The small river that flows past Antonio and Mari'a's house has become a raging torrent, flooding several feet over the plank bridge it normally passes so timidly beneath, and pouring into our wellies as we gingerly attempt to cross. To reach the larger Tzaconeja river we skirt round in a big arc and finally come out on the banks of a great brown monster. The rains have come hard this year.
Down in the milpa at least half of the maizeplants have fallen. Strong winds began the onslaught and then the floods swept over the few stalks that still stood. Many families will go hungry this year and the community is appealing for help. The local photographer (trained by the IMG to do human rights work) and I have walked down to record the damage. It brings tears to our eyes to see so much hard work - and so much potential food - be destroyed by a few days' freak weather. At one point the river goes round a bend and we can see where at least three families have lost everything, a huge bald spot having appeared where all that is visible are the yellow stalks of the already rotting maize.
The main rope bridge - built in fact with sturdy electricity cables and concrete pillars - has been torn completely away. The remains lie half-submerged beneath the swirling current. A costly new bridge will have to be built as soon as the floods abate.
Jorge and myself walk slowly home, overwhelmed by despondency and a sickening sense of the uselessness of human endeavour. As we trudge into sight of the village, the rain closes in on us again, enveloping us in a grey shroud of sadness.
The struggle continues.
ENDS