As we left the gun peddler, Eric explained that he had a job interview the following day in Guatemala City. His wage for teaching Spanish in Antigua was around two thousand quetzals a month, roughly three hundred dollars. His new job as a telemarketer in the city would earn him an extra thousand quetzals a month. I urged him to go, and we decided to meet at 7:30 the following morning in the park.
I arrived at 7:15, still searching for my first cup of authentic Guatemalan coffee. It confused me at first that Guatemala could be one of the world´s top coffee exporters, yet all I could find were instant cups in the tiendas, grounds stirred into boiled water, or wretched espresso. It made sense once I took a tour of a coffee co-operative and plantation.
Guatemalan coffee beans fetch to dollar on the international market. Consequently, the workers can´t afford to buy their own coffee because of the profits they would lose from not selling it abroad. They can´t afford to enjoy the fruits of their own labours and sip instant cups before tending to the fields. With continued searching I discovered that there were shops and cafes around town that sold local coffee, it was their niche in the Antiguan tourist market. The beans cost owners a lot more, but many customers visited for the excellent cups that were well worth the price.
I sat in the park, sipping my coffee as the time passed 7:30. The sun was brilliant and the morning air still fresh and cool. I sat on a bench, watching the days scene unfold around me. A man unloaded four golden puppies from the back of a rusted pickup truck. They played on the grass, their uncoordinated floppy paws spilling into every passerby while the mother watched nearby. Men rode carriages around the square, drawn by emaciated horses. This tourist trap depressed me. I could see every rib on the animals, sagging and malnourished skin clung to each bone.
I grew frustrated as time wore on. It neared 10 AM and there was no sign of Eric. I left to check my email. The empty inbox quickly reminded me why I was here, and should be out experiencing Guatemala. I walked to the ruins of an old church. A group of men smoked a joint in the courtyard beyond the iron fence. The central saint, mounted on top of the crumbling building, looked to the sky, his arms stretched from his waist, either in praise or question.
I walked past the park. I spotted Eric and he approached me with his hands raised.
¨Where you been? I been waiting.¨
To say ´fuck off´ would have been a waste of breath.
¨My friend have birthday party tonight, you come, then we study tomorrow. Same time, 7:30.¨
I went to the birthday party. Eric threw it at a local club for one of his other students. I admired that he would do that for someone he´d known for a week. As I left the party to make my curfew, (seriously) Eric grabbed me. In a lecturing tone, still pretending he was the one waiting that morning he told me be on time the next day. 7:30.
I nodded, knowing I´d be there. For some reason I believed he would be as well.
7:30. Nothing.
8:00, nothing.
8:30, 9:30, two cups of coffee, a litre of water, and one monumental piss later, nothing.
The only benefit to Eric´s absence were two shoeshine boys, Gregorio and Roberto. I knew they were 7 and 9 years old because one of the few questions I could ask confidently was ´how old are you?´ They came from a village two hours away, and for three weeks at a time, would shine shoes in the park to help earn money for the family. After five days of wandering in the park, the boys began to like me. This had less to do with my magnetic personality than the fact that I bought them shit.
The first few days, they´d approach me on whatever bench I sat, and point at my shoes.
¨No necesito gracias,¨ I´d say.
Roberto always replied ¨por que?¨ Why?
I´d laugh and point at the holes in my chucks. There was no amount of spit shining that could save those babies. After he asked me about 900 dozen time, I consulted my dictionary to find the word for holes. Before he could ask me the next time I said ¨tienen muchos ollos.¨ Roberto smiled. I was learning more Spanish with him than Eric.
The younger one, Gregorio was even funnier. When I refused his services, he would never ask why, but instead resort to intimidation. He´d drop his shinebox, cock his head to the side, and start staring me down.
I couldn´t help but laugh because the little bastard was serious. He thought he could muscle some money out of me. I liked him immediately.
Eventually, the boys figured out they couldn´t squeeze any quetzals out of me for shoeshines, and adapted their tactics. They staked out the coffee shop where I bought cups before going to meet my phantom tutor at 7:30. As I ordered, Roberto climbed a stool next to me. He asked to shine my shoes. Before I had time to say no, he suggested that I could instead buy him a coffee.
