Guatemala, Part 3

And suddenly we were back in Guatemala City again, at the Holiday Inn, getting ready to sleep and then to leave the next day.
They had 6:00 or 7:00 AM flights, so I was not worried about waking up late. We got up early, and went to eat our free continental breakfast. They left me there, and I found a taxi about 8:00, which I figured should get me there in plenty of time for the 9:30 bus to Tapachula. I bargained a hard price because I knew I had just a little money left in my account. I had figured it out like this: 200 pesos for the bus ride to Tapachula, 630 to Mexico City, 72 back to San Felipe, and maybe like 100 for food. Maybe there was a little more, but then again maybe there was a little less. So I better just not spend anything, just to make sure.
I arrive to the bus station, pay the driver, and walk inside. There is hardly anyone. I walk up to the counter.
“One ticket for the 9:30 bus please.”
“You mean the 3:30 bus?”
“What? Uh, no, the 9:30.”
“Yeah, the 9:30 leaves from Tapachula and arrives here, to then turn around and leave at 3:30 from here.”
“Doesn’t that sign say… wait…” I look up. What I had thought meant “leave for Tapachula at 9:30” actually meant “leaves from Tapachula for here at 9:30.” That was a terrible way of putting it, but I was in trouble either way.
“Wait, isn’t there a morning bus?”
“Yeah, it left 15 minutes again. The next one is at 3:30. Do you want to buy a ticket?”
“Uh, is that the only other one?”
“Yes.”
“Um, yeah, give me a ticket for that one.”
I get the ticket and go sit down. I’ve got to work this out in my mind. OK. So I leave here at 3:30, I arrive at the border at 8:00, hopefully get across even though I don’t have a stamp, the hour changes forward, and we arrive at Tapachula at 9:30, local time, at earliest. I suddenly felt really sick. I suddenly felt really alone. I had no money. I had no friends. I had no one to help me out. I felt like calling mom and dad, the prodigal son arriving home with his tail between his legs, but realized I couldn’t call them even if I wanted to. And what would I say? Come pick me up? Send money? To where? How? I couldn’t call Kike or Adalid or anyone, no one could help me, no one could come get me, I was simply all alone, by myself, in a place so scary and with so many people that seemed to want to hurt me. Why had God suddenly abandoned me? Why did it seem like he just dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, without anyone to help me? Why didn’t he open my eyes to read that bus sign correctly? Why didn’t he make me leave earlier for the bus station? Why did he make the guy at the bus station a complete jerk? Why did he put the bus station in the middle of the worst ghetto I had ever seen?
I wanted to cry. I wanted to fall apart. I did fall apart. I walked into the little deli and fell apart mentally and spiritually. I tried not to cry, no matter how much I wanted to. I felt like a little kid who had lost his mom and suddenly felt like panicking and screaming out. It felt terrible. I probably whispered some upset words. I definitely thought some angry thoughts. I bought a yoghurt, looking for the brand my friend from the bus sold, not finding it. I put my head on the glass table and tried to sleep. Tried to sleep so I wouldn’t have to think about how mad and alone I was. Tried to sleep to make the seven hours I had to wait there go a little faster. It never came. I had already finished my Vonnegut book, wasn’t about to pick up the C.S. Lewis book, had nothing to write but things I knew I would later regret, and even when I tried to found I had lost my pen. I wasn’t leaving that place to walk out into the God-forsaken world.
I was uncomfortable. I felt something pulling at me, but I shrugged it down. Another realization dawned on me, and that was that the last bus from Tapachula left at 9:00, and we wouldn’t be arriving until 9:30 at the earliest. And since the bus station closed, and I didn’t have money for a hotel, I would be sleeping on the street in a Mexican border town.
I pulled the book out of my pack and sighed. Even if I was going to hate what I read, it wasn’t as bad as thinking about how screwed I was.
I opened it. I opened it and started to read, picking up at a part near the end. A sentence into the chapter, the room started to mist over and dropped away, while a soft rush ran over my ears and all sound melted into silence. The booming voice of the narrator beat upon my heart as I feared it might. And this is what I read, in my own words:
How quickly your faith disappears when you are in situations that you believe are impossible to get out of. Sure, you believe God can save you when He holds a plane for you five extra minutes, but when you are truly in a state that you need Him, how quickly are you to forget how big He is. How is a sports player supposed to improve in his sport? Simply play in games? No, you practice and condition so you are ready when the big game comes, you are in shape and ready to play. You hardly need to think about it because your body has been trained to react to whatever position you are in. You cannot hope to grow in faith, or in patience, unless you are put in situations that you need to use that. Yes, you can practice patience sometimes in your house with your siblings or your parents, but God needs to put you through strong conditioning sometimes. How can you grow in your faith unless you trust that God will bring the good, but also deliver you through the bad.
I stopped and prayed for forgiveness. I already broke down so this was simply God picking me up and putting me on my feet. Carrying me. That’s what He was doing, not picking me up. He was carrying me.
I continued:
It is like you are a house. You have a leaky sink and you are so sick of it so you call God up and ask Him to come fix your house. So he comes over and fixes your sink and then without you asking fixes your dishwasher and fridge. You are happy that He is fixing things you didn’t ask for, but suddenly He is remodeling your basement and adding a courtyard and running up pillars. You are suddenly mad that He is changing all this that you didn’t want changed. You wanted Him just to fix your kitchen, but He isn’t just fixing your house; he is completely rebuilding it because He is going to come live inside.
Like a flowing metaphor the fear and anger and loneliness and abandonment left. I put down the book, got up, grabbed my bag, and left the bus station. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die. If God is going to protect me, He is going to protect me. I walked out, turned left, and started walking. I didn’t look behind me, I didn’t look to the sides. I saw police in front, which normally would have made me just as scared as if I saw criminals, but I walked on past, down the next block. I made it another block, and one more, and suddenly saw a Burger King. And just past the Burger King was a main street with government buildings and nice statues and a perfectly fine area. I bought a pen and went to Burger King and sat down and wrote. This is what I wrote:
Bus Missed
15 minutes late, six hours early
Connection bus sure to be missed
Status in country: illegal
Hardly enough money to make it home
How can one have more faith? How can you be braver?
