A Volcanic Memory

My friend Kristin who is studying in a nearby town came to visit this weekend, and I had these great ideas about stuff to do. There’s this cross on a hill that you can hike up to, and it overlooks the city. (The cross is a prominent landmark. When you are in the city, the cross is due north, and a volcano is due south, so you always know what direction you are headed. This is pictured in my banner.) Well, we learned that morning that the trail is too dangerous for two ladies to go alone. My plan B was a bike tour through nearby quaint towns. We went in circles all over the city searching for the tourist agencies that do bike tours (when asked, people just point you somewhere, remember?). We finally found a perfect place, but they were full for the day. Then we decided to hike a volcano. Yep. We walked into a tourist agency at 1:35 and asked if we could still go to Volcano Pacaya. The tour was supposed to leave at 1:30. The friendly lady made a call and said we could go if we were ready right then. A few minutes later, we were in a shuttle with a family from Israel. (It still amazes me to run into people from places like Israel here. Why would they come here of all places? Then again, I’m here too.)

After the hour-long rainy bus ride through a level of poverty most tourists would probably prefer to deny exists in the world, we were left in the very capable hands of our guide Carlos. Kristin and I had the best time hiking with him and practicing our Spanish. Half way up the trail, we learned that this volcano we were hiking is the one that erupted two months ago and threw so much black rock in the air, the airport in Guatemala City was closed! I’m actually kinda glad I didn’t know that when we started. I’m glad I didn’t know that the reason people hike this volcano out of the 36 in Guatemala is that it is one of three active ones. Yep, glad I didn’t know that. That’s what happens when you decide to hike a volcano at the last minute.

The land had clearly been destroyed. Our guide pointed out the green shoots on the barren sticks all around us and spoke of hope. Something in me was stirred deeply when I heard him mention “esperanza” (hope). We were trekking through a desolate place, and the promise of hope was powerful.

We walked through thick fog, and it felt like we were walking through the clouds. When we finally reached the end of our trail, we had an excellent view of the crater that had recently erupted (and had a little eruption while we were there). The next morning, I had fun trying to explain to my Spanish teacher that it looked like God had taken a bite out of it.

But my favorite Volcano Pacaya moment was on the way down. We were having a little language learning exchange. Carlos was helping us with Spanish, and we were teaching him English. Kristin asked him whether people often take black rocks from the volcano as a memory. He said “memory?” We said yes, like a souvenir. Again, he repeated “memory” with an accent on the last syllable. I noticed that he seemed to take a special interest in that word. It seemed odd. Then it hit me! “Me mori” in Spanish means “I died!” “Me mori” is definitely NOT something you want when you hike an active volcano!!!