Buy a nine year old coffee. Knowing I couldn´t explain stunted growth in Spanish I did the right thing and pumped that child full of caffeine. Seeing his brother´s success, Gregorio bounded across the road, demanding one for himself.
¨Sorry, you can have some of his. Tomorrow will be your turn.¨
He gave me a quick staredown and sprinted back to the park to intercept a flock of expat geezers.
When he finally smiled, Gregorios grin was contagious. I waited at the coffee shop, while he hussled across the cobblestone road, his face all teeth knowing I´d promised him something. He was a kid, and I was glad to see him finally look like one for a moment. His cafe con leche waited on the bar for him.
¨Gracias,¨ he said, and bounded back to the park to share his (unknown to him, deccaffinated) coffee with his older brother.
I arrived the next morning with two packs of Canadian gum to give them. I saw neither of the boys making their rounds. Their three weeks was up. The boys had taken their wages, and went home to their family.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
The guitar (CHAK CHAK CHAK)
Friends who had backpacked through Guatemala in the past told me of cheap, beautiful instruments that waited to be plucked from the bustling markets. I visited the Antiguan market and found nothing, although I could have had a pirated Space Jam DVD in dozens of languages.
The guitar shop was too expensive. I asked Eric about the friend he mentioned. We crossed the street and into the midday feeding frenzy of Parque Central. Tourists sat on benches that circled the fountain. Shoeshine made their rounds while shouting men handed out pamphlets for tour companies.
Eric surveyed the people. We circled the fountain until he found the man he was looking for. He was about my age, and spoke into his cellphone in lightning fast Spanish.
He put the phone in his pocket and greeted me in the typical Guatemalan way, a quick slap of the hand followed by a light fist pound. I felt significantly cooler for now doing this without hesitation, as if it loaned me credibility.
I told him I wanted a guitar.
He rubbed his hands together, nodding. Yes, he did have guitars. Then he asked me what I wanted.
Confused, having just told him, I said ¨una guitarra classico.¨ I just wanted a little piece of shit that could endure the wears of travel, and the general neglect that comes along with my ownership.
He continued to nod and looked directly at me for the first time. I realized he had tried to sell me coke after complimenting my tattoos a couple of days before. He stopped rubbing his hands and made two sound.
¨CHAK CHAK CHAK, o , RATATATATATAT¨
Huh?
He slowed his speech.
¨Te quiere, CHAK, CHAK, CHAK, o, RAT-TA-TAT.¨
Did I want chak or rat? What?
He formed his hand like a pistol. ¨CHAK, CHAK, o RATATATAT¨ he explained. By RAT, one of his hands was at his hip, the other in front of him swaying from side to side as if he was spraying bullets with a tommy gun.
Did I want a handgun, or an automatic rifle.
Not knowing what to do I faked a casual laugh and stood awkwardly until he figured out I didnt need an AK-47. Although, the 9 MM was only slightly more than the guitar price Eric quoted me.
The man watched his munitions dealing wash away. How else could he make money off of me?
¨Nice tattoos...¨
The guitar shop was too expensive. I asked Eric about the friend he mentioned. We crossed the street and into the midday feeding frenzy of Parque Central. Tourists sat on benches that circled the fountain. Shoeshine made their rounds while shouting men handed out pamphlets for tour companies.
Eric surveyed the people. We circled the fountain until he found the man he was looking for. He was about my age, and spoke into his cellphone in lightning fast Spanish.
He put the phone in his pocket and greeted me in the typical Guatemalan way, a quick slap of the hand followed by a light fist pound. I felt significantly cooler for now doing this without hesitation, as if it loaned me credibility.
I told him I wanted a guitar.
He rubbed his hands together, nodding. Yes, he did have guitars. Then he asked me what I wanted.
Confused, having just told him, I said ¨una guitarra classico.¨ I just wanted a little piece of shit that could endure the wears of travel, and the general neglect that comes along with my ownership.
He continued to nod and looked directly at me for the first time. I realized he had tried to sell me coke after complimenting my tattoos a couple of days before. He stopped rubbing his hands and made two sound.
¨CHAK CHAK CHAK, o , RATATATATATAT¨
Huh?