How can you be more sure of God, without more difficult situations?
That is why I am here alone
Danger of thieves, kidnappers, homeless, drug addicts, corrupt police, corrupt army, darkness of night, of the unknown and strange
Only God is for me
Only He can save me from the circling vultures of the devil.
Will I believe or will I run and hide?
Will I allow this to bring me closer to God, or run away?
Will I face Ninevah or run to the docks?
More importantly: if this gets tougher, and I persist,
And that means that God will take me a step further
And make things even more difficult, is that just too much?
Options: give up now and go live in the country, a quiet peaceful life until it ends
OR
Continue on through the terrifying jungle, fighting wild beasts and disease,
to find the treasure
Give up now, go home and get fat
OR
Train harder
Run faster
Tired and weary
Falling and hurting
Desperate and alone

But not too alone.

I looked at the clock. I still had two hours. I would go back with 20 minutes to go, because if I’m missing this bus, well I’m missing this bus. It’s not in my hands anymore. I read the rest of the book and thought about it. With twenty minutes to go, I got up and left. I saw a cash machine and got 200 Quetzales out. I don’t know why I did, but I just figured I would need it. I did it out of complete instinct of my gut feeling. Or soul tugging. I walked back without incident to the bus station and waited.
The bus borded about 20 minutes late, but if we were getting there late, we were getting there late.
We left heading North, approaching the border just about 8:30. I watched for churches as we went, hoping they were within walking distance and hoping I could take sanctuary in them if I was denied access into Mexico.
We get to the border and run the same drill: fill out the paper work, 20 minutes to get across, if you have to take more time they are leaving you, sorry, and good luck. If I’m crossing, I’m crossing.
I get off the bus first, and suddenly realize what had happened: there were two spots where I was supposed to have checked in. There is one crossing for Guatemala, a bridge which must just be anyman’s land, and then Mexico. You have to “check out” of one country and “check in” to the other. The Guatemala side, as I said, is just a little booth with maybe three windows in it that you just look through and hand them your stuff, but the Mexico side is a big gate with guards and stuff.
It is at this moment that I realize I probably should just walk across, not stopping at the Guatemala side, and just walk to the Mexico side. But you know what? If I’m going to get deported, I’m going to get deported.
“Where is your stamp, son?”
“What?”
“Your stamp, I can’t find it.”
“Uhh, I don’t know.” An honest answer.
“How is it possible that you got into the country without getting a stamp?”
“I was going to ask you guys that same question.”
They look at each other and shrug, as if this has never happened before and they don’t know what to do about it.
“Come on inside.”
Uh oh. I go inside the little hut. Maybe it has four rooms inside, it looks like. I enter behind the guard who told me to come inside. He pulls out a chair and tells me to sit down. I can see everyone from the bus there on the other side of the window. They are talking about me – it’s not hard to see.
“Uh, that’s ok. We just had a six hour bus ride and I’m kind of tired of…”
“Sit down.”
“OK.”
Another guy comes in.
“How did you get into our country illegally?”
I wanted to laugh. “Well, it’s not like anyone or anything is here to explain all this. And it’s not like security is very tight.” Maybe I shouldn’t be sarcastic. “I mean, it was kind of just a big misunderstanding. This is all very confusing.”
“You are here illegally in our country.” I find this to be mildly funny and hysterically ironic. I want to say “I’m probably the first one to do that!” but I refrain myself.
“That is a felony.”
“This has to be a spirit of the law type of thing because you can see there was a lot of confusion and this is an honest mistake. I mean, I didn’t cost anyone anything, I haven’t been working. I have just been here spending my money in your country.”
He is not going to be reasonable. I need to bail and bail fast. He starts lecturing me.
“This is like if you are in your house and you leave the door open. That doesn’t mean I can just come in and hang out. I need to ask permission.”
“Yes, yes, of course you are correct.” I am really thinking about calling his bluff.
“Ok, what we are going to do now it send you back to Guatemala City and then we are going to deport you to the US.”
Now, I knew this wasn’t true. I mean, I knew that not only would it cost him a lot of time and trouble to do that, he would take a lot of flak for wasting government funds to deport me. There was no way that he would follow through. I thought about calling his bluff here too. But then three thoughts occurred to me: maybe he might do it just to spite me, maybe they won’t let me back into Mexico if they do deport me for real, or if not, he probably will just detain me long enough for the bus to leave and then send me across, screwing me royally. And that time much be running low as we speak. None of these are good options, so I go for the pity route. I breathe heavily and look sad.
“Look, this is just an honest mistake. This is just so stupid. I mean, I never have done anything to hurt anyone and I would hate to cause any problems for you guys.” I know everyone outside can hear me and see what’s going on. I figure they aren’t going to hurt me here or anything, so I might as well look as if I am going to waste their time as much as I can, rambling on about nothing.
He takes the bait and quickly cuts me off.
“Or you can pay the fine.”
“How much is the fine? I don’t have that much in cash…” thinking of the 200 Quetzales.
“200 Quetzales.”
Whoop whoop whoop! I pull out the only 200 I have, and put it in his hand. He puts the “fine” in his pocket, grabs the stamp and stamps my passport. I smile and thank him, and walk swiftly out of the booth and across to the Mexico side. I see that the bus is still being searched, so I got some time left before I can get back on. I walk across the bridge crossing the invisible water below, happy and free, go into the Mexico booth, which is much nicer (a real government building, instead of quite literally a small mobile home, give them my passport, ask for 90 days on my new Mexico visa, pay it and walk to customs. I hit the button for green or red, which gives me green, and I leap for joy and smile at the guards. Not like it would have taken long to search my bag, but I have a streak going: out of the three mission trips and now five more times I have crossed the border coming into the country, I have always hit green. That is a streak I’d like to keep rolling.
