Chapter One: Arrival

MY plane set down in Guatemala City on Aug 2oth, 1997. I wore an itchy gray suit, white shirt and tie. Of course, I was also wearing the black name tags associated with Mormon missionaries: one clipped to the collar of my suit and the other on my left shirt pocket. They both said the same thing.

Elder McPherson
La Iglesia de
Jesucristo
de los Santos de los Ultimos Dias

(Elder McPherson, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints)

It used to be that the name "Jesus Christ" was in the same sized font as the rest, but it was enlarged as part of a Church public relations campaign to let others know that we too are Christians. All I knew was that the font was more modern, the style more hip, than the tags my brothers and sister wore on their missions. I approved of the change.

The name "Elder" is actually a title, just like “Reverend” or “Father.” It’s the priesthood office held by male missionaries when they go on a mission. It’s a general title. Female missionaries, by the way, don’t hold the priesthood, so they're called “Sister”-- which is the common form of address in the Church. Instead of referring to another Church member as Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Banks, we'll say Brother Thompson and Sister Banks.

We had been traveling since 5 a.m., and so were exhausted by the time we touched down. We'd had one layover, in Houston, but had otherwise been flying all day. Our plane was small, our clothes were hot, and we weren't smelling too fresh by the time we disembarked at the Guatemala International Airport. Despite that, we were so excited to be starting our mission.

Guatemala is called "The Land of Eternal Spring" due to its moderate climate and geographical sheltering from tropical storms. It's beautiful year-round, with rich greenery and beautiful hills and mountains. I'd studied up a little on Guatemala, so I was quite excited to finally see it from the air. Unfortunately we landed at night, so my first glimpse of the country was of the capital lit up with streetlights. It was impressive, of course, but not what I'd been expecting.

That being said, my first thought of Guatemala City was that it was massive! It stretched out in every direction and all along the coast, like lava coming down the hills and pouring into the Carribean. From above, the contrast between black and red is astonishing, and I almost felt we were landing in some Central American Las Vegas.

All similarities between Las Vegas and Guatemala City ended as soon as we stepped off the

plane. Guatemala International is a circular concrete building -- like a run-down Roman colliseum -- only decorated with garish advertisements from floor to ceiling. Our's had been the only plane to land the past few hours, so we were the only people in the airport except for the haggard security personnel and immigration officers. Our passports were stamped with a quetzal stamp: a miniscule red and green tropical bird with remarkably long tail feathers. It's also Guatemala's national bird.

We grabbed our overstuffed luggage and waved off the locals, who wanted us to let them cart our bags for money. We refused, more than likely, not out of a sense of miserliness so much as fear: our bags were our last connection to the States and we weren't going to let them out of our sight. So instead the six of us dragged our luggage through customs and out into the colliseum. The airport was as cavernous as it was empty -- so unlike the bustling, busy American airports we were used to. It was somewhat disturbing.

Even more disturbing was that no one was there waiting for us. We were expecting to see a missionary dressed like ouselves standing with a smile and a sign, perhaps; but we were alone except for a few stragglers from our flight, scurrying off to destinations unknown. We glanced at one another, shrugged, and headed for the front doors.

If we were disappointed by the lack of people in the airport, we didn't have to wait long. When we reached the front doors we were greeted by a throng of screaming, angry taxi drivers and "baggage handlers" (like those inside the airport only more vocal). This mob was held back about fifteen feet from the facade by a large yellow riot barricade, over which they beckoned toward us calling for our luggage or offering to take us in their cabs. We didn't want to leave relative safety of the terminal ... until we noticed among the flailing arms a very welcomed sight: a tall gray-haired American wearing a suit and missionary tag, accompanied by a lanky young missionary. It was our mission president, President Lunt, and one of his Assistants.

I had seen President Lunt in pictures, of course. He had been mission president of the Guatemala Quetzaltenango mission for one year, so his picture was on the wall of the Mission Training Center (MTC), where I had spent two months getting a crash course in Spanish ... and learning how to proselytize. Of course the picture hadn't done President Lunt justice. He was about 6'6", with a footballer's shoulder span and an impressive gut. His bulbous nose narrowed to a pinched bridge, where his owlish glasses rested over glaring eyes. The entire time I knew President Lunt, his default expression was a glower. He could be very humorous and warm, but his large size and perpetual frown made him quite intimidating when he wanted to be.

To us -- seeing his towering form above those locals -- the President was our savior. He waded easily among the short Guatemalans like a giant among Liliputians, and then reached out and took our bags in his large callused hands. One by one he plucked them from us and gave them to the tall missionary, Elder Grant, who tossed them in the back of a dark blue Montero Sport. The professional baggage handlers, of course, glared at President Lunt for not hiring them, but he thanked them curtly in Spanish, saying, "No, gracias."

Behind the Montero was a silver mini-van, and in it we could see Elder Grant's companion gripping the steering wheel like a racecar driver awaiting a green light. President Lunt moved like a man with a purpose as he took our luggage and ordered us over the yellow barricade. We jumped over quickly and then split up, some of us heading toward the mini-van and others climbing into the Montero with President Lunt. Of course, all of us wanted to ride in the same car as President Lunt: he was going to be our boss for two years, so it would be good to feel him out. But we didn't have much time to haggle, and I didn't want to be a kiss-up, so I voluntarily climbed aboard the mini-van. We got situated quickly and then sped off into the Guatemalan night.