He slowed his speech.
¨Te quiere, CHAK, CHAK, CHAK, o, RAT-TA-TAT.¨
Did I want chak or rat? What?
He formed his hand like a pistol. ¨CHAK, CHAK, o RATATATAT¨ he explained. By RAT, one of his hands was at his hip, the other in front of him swaying from side to side as if he was spraying bullets with a tommy gun.
Did I want a handgun, or an automatic rifle.
Not knowing what to do I faked a casual laugh and stood awkwardly until he figured out I didnt need an AK-47. Although, the 9 MM was only slightly more than the guitar price Eric quoted me.
The man watched his munitions dealing wash away. How else could he make money off of me?
¨Nice tattoos...¨
Mi maestro
The Silver Fox said I would have a beautiful female Spanish instructor. I dont know why he included beautiful as a detail for Spanish lessons. I wasnt taking them to get laid, well not directly anyway. I defintely hoped my new language skills would give me an edge with Central American women, but his inclusion of that detail made me feel like a john.
My tutor, waited for me by the guest house as I returned from a coffee run. My beautiful female instructor was a chubby man with gnarly teeth named Eric. When all my attention wasnt magnetized to his chompers, I was able to conclude that he was a good guy, but a horrible teacher.
Just as I wanted to futher my Spanish, Eric wanted to perfect his English (which was leaps beyond my comprehension of his language.) Hed ask me a question in English, I would try to answer in Spanish. This was not a deliberate exercise, and though it sounds effective, with no source of vocabulary, and a textbook duct taped together, Eric stood more to gain than I.
He talked about music. I made the mistake of telling him I had played in a band. This ended the lesson for the day.
¨You know, I have friends that play the radio in Guatemala City.¨
Eric talked of his connections, however real or imagined, with great pride.
¨You give me CD, they play it on the radio.¨
I had no records to give him.
¨Then we make a concert for you.¨
He continued planning, even after I explained that the band broke up over a year ago, the other members lived in Canada, and they had jobs and partners they couldnt afford to leave on Erics word. Dont get me wrong, I would love, absolutely love, to play in Central America, or anywhere abroad for that matter, but I needed to redirect the conversation so we could eventually begin my lessons.
¨Do you know anyone who sells guitars here in Antigua Eric?¨
Erics eyes lit up. He was delighted that I asked his advice, allowing him to flaunt his ever growing list of connections.
¨I take you one place. Beautiful guitars. If not, I know a guy. Beautiful guitars.¨
He got up immediately and led me to his motorcycle. We took off, my hands clasped around his waste towards Parque Central.
The lesson had lasted about 20 minutes, but I did learn a new verb, rober-to rob.
La compania robieron mi. Page dinero por lecciones de espanol y recibe no instruccion.
My tutor, waited for me by the guest house as I returned from a coffee run. My beautiful female instructor was a chubby man with gnarly teeth named Eric. When all my attention wasnt magnetized to his chompers, I was able to conclude that he was a good guy, but a horrible teacher.
Just as I wanted to futher my Spanish, Eric wanted to perfect his English (which was leaps beyond my comprehension of his language.) Hed ask me a question in English, I would try to answer in Spanish. This was not a deliberate exercise, and though it sounds effective, with no source of vocabulary, and a textbook duct taped together, Eric stood more to gain than I.
He talked about music. I made the mistake of telling him I had played in a band. This ended the lesson for the day.
¨You know, I have friends that play the radio in Guatemala City.¨
Eric talked of his connections, however real or imagined, with great pride.
¨You give me CD, they play it on the radio.¨
I had no records to give him.
¨Then we make a concert for you.¨
He continued planning, even after I explained that the band broke up over a year ago, the other members lived in Canada, and they had jobs and partners they couldnt afford to leave on Erics word. Dont get me wrong, I would love, absolutely love, to play in Central America, or anywhere abroad for that matter, but I needed to redirect the conversation so we could eventually begin my lessons.
¨Do you know anyone who sells guitars here in Antigua Eric?¨
Erics eyes lit up. He was delighted that I asked his advice, allowing him to flaunt his ever growing list of connections.