As I wait for the bus, a very nice couple comes over and asks me what the problem was. As I start to tell the story of coming down here and crossing the border, people start to gather around. I have a great chance to tell everyone all about me adventure, as it is so far. They are all pretty happy for me, seeing how they don’t know me.
We’re back on the bus in a jiffy.
We get rolling again, and are just about to arrive in Tapachula at 9:45.
“If I’m sleeping on the street, I will be protected.”
…
“If I’ve ended up here, why should I doubt now?
…
“We just radioed up, and the Mexico City bus arrived late. There are still five seats left, if anyone wants them. Does anyone? We need to call in and tell them to wait.”
I close my eyes and decide I will give up my spot to someone else, whoever else needs it. I wait and open them again to see the nice couple and another girl behind me with their hands up. I slowly put my hand up, as I hear many people are talking about me, the ones who heard my story, and are genuinely happy for me. And people say God is boring.
I’m off the bus and onto the next one, helping the couple with their baggage, and hoping my debit card goes through. It does, and I’m off to Mexico City. It is the long bus – 18 hours – but I’m just happy to be there. It is extended by constant border patrol boarding our bus and pulling people off. I hate to say the darker colored people were yanked off, but that’s pretty much what happened. They would make them say certain words, and for whatever reason would decide to haul them off the bus or let them stay. There was even an African looking guy. He must have quite a tale to tell. He got pulled too. And didn’t get back on.
I was really scared, but they didn’t check my ID even once.
(All of this would make sense later).
I check my cash account when I get back to San Felipe – four dollars is all I have left.

Guatemala, Part 2

The kid cuts in. “I went to Guatemala City once. Go to Tapachula, and there is a nice bus, ‘Golgos,’ that is a straight shot right from Tapachula to Guatemala City. Six hours in the bus, seven because of the time change. They will totally take care of you.”
I think about it, and decide to take the locals’ advice. I turn to ask the driver how much I would need to continue to Tapachula. As I look over I see him standing and pound on the table. “It’s four o’clock,” he shouts, almost like he is crying, “they just came and said they won’t open the road until five. They are never going to open the road! Bring me a beer!” As he sits down everyone is laughing and he quickly receives his beer. I quietly tell him I would like to go to Tapachula instead, to which he smiles and says it was an hour out of the way to Ciudad Cuautemoc anyway, so I am really going to help everyone. “But it’s not like it will matter since they are never going to open the road!” He spends the next half hour getting absolutely trashed. Another Cristobal Colon bus shows up, the one that left four hours after us.
And then, just like that, it ends. Everyone dashes for their car. The pasta man runs back to his truck on the other side of the road block, the tienda girls clean up our scattered soda and beer bottles, we all get back into the bus, except for the bus driver who is now, perfectly on time, horrendously drunk. Luckily, the extra bus driver from the second bus volunteers to drive our bus, and we are on our way. In a half hour I see the turn off for the town I would have gone to, and give a quick thanks that I am not going there.
Scenery, trees, jungle, blah dee blah and we arrive at about 10:30. Tapachula. I immediately purchase a bus ticket for the 6:00 AM bus to Guatemala City, the first available one. It’s quite hot and humid and late. I am tired. I walk down the street and see three hotels immediately. Their sleepy desk clerks all tell me they are full. I go back to the bus station, relegated to sleeping on one of the hard benches. It’s closed. Lights off, doors locked. The town is relatively alive, outside of the bus station and hotels, so I am not really nervous to be out. From where I am I can see a grocery store, a sign for a McDonalds, a pharmacy, and plenty of lights. The sweaty, large doored restaurants remind me a lot of Taiwan restaurants. It actually feels pretty nice. I finally find a hotel for 120 pesos that provides me with a bed and a fan. Nice. Now just to find food and possible internet to inform Eddie that I will not be arriving on time. I find the food just down the street which is fajitas with especially delicious tortillas, hot and thick, just out of the pan.
I finish that and head down the street. I find an internet place that has a couple inside but door closed. I look in and folds my hands like I’m begging and look sad. They smile and open the door. “We weren’t going to go to bed anyway” they say. “But don’t take too long.”
I write Eddie that I will be there at 2:00 the following day, and go back to my hotel. The guy is still at the desk. It’s like 11:45 and I don’t think they will get any more customers this night. I suddenly remember that I have no alarm clock and need to be to my bus by 5:50.
“Hey” I ask him. He smiles. “Can I borrow an alarm clock or something?”
“Oh, I can wake you up.”
“With a… wake up… knock?”
“Yes. I just sleep here on the sofa in the lobby with my clock. I’ll wake you up.”
The lobby is really just like a reception area; it looks like any sort of office space. The hotel itself looks a lot like a homeless shelter I once stayed in during a mission trip to San Francisco, except that almost everything is outside, there are tin roofs on the rooms, and there is a little restaurant you have to cross through to get to the back where the rooms even are. I open my door to the fan going and the big bed. I search the room for bugs, in the sheets under the bed, above in the cracks of the tin roof, and in holes and cracks in the room, but it appears to be pretty clean. With that, I pray quick that the man wakes me up in time, and fall asleep almost immediately.
The knock came just at 5:30 like I asked, and I rallied myself together and pulled my way out of the room. I thanked the man, who was really happy for it being five thirty AM. I get out, walk drearily down the street to the bus station, wait a few minutes, try to buy a water that they are charging 15 pesos for, forget it, and get on my bus. There are probably only five people on. Two girls about 18 years old. An older lady. A younger guy, maybe 27 or 28. Maybe a couple other random people. Maybe there are 12 people. There is another white guy across the isle from me. He must be about 45 and is balding. He is flittery, if that’s a word, like someone constantly trying to get comfortable but never getting there. He looks at me and I smile.
“Canadian?” He asks in a gruff voice.
“Umm, no. I assume you are. What part are you from.”
“Vancouver, BC”
“I’m from Bellingham. I’m right there” I say with a certain enthusiasm. He couldn’t care less. It appears that I am not Canadian, and we could live five minutes apart for all he cares, he isn’t giving a crotch’s rash about it.
