Day 2 May 24
The Parish Center


The arrival of our shiny red car from the capital drew many surprised and a few puzzled stares from the townsfolk. There were hardly any passenger vehicles in Sacapulas, if one does not count the occasional army jeep or truck that rumbled by.

Apparently, there were no hotels in town. We found lodging at the local parish center where Teresa (the young girl in the picture), Alvaro's former classmate, now worked as a social worker. Alvaro was mainly responsible for placing Sacapulas in our itinerary. While his avowed purpose was to chat about old times with Teresa, all of us suspected that something deeper-- and sweeter --lay at the heart of the matter.

We are grateful for the warm hospitality lavished on us by the padre, Teresa and one of the sisters. On our first night, they treated us to a home-cooked chicken dinner, considered quite a luxury in these parts.

For a few years, the Guatemalan military had taken control of the parish center and used it as a barracks and, according to many accounts, an "interrogation center" where locals suspected of guerilla activities were tortured or executed. Recently, it had passed back to the right hands. It was now being restored to its former appearance. Rumors of "disappeared" people buried in the backyard (shown above) persist, and I could tell that our hosts were still uneasy about staying.

But there was a stronger reason for anxiety. Exchanges of gunfire between guerillas and the military could still be heard from the nearby hills. The civil war was far from over. We felt a deep admiration for frail-looking Teresa who had left a comfortable life in the capital to help, at great personal risk, the needy of this remote indígena town.


After dropping off our baggage in our rooms, Madjid and I decided to take a walk around town while our Guatemalan friends held conversation in rapid Spanish.

The roads of Sacapulas were little better than the rugged "highway" by which we had arrived. Their roughness and scarcity of motor vehicle traffic were not quite as remarkable as their level of human activity. Grimy, barefoot children frolicked contentedly on the dust and gravel. Men sporting colorfully banded straw hats and a hybrid indigenous-western dress rode the occasional antique bicycles or simply sauntered by. Attired in huipiles and startling pom-pom-like headbands, Maya women exchanged gossip while running their daily errands.

We stopped at a small store for no particular reason. Inside, it was dim and quiet. We were the only customers at this time. A single gas lamp hung from the low ceiling. (Even where there is electricity, power outages occur frequently in the highlands.) A meager quantity of foodstuffs and basic household goods lay on trays behind the wooden counter. There were two decrepit tables and a few chairs for the customers. The spare interior of the store looked very old and a little depressing.

We bought some refreshments from the owner, a swarthy, bearded middle-aged man who soon started a conversation with us. He was one of the few ladinos living in Sacapulas. Born in this town, he had left as a young man, and now had returned to earn an easy living as a storekeeper. I found it hard to follow his Spanish, which he spoke fast and sprinkled liberally with slang and localisms. But I managed to ask him what his previous occupation was.

"I used to be a sergeant in the army," he replied indifferently.

At first, I was shocked that I could well be talking to someone who had murdered innocent civilians. Be that as it may, our new acquaintance was friendly and almost pleasant. He even seemed concerned about our safety.

"Don't be fooled, the town might look safe, but the fighting's there alright." He pointed to the surrounding countryside. "Last week, I was awakened before sunrise by loud gunfire. It doesn't happen everyday, but it's there. Be careful, amigos."








We strolled along the banks of the Chixoy river, a mere trickle compared to the mighty Usumacinta into which it flows. Sacapulas is located in a dry region of the country: the hills in the background are the barest we saw in Guatemala.

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Into Guatemala 1989. © 1999 J. L. Pe