¨I take you one place. Beautiful guitars. If not, I know a guy. Beautiful guitars.¨
He got up immediately and led me to his motorcycle. We took off, my hands clasped around his waste towards Parque Central.
The lesson had lasted about 20 minutes, but I did learn a new verb, rober-to rob.
La compania robieron mi. Page dinero por lecciones de espanol y recibe no instruccion.
Roosters and Quebec
I never expected to watch hockey in Guatemala. I dont particularly give a shit about the game back home, but my heart nearly skipped a beat when I walked past a bar showing the Montreal Canadians game.
A couple of Guatemalan men sat at the bar, yelling along with the television, in Habs jerseys. I was excited to see something familiar.
I sat down and begun talking with the men at the bar over bottles of Gallo, the national beer pride of Guatemala. A friend who backpacked through Mexico told me of Gallo before. It was the cheapest beer they could buy when her and her friends were broke and living off noodles. I associated cheap with awful, but it is Guatemalas premium domestic. Its also the Countrys most powerful company. I soon learned that the majority of wealth within Guatemala was consolidated to four companies. Gallo, a concrete company with a name I cant remember, the Central American equivelant of KFC, Pollo Campero, and another beer company, Brahva, which is only allowed to exist because the President married into the Gallo family.
The Gallo was cold, and pleasant. It felt good to have beer and conversation again, even if that beer had no flavour to speak of. I would continue to drink Gallo, almost strictly because of their logo, a saucy, cock-a-doodling rooster, that looks both obnoxious and proud.
The men and I spoke in broken Spanish. I ate an almost boner-inducing quesadilla. When I told them I was from Canada, the men pointed to the corner. Several Quebecois backpackers sat plunked in front of a TV, watching the game silently. Feeling excited at the sight of first fellow countrymen, I went to talk with them between periods. They didnt share my enthusiasm. Although they spoke English, two of them looked at me and nodded before returning to watch the Spanish commercials. Apparently some Quebecois give even less of a shit about Anglophones when abroad.
A couple of Guatemalan men sat at the bar, yelling along with the television, in Habs jerseys. I was excited to see something familiar.
I sat down and begun talking with the men at the bar over bottles of Gallo, the national beer pride of Guatemala. A friend who backpacked through Mexico told me of Gallo before. It was the cheapest beer they could buy when her and her friends were broke and living off noodles. I associated cheap with awful, but it is Guatemalas premium domestic. Its also the Countrys most powerful company. I soon learned that the majority of wealth within Guatemala was consolidated to four companies. Gallo, a concrete company with a name I cant remember, the Central American equivelant of KFC, Pollo Campero, and another beer company, Brahva, which is only allowed to exist because the President married into the Gallo family.
The Gallo was cold, and pleasant. It felt good to have beer and conversation again, even if that beer had no flavour to speak of. I would continue to drink Gallo, almost strictly because of their logo, a saucy, cock-a-doodling rooster, that looks both obnoxious and proud.
The men and I spoke in broken Spanish. I ate an almost boner-inducing quesadilla. When I told them I was from Canada, the men pointed to the corner. Several Quebecois backpackers sat plunked in front of a TV, watching the game silently. Feeling excited at the sight of first fellow countrymen, I went to talk with them between periods. They didnt share my enthusiasm. Although they spoke English, two of them looked at me and nodded before returning to watch the Spanish commercials. Apparently some Quebecois give even less of a shit about Anglophones when abroad.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Mi Familia
Please excuse the punctuation of these next few pieces. Im on a Mexican keyboard, and cannot find the apostrophe or quotation buttons. Word.
The Sleeveless Texan wished me well when I handed in my hotel key. The Silver Fox waited on the street as I exited through Casa Rusticas iron gate. He was in a hurry, as always. We raced towards the families house where Id stay during my Spanish lessons.
I matched his frantic pace. My 70 litre backpack wasnt designed for speedtests, and it grew uncomfortable after several zigzagging blocks. Parque Central grew further away, and we crossed a main avenue, dodging derelict motorcycles and Gallo beer trucks.
Several red houses stood connected together. I couldnt tell them apart until I noticed Scooby Doo was painted on the windows. The Silver Fox said the house doubled as a daycare. Id stay to the right of Scooby Doo.