A guy gets on the bus and looks at his ticket. A bigger man, and somehow looks really nice. Like a big mariachi singer, the guy who plays the huge guitar that sets on his equally huge belly. He sits next to me which is obnoxious because there is hardly anyone at all on the bus and a million seats, but there he is nonetheless. He smiles and I smile back, lean my head against the window and am out. At some point I am given a sandwich on my lap, which I awake to which ends up being like twenty minutes before the border. The bus driver pulls off the road and gets out, goes in a house, and comes back and we are off again. Already a strange ride. We pass by grove after grove of trees that are all leaning forward in the same direction, as if the wind has always blown in the same direction and is slowly pushing them over. Some lady who works for the bus hands out the customs form and tells us that once we get there, we have a half hour to cross the border, that if you can’t make it across in that time they will have to leave you, that 150 pesos is worth like 100 “Quetzales,” the Guatemalan money, and that we can change it at the border, but to be careful crossing. The Canadian apparently knows no Spanish, and looks to me. I kind of give a barebones explanation, not wanting to be mean but feeling that if this man is going to survive on his own here, I better not give him a false sense of safety or let him think it’s going to be hunky dorry the whole time. I figure I am doing him a favor by seeing if he can swim or is going to sink right away. I have no idea how he got this far, got on this bus, or where he is going. When I did find out, it was too late anyway.
Anyway, we get to the border and we all get off. I get to the front of the line quick, even though there is hardly anyone. I hand them my passport.
“Where is your visa? The piece of paper you got when you came into Mexico?”
Uh oh. It’s at home in San Fe. “Uh, it’s at home in San Felipe.”
“Hmm. Well, I can’t give you a stamp then.”
“Uh, ok… wait… uh, does that mean anything? I mean, can I get back across without any problems?”
“Hope so.” They all laugh.
“Yeah. I hope so too.” Jerks.
I walk across, a little confused. It’s maybe a quarter kilometer, up a ramp, past a run down Western Union that is closed and looks like it always has been. I am hounded by money changers. I finally find one that will change me my only 150 pesos for a hundred Quetzal. There is a bridge crossing a river, and then the bus. The Mexico side has a pretty tight border, but the Guatemala side has hardly a guard. I go to the bus and find that there is a little room where the bus people are waiting.
“Go ok?” one asks.
“Uh, I guess so. I didn’t get a stamp. Does that matter?”
“Did they tell you it was ok?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, you’re across aren’t you? I suppose it’s ok.”
Whatever. I look around outside and see everyone coming except for the Canadian. My seat buddy gets there and asks if I got across alright. I explain the confusion and he just shrugs and talks about how it seems to be a little more easy going than the US-Mexico border. But I still have the paperwork unstamped and untouched in my hand, the same goes for my passport. Finally the Canadian guy shows up, looking more than flustered.
“You ok?”
“I think they fucked me.” (his words)
“Beg your pardon?”
“I gave them 200 US dollars and they gave me 200 of… their money.”
Man, he certainly did get…screwed. I brought one of the bus ladies over and explained. She took the money from him and walked back over the bridge. Not real tight security. She came back with about 1200 Quetzales more, for which he was quite grateful, but still flustered. To get his mind off of the money incident, he pulled out a map and looked at it. He showed it to me. It was like a map of the main highways and like 12 major roads. As much detail as a globe would give you. He pointed out our highway, which lead from Guatemala City to our point in “Talisman.” There were maybe three roads on his map that headed off from our highway to the western coast.
“I’m going here, to the coast. I take this highway to ‘Rio Bravo’ and then head to the coast.” I thought it odd, that being the name that Mexicans call what we call the Rio Grande. It looks like it’s another two hours to the turn off, and should be an obvious highway or major road. I was going to look out for it for him. “I am a fisherman. I am always comfortable with fishermen. I am going to stay there for like three weeks.” I raise my eyebrows in skepticism and smile.
“Cool.”
We get back on the boat and sail off. The man who was sitting next to me, sits next to me again. He starts chatting, about funny things that have happened, asking me where I am going and where I have come from. Some really fun questions, nothing about if I like their country or nothing about his uncles who are in the US, non of the normal questions I get. We know some of the same places: Angangeo, El Oro, Tlalpuhajua, whatever. He has a great story about hanging out in Tijuana drinking beers. Apparently he and a friend got to drinking on the beach in Tijuana, and started walking down the beach. They walked for like four hours straight, and ended up in San Diego. They got scared because they had heard bad stories about illegal immigrants being treated bad by the police and all, but at the same time they were way too tired to walk back down the beach. I think they slept on the beach that night or something and then walked back. They thought about turning themselves and getting a free ride back home, but were nervous so they ended up just walking back. All the Mexicans who are trying to cross illegally, paying lots of money for “coyotes” and they just started walking and arrived on their own.
As the time went by, I found out that he sells dairy products, has a big family, is on the road a lot, other random stuff, but mostly a lot about working hard and good morals and other things that I was impressed with. I also was impressed with the number of protestant churches I saw as we drove down. About an hour and a half I see a sign near a little creek that says “Rio Bravo” and chuckle at what the Canadian said to me earlier. I see a little tienda that has a sign advertising “Gallo” beer, which was just a big funny looking rooster. Just after I saw some green starts and blue hands, which probably represented political parties (they did). The bus was stopping. I was trying to figure out what the “PNL” could stand for when I see the Canadian with his large backpack gets off the bus. “Oh crap,” I think. My neighbor is looking at me and says “what is he doing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” The Canuck nods to the bus driver, and we start to pull away. “Ohhhh noooo…” It all went in slow motion, me completely frozen to stop anything. He must have seen that sign back there and thinks we are in the town of Rio Bravo, even though there is nothing around here. The last thing I see as I crane my neck to watch him is him asking something to two guys eating (the only people I can see) and them motioning towards the direction we are going, making big arm motions like it’s a long way away. But we are gone. I think about saying something, but I don’t think the bus driver is going to stop to pick the guy up again. Man, that guy is going to have some adventure. It doesn’t help that the Guatemalan newspaper he was “reading” had an article about a group of German tourists who had been assaulted and robbed. I take little joy in this situation, even though it would seem like he deserved it, but I honestly felt bad for the guy.
