhaled molten rock and ash over the capital. Like the rest of Antigua, I went back to work, pausing only briefly to brag about my first tectonic experience to my contacts list. I retired to my apartment on the outskirts of town that evening, a place free of any connection to the outside world, beyond my neighbor’s pulsating salsa music.
Pacaya volcano, Guatemala City
I was walking to work the next morning in my typical fashion, with the awkward pace of someone who chronically suffers from being fashionably late, and nursing a vibrant cup of Guatemalan coffee to counteract the side effects of my third world mattress, when I overheard an animated pedestrian combine the word volcan with a frantic upward arm motion. I rejoined the digital world at work to discover photos of spewing lava and a three inch blanket of black ash in the capital city.
News of an approaching tropical storm arrived mid-morning, along with an endless supply of rain. I waited patiently for a break in the front, hoping that my cheap Saint Christopher pendant would bring me some luck while living abroad. He was able to get me halfway home. The skies reopened, turning my umbrella and rain coat into mere accessories.
Once sheltered from the elements, I began peeling off saturated layer after layer. I was working on my leather belt when the lights flicked once, twice, then darkness. It did not take long for the water to bore its way through my “well, it looks good to me” aluminum sheet roof and start a rhythmic tap on the bedroom floor. The power returned after a three hour hiatus, just in time to save my 20-20 vision from nonfiction by candlelight.
I escaped cabin fever the following afternoon by wading through Antigua’s newly formed river network as the rained continued to fall. Thick mocha water churned through the cobblestone streets, sometimes knee high at intersections on the south side of town. Audacious cars sent crashing breakers over the sidewalks and gurgled as the water splashed over their muffler. The stores were closed and markets bare with the exception of several tourist traps and the supermarket deafened by a gas generator. People scurried along the sidewalks beneath overhangs downtown, a place considered the tourism epicenter of Guatemala. Only the most resolute vacationers ventured out, determined to make the most of their time in “paradise.”
At 5 o’clock on Sunday morning, after 43 straight hours of unyielding rain, I was awakened by the sound of silence. It had finally stopped. The volcano had coated the capital and closed the airport. Agatha had flooded cities, torn apart roads and bridges, and claimed dozens of lives, but it was over. Mother Nature, after an epic demonstration, had given mercy. It had finally stopped.
Andrew Garberson recently started his position as a Director of Communications with the Transitions Foundation. For more on relief efforts in Guatemala, check out Roxanne Krystalli’s post “From Capacity Building to Building Homes: Relief Work in Guatemala.”
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As a fellow Guatemala-dweller, but up at Lago ATitlan, I’ll just say Great Post.