The Silver Fox rang the doorbell. Several minutes passed without an answer. He rang again and pounded on the arched door with the knocker. I heard faint, sliding feet approach the door. Several locks opened reluctantly. An old man, much older than The Silver Fox, poked his head through the door. A white moustache sat beneath sagging eyes. He leaned on a cane. I extended my other hand for a shake.
¨Buenas Dias¨ he mumbled, but did not shake the hand.
The man was clearly not upset by my presence, but indifferent to it. I was another foreigner encroaching on his space, a link in an ever growing chain that rented out his extra rooms. After all these transient years of guests, he wasnt one for formalities.
He slid his way back to his TV and prayer room. The doorway hung with bright beads and rosaries. A hole had been burrowed into the wall opposite the door. An altar to the Virgin Mary occupied the hole.
The two arched wooden doors swung inwards to a space where the family parked their car. Straight ahead was an opened air garden. The house, like all in the connected blocks of Antigua, was a blend of indoor and outdoor spaces. To the right of the car was a hallway. Doorways to the bedrooms and the old mans tv room were on the right. At the end of the hall was the kitchen. Behind the kitchen was the guesthouse, two floors high, with one bathroom and three bedrooms on each floor.
Two women walked down the steps from the second floor.
Margarhita was the old mans wife, and head of the household. She had a pleasant voice that seeped a flowing and authoritative Spanish. She always tied her hair in a bun, and had the hairiest arms Id ever seen on a woman. With Margarhita was a woman whose name I was never told. She may have been related, or employed. She cooked all the meals for the guests, cleaned, pounded the tortillas three times a day, and rarely spoke a word.
Margarhita welcomed me into their home and showed me to my room on the second floor. She told me the rules.
Breakfast at 7, lunch at 1, dinner at 6. If I was going to be absent for a meal, tell them before. Do not flush toilet paper down the toilet. Please put it in the trash bin, which is changed once a day.
She left me to settle my things. The Silver Fox knocked at my door.
She told you the rules? He asked.
Yes, they seem reasonable.
Of course. There are a few more.
Okay.
First, you are not to use power other than lights. If you do, you must pay for it.
Okay.
Lunch is the main meal. If you feel dinner and breakfast must be supplemented, that is your responsibility.
Okay.
There is no cooking on Sundays.
Right. Catholics.
There are no overnight guests permitted. Alcohol is strictly prohibited in your room and in the house. No music past supper time, and you must lock up when you return for the night. They are here with their high school from America. They must be in by 9. The family is not comfortable without locks after 10, so that is when you must be in by.
Before I had a chance to reply, the Silver Fox hurried towards the entrance to show me the locks I was responsible to close.
I had a key to one padlock. There were two more. Steel rods sank into the ground and roof, I must slide them into their holes. They had a spring loaded locks, unlike anything I had ever seen, and one final line of defense. A two by four propped between the floor and door.
If you are not back by ten, then Margarhita will lock them for you, The Silver Fox informed me.
This was a polite way to say lock me out.
You tutor will be here soon. With that, The Silver Fox hussled through the multi lock door. I never saw him again.
I walked back to my room thinking about being 25 and having a ten o clock curfew.
The Sleeveless Texan wished me well when I handed in my hotel key. The Silver Fox waited on the street as I exited through Casa Rusticas iron gate. He was in a hurry, as always. We raced towards the families house where Id stay during my Spanish lessons.
I matched his frantic pace. My 70 litre backpack wasnt designed for speedtests, and it grew uncomfortable after several zigzagging blocks. Parque Central grew further away, and we crossed a main avenue, dodging derelict motorcycles and Gallo beer trucks.
Several red houses stood connected together. I couldnt tell them apart until I noticed Scooby Doo was painted on the windows. The Silver Fox said the house doubled as a daycare. Id stay to the right of Scooby Doo.
The Silver Fox rang the doorbell. Several minutes passed without an answer. He rang again and pounded on the arched door with the knocker. I heard faint, sliding feet approach the door. Several locks opened reluctantly. An old man, much older than The Silver Fox, poked his head through the door. A white moustache sat beneath sagging eyes. He leaned on a cane. I extended my other hand for a shake.