I got back talking to my dairy friend, who got us some yogurts and granola, which were tasty, and suddenly we were arriving in Guatemala City.
Obviously local public buses were pouring out smoke and diesel fumes, the names of their destinations written in soap on the front windshield, often nearly covering a good portion of the right side. They read locations and destinations that I pictured in my mind, inventing poor communities, bright colors, churches and cement homes, farmers, small tiendas and taco shops along the way, or else rough urban neighborhoods, lost, forgotten and pushed down in the large sprawl and bustle.
Guatemala City is way more Americanized that Mexico. The bright rotating signs of Chuck-E-Cheese, Dominoes Pizza, Chevron, Shell, TGI Friday’s, and Wal-Mart line the streets of broken pavement and broken backs. We rolled into the downtown-ish area, passing government buildings and statues of unknown heroes.
The bus station was in a rough area, and we all knew it, getting down off the bus. I said goodbye to my friend, everyone with their game faces on. I walked to the exit, and looked out. There was a burned out building with people sleeping inside. There was two people with matted, filthy hair sleeping on cardboard just out of the reaches of the bus station property. A Shell gas station was across the street, the only thing that reminded me of civilization as I knew it. Mentally crazy people walked by, violently, and usually shirtlessly.
I remembered that I should probably check the time when the bus leaves, so I can catch it on my way home, without having to return here. It reads “Tapachula” and below it “9:30, 2:30.”
The inside of the bus station was free of crazy people, but not that nice. There was just the long counter in front, maybe 50 uncomfortable looking chairs between that and the front windows and doors. Facing the counter, there was a little deli or something to the right, selling pop and sandwiches, apparently, which was walled in with glass panels to make it a separate entity from the bus station. The same was true on the left side, but was taken up by a tourist agent, a nice looking older lady.
Sweet. I see a kid from the bus who is talking to the tourist agent. I wander over that way, hoping to get directions to the “Holiday Inn” where Eddie had told me to arrive the previous night. The lady smiled as I waited at the door. I heard the kid say that he was trying to find a hotel, she recommended a hotel, and I piped in and said that I was heading that way and that we could share a taxi if he wanted. Which of course I just prayed he would say yes, as I was already terrified of the area we were in. A friend would be welcome company.
A funny thing happened then: the son or maybe grandson of the lady, who was only like five years old, ran up and tried to get into her lap and whispered something into her ear. She turned to him and said “Hablo con usted cuando termino con estes muchachos” which translates to “I’ll talk to you when I finish with these boys.” It was funny because she used the formal version of “you” as if her child were her boss or some person in high position. Maybe it’s not so funny, but it was at the time. It was something to note, obviously a slightly different way of speaking than I was used to. Which probably was to be expected, since Guatemala resembled Mexico, but was unique and different in its own ways. Right.
We go get a taxi. We haggle a price and put the kids luggage in the back, and are about to leave when a cute girl runs up and asks us if she can split it with us. We look at each other and nod, and she gets in. She is really friendly, thanks us, and starts to ask us all about us. She is maybe 20 and speaks really fast. My money on that she is American. I don’t know why, but I just am feeling it. She has a colorful cloth pack filled with who-knows-what and fun earrings and necklaces and rings. Very pretty. She is asking me all sorts of questions, and when I stumble and half joking/half serious say I don’t speak Spanish very well she says “no! You speak great!” I blush, if I haven’t already been. She says some word a lot that makes me laugh. It’s like “chido” or something, that wants to say “cool” or “nice.” I don’t remember the word, but she kept saying it after each answer we gave her to whatever question about our past and future she asked. I put the word in my mind to remember, assuming it was popular in Guatemala, but I never heard it again so I forgot it. I ask her about herself, and she says that she was born in Nicaragua, moved to Los Angeles when she was young, and just recently got into college in Mexico, and is traveling through Guatemala selling handicrafts that she makes by hand, selling them to tourists to pay for the trip. Which apparently has been going really well. Speaks to me in English just to prove that she is American, which proves my theory correct making me strangely satisfied, just to be right, I suppose. I laugh and say that she is quite international, existing in four countries at the same time.
The hotel was arrived to. The car doors were opened, the taxi driver was paid and goodbye’s were said. I walked into the Holiday Inn lobby and sat down. I noted that this was the nicest Holiday Inn I had ever seen, and probably the nicest in the world. It was huge, maybe 40 stories (who knows) and had big comfy chairs, bell boys rushing around, the flags of the world out front, and valet parking. “Now it’s time to play the waiting game…”
…
Mmmm…
“Uh, waiting game sucks. Let’s play…” oh here they come! Eddie, his sister Rebecca, and his cousin Amy (who I didn’t previously know) came walking up to the hotel doors, only like fifteen minutes after I arrived.
Throughout the the following five days, much fun was had. It was tense at time, due to my lack of money, the girls’ desire to do all the shopping and touristy things they could do, long bus rides through winding roads, and a lack of flexibility. We went to four main places: Antigua, the old capital of the city that was abandoned like 40 years ago due to an Earthquake that damaged most of the buildings, almost completely inhabited by trendy ex-pats or tourists like ourselves, or now wealthy Guatemaltecos. Lake Atitlan, a gorgeous lake that you have to drive down from the towering hills above, giving unbelievable views the entire way down, where it rained the entire time. Chichicastenange, a huge marketplace that smells of burning tree sap, filled with artisans used to hard bargains, surrounding a food market where we bought roasted chicken, rice and cooked vegetables while seated at a handmade wooden table, chatting with an old woman about the traditions of the area. Those three are all in central Guatemala. The fourth is Tikal National Park, the home of famous Mayan ruins, deep in the howler monkey-filled northern jungle of the country. Tikal was something special that I had not counted on, did not know about, and did not have the money for but Eddie helped me out with in a fabulous investment in fun. It was certainly worth it for me, but even, really, it was worth it for him because it would not have been anywhere as fun. There were massive ruins of temples that had been so long buried in the forests of the Maya, including the fabulous Temple 5 that pokes up above the canopy of the jungle, giving you an endless view of the lush landscape in all directions.

