It happened each morning at 4:45 AM, a rooster crowed and I was suddenly awake.  In my 
other life being awaken this early would only cause me to roll over and pull the pillow 
over my head.  I would try to sleep as late as I possibly could.  But here in Guatemala, 
laying in my top bunk bed, I could see the first rays of sunlight start to illuminate 
the volcano that seemed to rise up directly from behind my room and into the clouds.  
I clanged my way down my bed’s ladder and sat on the floor and put my shoes on.  My 
roommates didn’t even seem to stir, the previous days work on the new orphanage building 
had left them tired and we would be back at it, soon enough.  I tiptoed past the children, 
one who stirred each night to bad dreams.  Outside the house and into the courtyard I could 
smell the sweet flowers that grew around the edges of the massive walls that surrounded 
the hacienda.

I slipped out the gate knowing it would lock tightly behind me. With no key, I would have 
to figure out some way to get back in on my return. I paused in the road a moment to watch 
as the sunlight changed the looming volcano from red to orange.  Just up the road I had 
noticed a small trail that lead into the brush.  I had seen the kitchen workers emerge from 
it as they arrived for work in the “walled in” neighborhood.  As I started in, I passed a 
young woman who eyes grew as she saw me. “Buenos Dias” I said. She seemed embarrassed as 
she responded.  I doubt many gringos used this trail. 

Sooner than I expected I came to a small house.  If you could call it house, just four 
posts surrounded on three sides with tin. Corrugated tin on the roof was held down on 
each corner with a large rock. A blanket used for a door was pulled open to reveal a 
dirt floor where a naked child played with an empty Coke bottle.  An open fire was burning 
and a man was gathering sticks.  Our eyes met, I smiled and he smiled back.  I continued 
by other houses, some more permanent, others not fit for livestock.  As I neared the small 
town, houses were made of concrete blocks covered with stucco, the kind our group was 
building. Here and there electric lines dangled from poles and music from radios could be 
heard.  In the center of the town stood a beautifully detailed Catholic church that looked 
like it could have been built by Spanish Conquistadors.  It was painted yellow, a hold out 
from when egg yolks were used to color the paint, and the date above the door was 1670.  

In the square in front of the church, instead of the standard fountain I expected was a 
fountain of another sort.  A central water pool was surrounded by rocks shaped to form a 
bowl.  These “pilas” were used by the local town women to wash their clothes.  The women 
scrubbed their family’s clothes against the rocks as they shared news and the local gossip.  
For a moment I felt that although I was a 3-hour trip from Dallas I could be at this same 
spot three hundred years ago.  Then from the side of the square, coming from a small alley, 
I saw a new Nissan car emerge whose driver was talking on a cell phone.   At first it 
seemed oddly out of place, but then I realized ,certainly no more than myself.