¨Buenas Dias¨ he mumbled, but did not shake the hand.
The man was clearly not upset by my presence, but indifferent to it. I was another foreigner encroaching on his space, a link in an ever growing chain that rented out his extra rooms. After all these transient years of guests, he wasnt one for formalities.
He slid his way back to his TV and prayer room. The doorway hung with bright beads and rosaries. A hole had been burrowed into the wall opposite the door. An altar to the Virgin Mary occupied the hole.
The two arched wooden doors swung inwards to a space where the family parked their car. Straight ahead was an opened air garden. The house, like all in the connected blocks of Antigua, was a blend of indoor and outdoor spaces. To the right of the car was a hallway. Doorways to the bedrooms and the old mans tv room were on the right. At the end of the hall was the kitchen. Behind the kitchen was the guesthouse, two floors high, with one bathroom and three bedrooms on each floor.
Two women walked down the steps from the second floor.
Margarhita was the old mans wife, and head of the household. She had a pleasant voice that seeped a flowing and authoritative Spanish. She always tied her hair in a bun, and had the hairiest arms Id ever seen on a woman. With Margarhita was a woman whose name I was never told. She may have been related, or employed. She cooked all the meals for the guests, cleaned, pounded the tortillas three times a day, and rarely spoke a word.
Margarhita welcomed me into their home and showed me to my room on the second floor. She told me the rules.
Breakfast at 7, lunch at 1, dinner at 6. If I was going to be absent for a meal, tell them before. Do not flush toilet paper down the toilet. Please put it in the trash bin, which is changed once a day.
She left me to settle my things. The Silver Fox knocked at my door.
She told you the rules? He asked.
Yes, they seem reasonable.
Of course. There are a few more.
Okay.
First, you are not to use power other than lights. If you do, you must pay for it.
Okay.
Lunch is the main meal. If you feel dinner and breakfast must be supplemented, that is your responsibility.
Okay.
There is no cooking on Sundays.
Right. Catholics.
There are no overnight guests permitted. Alcohol is strictly prohibited in your room and in the house. No music past supper time, and you must lock up when you return for the night. They are here with their high school from America. They must be in by 9. The family is not comfortable without locks after 10, so that is when you must be in by.
Before I had a chance to reply, the Silver Fox hurried towards the entrance to show me the locks I was responsible to close.
I had a key to one padlock. There were two more. Steel rods sank into the ground and roof, I must slide them into their holes. They had a spring loaded locks, unlike anything I had ever seen, and one final line of defense. A two by four propped between the floor and door.
If you are not back by ten, then Margarhita will lock them for you, The Silver Fox informed me.
This was a polite way to say lock me out.
You tutor will be here soon. With that, The Silver Fox hussled through the multi lock door. I never saw him again.
I walked back to my room thinking about being 25 and having a ten o clock curfew.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Lessons
The first people I spoke with as I left Casa Rustica in the morning were two men in casual uniforms. Their matching blue shirts were emblazoned with the company logo. They represented the City of Antigua Spanish School. With that name, I believed they were employed by the City, and therefore reliable. They were neither.
That may be unfair. The two men were friendly and helpful for directions. It was the company itself that proved unreliable.
I don't recall either of their names. I can only differentiate the two short Guatemalans by their hair color. Gray had an infectious smile and an growing grasp of my language. Black spoke excellent English.
Black was the salesman, Grey's smile was the reassurance that any sucker could trust. I was happy to be approached by the men and practice my Spanish. That was not their intention.
Black's motivation was not to engage with mi Espanol, but inform me how terrible it was. I grew self conscious, not thinking it was his job to sell lessons.
I wanted to further my Spanish in Antigua. The wildlife center I came to Central America to work for encouraged their volunteers to get Spanish lessons in Antigua, the nation's capital for language schools. Aside from the director, none of the Guatemalans at the center spoke English. I wanted to get to know the men and women I would be working with. I didn't come here to seclude myself.
It had been over a year since my pitiful efforts in University Spanish. I needed to improve, especially now that I had a chance to practically apply it. And Black was persistent.
I left my hotel to find a cup of coffee. They walked with me.
They waited outside for me, then followed me to Parque Central. I wanted to hike to Cerra De La Cruz, they had my hotel staked out when I returned.