Part 3: Guatemala, Part I

At some point my friend from high school, Eddie, wrote me and told me he was going to be in Guatemala in late May. I didn’t quite understand, but I gathered that his sister was studying somewhere in Central America, and wanted to know if I could make it. He additionally offered, knowing I was fairly poor, to spot me for what I couldn’t afford. Another investment in fun, if you will. No I take that back; not if you will, that’s exactly what it was. I even informed him of the investment in fun plan, and he loved it. I made a general promise of 10 years, which I think is reasonable.
He says that he will be there from said date to like six days after, and I see why no reason why I can’t make it, so I plan on it. Like any American, he sends me a million emails trying to “plan” the whole thing, getting secure dates and whatever, finally realizing that my end of it didn’t really involve anything more than simply showing up on time to meet them. That time was then set: May 24th, 9:00 PM, Holiday Inn, Guatemala City, Guatemala, lobby.
Sweet. Classes and whatever other life events happened, and suddenly it was like a week before. I ran to the hacienda to find Hi-may to see if he knows anyone or bus schedules or any related info. He does. Horray. He tells me this: the bus line is Cristobal Colon (“OCC”), buses leave every couple hours, it’s about 600 pesos, he knows some people in San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, but recommends a cheap hotel that is easy to get to. Some other random information is useful, mostly the info about it not being as scary as I think it is. Oooo, Chiapas. Mufasa. Apparently, he tells me, Cristobal de las Casas is a pretty chill place with tons of things to see and lots of tourists. As it turns out, he is correct. He recommends some places to see and recommends a week stay there to see everything. He tells me to see the Laguna de Montabella, which, quote, “is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and probably the most beautiful thing on Earth.” It’s on the list, but I just don’t know if I have time. I don’t have the money, and need to be in Guatemala City at 9:00 on May 24th in the Holiday Inn lobby. Whatever. He tells me to see Palenque and San Juan Chamula and some other stuff that means nothing to me.
I arrive. At Mexico City. Observatorio bus station. I take the Metro. Five stops and I’m at San Larenzo i.e. Tapo bus station with service to southern cities. The bus ticket is 600 pesos (although the guy tries to rip me off 30 pesos) and leaves in a half hour. “Well, I suppose this will be another wacky adventure” I think. I purchase a meat and cheese sandwich on plain white bread wrapped in saran wrap, which as I found out later also came with a packet of mayo and another of mustard. I found out the hard way. Learning from previous bus experiences, I buy one bottled water and no sugar or salt or oily snacks. They turn your skin into a pizza-y surface within hours of sitting on long bus rides. It just somehow knows you are already miserable and, wait, I am running away with myself here.
Ok, so I get on the bus, and watch there cheesy little animated buckle your seat belt video (the first I have ever seen) with real animations of what would happen in a real crazy bus accident, but all done in a comical manner, complete with vomiting punchline. Classic.
I have brought with me the following: one pair of shorts, four shirts, four boxers, five pairs of socks, my digital camera (a must), “Bluebeard” by Kurt Vonnegut, “Mere Christianity” by C.S. Lewis which I had partially started but was moving along slowly, my Ray Allen hat, a couple of pieces of paper and a pen, and my cell phone which I thought would be, at worst, my bailout option. I didn’t figure I’d get much reception in Guatemala, but it turned out I didn’t get much reception south of Oaxaca anyway. Ni modo. I had my wallet and had checked my account before I left, seeing that it had just over 300 dollars in it. Should be enough to get me there and back, and Eddie’s investment in fun should be able to cover the rest of it. He was working as an electrical engineer (just out of Stanford) for some fancy business in San Diego that makes satellites or something for the Defense Department, so I figured he had more money than he knew what to do with anything. As that turned out, it was true.
I had packed so scantly because I figured that 1) I didn’t want to carry too much around 2) I didn’t want to have to worry about my stuff ever and 3) I had learned to wash things by hand anyway, so it shouldn’t have been a big deal. I had learned to tough it out too, which is what I ended up doing anyway. Anyway.
As the opening credits of some B movie start, I watch out the window as we climb out of the southern end of the Mexico City valley, clouds circling the two famous volcanoes to my right. I try in vain to take a couple of pictures. My pictures on trips are always like that: pictures of stuff that is happening when nothing is happening. When we are out doing incredible stuff, I never get pictures. When I simply pass by cool things, I take pictures out of the bus window trying not to let others see what I am doing, getting about a dozen pictures of blurry green somethings or cloudy grey conical shapes, a couple dinner pictures of people, people walking on the beach, and if there happens to be any “tourist” site, a couple dozen photos of the same pyramid from different angles. I do take great photos of cool stuff when I put my mind to it, but generally I am engulfed in being in that moment, trying to capture it in my mind and not so worried about capturing it with zeros and ones. I used to hate when my mom would run around taking pictures of everything, but now I am kind of glad that I have so many pictures of my childhood to remind me of things I would never have remembered. At least now I can invent memories.
This and much more is running through my head as I think of the 13 hour trip I have ahead of me. It’s probably 7:00 PM, so I figure I’ll get in about 8:00 the next morning, assuming there’s no time change. I fall asleep to this thought, and sleep through the movie and the next one, apparently, waking up at 3:00 AM or so (I have no watch and have not yet learned how to program my cell phone). My eyes pop open as the bus rattles, as if driving over gravel. I look out the bus window to see us absolutely barreling down the highway. I don’t know if this is because it is a dangerous stretch or because he wants to make up for lost time somewhere or just because he can, but it is scary fast. I look up to see the red light at the front, saying “95 Km/h,” brightly illuminated. “It must be kind of a challenge sometimes, taunting the drivers” I think. The light stays on for the next two hours. I would say we are going at least 200 kilometers per hour. This is no exaggeration. We are pummeling down the highway, flying by distance markage signs I cannot even pretend to read with the headlights of the bus approaching and passing faster than my eye can catch. As the sunlight begins to peak over whatever skyline we are near, we reach the border of Chiapas and are soon in the capital of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Besides a brief stop in Oaxaca, it is the only stop we make between Mexico D.F. and my destination, San Cristobal. Most everyone gets off the bus in Tuxtla, but there are probably eight left to go the extra three hours to San Cristobal. And what a sight all those other people missed.
