Donate Now Michael Stoll, for the Pulitzer Center
Flores, Guatemala
A bottle of clear water was set before me. Drops ofcondensation from the recent refrigeration clinging to its sides. I just had to twist off the cap and drink. And I did, and it was good and tasted just like water should taste, like nothing but refreshing just the same. Of course it should be refreshing, we were 50 miles deep in the jungle earlier this week in the mud and heat and rain and…well you can read the posts we have on that…
That bottle, carelessly placed before me by an overworked bartender/waiter, tasted like water and it was cold—it was what I am used to but it felt strange this time. It didn't have that plastic taste weakly masked with Gatorade or crystallized coffee or powdered milk, it wasn't consumed at the temperature of the jungle. My first trek into the rainforest had been replete with analysis of processes, comparisons of livelihoods and shear toil against many physical obstacles, and here I was contemplating the water in front of me. After a day of sitting in on interview after interview the water was something that needed no immediate translating ...