An Expectation and Its Derivation

When times are less than ideal, a good friend of mine directs my attention to my expectations...both those I set for myself and those I anticipated of others.  Her question is simple: "Were your expectations reasonable?" Most times the answer is no.  Therein lies my problem, and the very obvious solution.  I thought of this exchange on Monday as my plane was taxiing into a gate at Guatemala City airport.  Only moments before, surrounded by a dozen smiling Guatemalans, I watched out my window as we descended into Guatemala City.  I can't recall exactly what I was thinking, but I'm certain it was nowhere near what was crossing the minds of the other passengers, because, as the wheels touched the ground, women, men and children, alike, erupted into applause, laughter and praise for God and the pilot.

As I packed up my bags in preparation of deplaning, I contemplated the Guatemalan enthusiasm, and found myself questioning expectations.  While I expected the pilot to land our plane safely, the Guatemalans expected the plane to fly.  To them, whether or not the plane lands safely isn’t something any passenger is entitled to, it is something they're all afforded by the grace of the pilot’s skill and God’s protection.  This small moment explains a lot about the orientation of Guatemalan culture.

I deplaned in Guatemala City, and tried to adjust to my new surroundings.  Just as Marlo promised, I boarded a bus that had been waiting for me just outside the airport exit.  When driving through Guatemala City, it’s easy to forget that it is one of the most dangerous cities in the world.  To me, it looked just like an antique version of Miami, and there's nothing that really screams "danger."  I suppose that's part of its problem.  We arrived at the bus terminal, where I boarded a larger bus and began the Guatemalan half of my quest towards Xela.

A typical drive from Guatemala City to Xela takes about 4 hours.  After running into construction (the workers were chipping away at the old roads by HAND), driving through roads that were still submerged from the rains of Agatha, and a quick stop for dinner at a Guatemalan version of a drive through (which requires you to park, enter the restaurant, and order inside), we arrived in Xela approximately 6 hours later.  Marlo, my cute little Guatemalan “country coordinator” was patiently waiting for me at the terminal and offered me a big hug and kiss on the cheek as I de-boarded.  As we drove through the streets of Xela, fireworks exploded over my head.  Marlo said Guatemalans take every chance they can to celebrate, especially if they can use fireworks.  While the eccentric use of fireworks seems foreign to most Americans, fireworks on my first night in Xela seemed rather perfect.  It was, after all, the beginning of something that would no doubt change my life.