The road from Tuxtla to San Cristobal is a windy road that travels up into the mountains, while giving you an incredible view of the valley all the way up. As you reach the pass everything turns from desert into lush jungle, with crevasses slithering down slits in the cliffs that shoot up and fall away. There are little huts built strangely at the top of many cliffs, high above and below the road that we are wandering along. The road is untypically non-Mexican, nice and smooth and well engineered. I sat in still wonder, seeing what few foreign tourists have ever seen. Where the sidewalk ends. Who else is stupid enough to go by bus. (As it turns out, most tourists come into San Cristobal by plane or by tourist vans from the Yucatan/Cancun/Eastern side whereas I am coming from the west). The road dips and weaves, the bus moving like a halfback running through beautiful holes created by large stony linemen, agile leaps over green rolling linebackers, spinning around flowered terraced strong safeties. As we tiptoe into the endzone of San Cristobal, I feel a strong sense of panic come over me as I realize no one is coming to help me and if something happens, no one is calling the cops. But as I leave the bus station and see a tacky travel agency across the street, I remember this is a place crawling with tourists and it shouldn’t be a scary place. I flag down the first taxi I see and ask him where the city center is. He takes me about 10 blocks which gives me enough time to ask about the hotel Jaime recommended and recant my short bus ride story to him. I already have one friend when I get out of the taxi and hand him 10 pesos. Already things are cheaper than the horrendously cheap central Mexico area.
It is still early and there is almost no one around, so I walk around the main square and step into a place advertising trips to the places Jaime told me about. Turns out most of the places were a good three to four hours away and a good 250 to 300 pesos which I didn’t really have but really wanted to spend. I saw that one place, San Juan Chamula was only a fifteen minute ride and cost 75 pesos for a full tour. I figured I could get there cheaper on my own, so I held out. It looked like there was a lot to see around the city, with at least four churches on the hillsides above the city, so I decided to go find my hotel and drop off my stuff. I followed the taxi driver’s directions to a passing bus and followed that directly out of the city into the little hotel. As promised, it was a mere 150 pesos, which included a room with full accommodations, internet access, and a meal to boot, located on the outskirts of town about two blocks away from sheer upward cliffs of San Cristobal. San Cristobal is located in a valley in the mountains, two sides bordered by steep cliffs, one side by not so steeps cliffs and the other just a hill, where the main road comes in and out. Tall trees, cool temperatures, white people, and overcast conditions made me feel like I was back in the Seattle again. I took a short nap, a pleasant shower, and headed out to catch that same bus back into town. Eager to find San Juan Chamula, I asked around to where I could find a bus. It turned out to be a real tricky location and I literally had to ask someone every single block for like eight blocks, and one more time even as I stand directly outside of it not realizing it. Jaime had said that there was a really old church there, built when Cortez was still alive, in the style of the Mayas, and that you couldn’t take photos inside. The bus is a van that waits for 20 minutes for other people to show up, and we head out. It is up steeply into the mountains, a nice drive overlooking the whole city. We get out to Chamula and I get out. It is a single street leading into a main town square with some surrounding houses. The church is a normal looking stone church, except that it is highlighted with very “Mayan” colors like teal/green. There are a few government buildings, a small marketplace, and a couple restaurants. Facing the church, I can see a poster that shows what appears to be a firewalking ceremony of sorts, which as I read happens every year as people run down a path of coals that leads away from the church door. I can’t find out why or what it means. I walk to the church doors where I read a sign that says “No entrance without written permission.” Well crap. I thought it was just pictures that I couldn’t take, but it turns out that I can’t even go in. I see a large group of white people heading for me, and I decide to try to blend in with them, to at least see what’s inside. The find the entrance, and I huddle with them and no one cares but they are all speaking French. But I really want to see inside. The guide is a young Mexican who notices me immediately and looks and me disapprovingly but says nothing. Whatever. I want to see inside. They all go in and I follow. What wonders I then saw can never quite understood in words. I see people in circles on the floor with candles surrounding boxes that hold saints in them. The walls were bare but at the end were holes in the wall with candles and banners and all sorts of things hanging out of them. Incense was being burned like there was no tomorrow, and bizarre tunes of songs I had never heard were being sung. There were a group of local men sitting and talking, with trowels in their hands… and wood beams sitting around…oh wait. They are doing construction. Actually, placing, in my mind, the saints back on the walls and the candles on stands in front and the banners on the walls like normal, it isn’t so different than the normal cathedrals. I do see a sign on the wall that says it was built sometime like at the end of the 1400’s or something, which makes no sense so it was probably after that, but it was really really old. There is scaffolding to my right and some more at the end. It looks like just some basic repairs and a good paint job. It actually looks like it will be pretty nice when they finish.
The groups is still blabbering along in French, and the guide is still looking at me. “Ok” I think. It’s time for an escape. If I just pretend like the incense is getting to me, I can make an easy escape. And the group is starting to cross the church to the other side and I really don’t want a confrontation with the guide without a good escape, so I start to back up, coughing and holding my chest but not enough to call any real attention to myself. Bong! I go down hard. I am on the floor and my head is killing me. What is going on? I look up and see a steel pipe that was hanging off the scaffolding that is sitting just at my head level. Now everyone is looking at me, and I am getting pretty nervous. I smile sheepishly and stand up and walk to the door. I figured that the Mexicans probably still just thought I was with the group, and the group didn’t care one way or another.
I stepped out into the cool air and rubbing my head walked out of the square and down the main street to where I had seen some sort of old ruins of something. There was a sign that said “museum” so I followed it.
I stopped by a tienda for a cold pop, but found only warm ones. I bought a Pepsi and sat down to watch the movie the store clerk had on, which was some Mexican shootem up movie. I turned and laughed and said to the clerk “this is what everyone says that Chiapas is supposed to be like!” He looks at me and gives me a pity smile and turns back. Right.
The ruins turn out to be another church that actually was built after the other one, but built anyway and then abandoned. The only cool thing about it is the bizarre cemetery that is totally ragtag here and there graves and mounds above the earth and flowers everywhere. The museum is one of the creepiest places I have ever been because it’s all these really poorly made dummies in this mazelike walkway under a thatch roof and it’s completely silent and you really think that maybe some of the dummies are really people or even worse maybe some play tricks on you. The scariest two are the ones with machete and the other with the accordion.
And then, it’s back to San Cristobal!
The only fun things that happen that night is that I find a church on a hill to climb up to, another one in a lovely little park, a spaghetti dinner, and a churro. Back to the hotel for a nice sleep and an early morning.
Oh, I forgot to say that as soon as I got to the bus station that morning, I had asked about possible Guatemala borders and was told that the nearest one was Ciudad Cuautemoc, and that “it was easy and buses are there to take you right to Guatemala City. And that there is a 9:00 bus. Sweet.
So I wake up and get to the bus, looking back giving a fond farewell to a pleasant little city with lots of fun things to do but not enough time to do them. The bus is late, like most buses, but we get on a little after 9:15. It is two straight hours south where I will get off and walk across the border with my backpack and catch the first “chicken bus” that I can find. A little nervous, but I’m feeling good and confident. An hour and twenty into our ride down the pleasant highway two lanes wide, traffic is backed up. Stopped, in fact. We come to a stop, and the bus driver gets out and walks up ahead to find out what’s going on. A good majority of the 25 or 30 people get off the bus and sit down in the little tienda next to us. Actually, we had been driving almost all of that road intermittently hitting small towns but mostly just jungle surrounding our drive, but had stopped right in front of a tienda and to the other side a small restaurant. I, of course, stayed in the bus waiting to see what would happen and not wanting to even think about considering the possibility of accidentally being left behind if I ventured into the bathroom in the restaurant, or some other distraction, for even a second. I heard people saying stuff like “the road is closed” and “they closed the road” and “when are they going to open the road” but had no idea who or how or why. I stayed on the bus until the last lady got off with her mother, mostly due to the heat in the bus, and I followed them, leaving everything on the bus. I sat down in a white plastic chair around a plastic table that said “Corona” across it. The bus driver sat across from a lady that had jumped off the bus when it first stopped, who seemed like an upper class socialite, undoubtedly from Mexico City. They were just one table to my right. A kid of about 20 years sat across from me, and everyone else seemed to be sitting around us all facing inwards, either in the conversation with the driver and upper class lady, or hushed chatting with themselves. A large man comes from behind me and sits in the chair that separates me and the upper class lady. He sits and asks who I am and if I speak Spanish. Not talking to me though. They tell him they don’t know but that I got on in San Cristobal and that I haven’t said a thing. I tell them I am one of the people blocking off the road, to which they all laugh and suddenly the conversation is completely turned to me. Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you going? Why are you going by bus? How old are you? Do you like Mexican women? Do you like older Mexican women…? (Mufasa). How did you learn to speak Spanish? Do you like it here? and such questions. At one point the older woman points to a bus filled with people, as the bus flies down the wrong lane, heading towards the barrier. She asks if I want to be on that bus. I just stare at her as she laughs at her own joke. They explain in chorus that the bus is filled with illegal immigrants from Guatemala who tried to get into the US. I suddenly imagine my self flagging down the bus, jumping in and giving a big “what’s up” to the Guatemaltecos who, I don’t know, do something. My day dream doesn’t make it that far because they continue with the questions.
The larger man to my right is the most piqued, and when about twenty minutes later most of the others lose interest, he continues. We speak in English a little, or what he knows, we talk about his pasta business and my living situation and my life goals. Finally I stop him and bring up my main curiosity which is who what and why is the road being blocked? He says that they are PRDistas, fighters and politicians, tools in the overall scheme, but needing to do something to help their state.
“So they aren’t soldiers or government officials? Ordinary people can shut down the roads and no one cares or can do anything about it?”
“Well, they don’t want a fight so they just run trucks of soldiers back and forth along this road to see if the people will let the official vehicles come through. If they fight the soldiers, they can clear them out with good reason. And if not, maybe the people will get nervous or realize they are just inconveniencing their follow citizens.”
“So they are just normal people?” My question is answered by a pickup truck full of people holding machetes driving towards us from the roadblock. My heart skips a beat. “I’m not going to have any problems, am I?”
“No, they won’t care.” I’m not so convinced. The people are chanting some slogans that make little sense to me but probably have to do with their local government. I smile at them, as most of them watch me as they drive by. Their rattling of their machetes makes me nervous but I figure that someone of my new friends will stand up for me and talk them out of causing problems for me, if it came to that.
He actually explains to me that I would probably have more problems from the real government, because there are rumors that rich Europeans are helping fund and helped fund a large part of the rebellious groups, specifically the Zapatistas.
We meander through a million conversations in the next couple hours, talking with the kid sitting across from me who apparently is going to his cousin’s wedding. I slowly get the impression that most people are ending up in Tapachula, a larger city about a half hour from the border, west of here, fairly close to the Pacific coast. I ask if this is true, and they ask me where I am going. Ciudad Cuautemoc.
“No, you don’t want to go there. It is the same as the ugly border towns on the Mexico-US border. It’s a lot of people who saved up money to try to cross the border illegally, to find a job in another country, who got to the border and couldn’t get across and have no money and now just have to find ways to steal or beg or do whatever they can just to live. You’d be an easy target. Plus you aren’t getting there until nighttime anyway making it more dangerous. Plus the buses are horrible from there to Guatemala City.”