I gave them passive interest. That was enough.
"You will meet the president now."
"I'm not committing to anything," I pitifully said to the sharks. They smelled my weakness and were now circling for the kill.
They led me further from the park and familiarity. I had no idea where I was going with these men I knew nothing about. We turned left, right, left, right, and walked straight for blocks. There were fewer people on the streets, and as the solo foreigner, my paranoia grew. Gone was the bloodstream of people flowing to the park. I looked backwards, clueless to my location as I walked behind black. Gray's shiny teeth followed me.
"The president is on his way. You will be placed with a family."
There were no more maybes, in their minds I was committed. I didn't speak. My silence was signing me up. We stopped in front of a black door. It neighbored a looming concrete wall that was topped with razor wire. Black pounded on the door with a steel knocker. My imagination started running wild.
With great stealth and effectiveness these two strange me had lured yet another wide-eyed fool to the black gate. Who knows what unknown horrors waited for me on the other side. I thought of Grey's beaming and pleasant smile, and how once we crossed the threshold it would transform into a menacing cannibalistic grin. The door swung open.
A tapestry of the Virgin Mary stared back at me from her sorrowful eyes. A middle aged woman stood at the door. She wore a yellow and white, ruffled blouse, over a yellow dress. Her smile and the bright colors were welcoming.
"Buenas Dias," she pleasantly greeted me.
I was onto that bitch. When I entered the house and they tried to eat me, I'd have to kill one of the men first, probably Gray, because Black was certainly the ringleader, second only to el Presidente that I would meet shortly. Then I'd have to barter my way out with her life. I'd hold something pointy to her canniving throat, perhaps a broken crucifix. I'd back towards the door, while Black and the inevitable reinforcements hissed at my resistance. Mama didn't raise no fool.
I'm sorry.
She was very nice and her smile put me at ease. What kept me on edge was the President and his high pressure tactics. He swept into the house like a whirlwind. He was about 60 years old and spoke confidently. His head was covered with shiny gray hair, that matched his tie and pants. His English was crisp and immaculate. I liked him at first, before I noticed that every well pronounced sentence ended with explaining why I had to sign with them, and pay now.
I did like the idea of staying with a family. It would force me to practice, and concentrate on my learning. It would also offer me a glimpse of Guatemalan life and domesticity I wouldn't receive in hostels. Of course I wanted to meet people, get blindingly drunk on Guatemalan cervezas and sexually harass foreign girls, but that could surely wait a few days in the interest of cultural understanding. I signed under their pressure. I'm a pushover.
I tried feebly to maintain some control, telling The Silver Fox I wouldn't pay him until I had seen the accommodations and met my tutor (who he promised would be a beautiful Guatemalan woman.) He agreed, of course I wouldn't. But we both knew I folded like a cheap tent under his dramatic pressure.
El Presidente- 1, Ben- 0.
That may be unfair. The two men were friendly and helpful for directions. It was the company itself that proved unreliable.
I don't recall either of their names. I can only differentiate the two short Guatemalans by their hair color. Gray had an infectious smile and an growing grasp of my language. Black spoke excellent English.
Black was the salesman, Grey's smile was the reassurance that any sucker could trust. I was happy to be approached by the men and practice my Spanish. That was not their intention.
Black's motivation was not to engage with mi Espanol, but inform me how terrible it was. I grew self conscious, not thinking it was his job to sell lessons.
I wanted to further my Spanish in Antigua. The wildlife center I came to Central America to work for encouraged their volunteers to get Spanish lessons in Antigua, the nation's capital for language schools. Aside from the director, none of the Guatemalans at the center spoke English. I wanted to get to know the men and women I would be working with. I didn't come here to seclude myself.
It had been over a year since my pitiful efforts in University Spanish. I needed to improve, especially now that I had a chance to practically apply it. And Black was persistent.
I left my hotel to find a cup of coffee. They walked with me.
They waited outside for me, then followed me to Parque Central. I wanted to hike to Cerra De La Cruz, they had my hotel staked out when I returned.
I gave them passive interest. That was enough.
"You will meet the president now."
"I'm not committing to anything," I pitifully said to the sharks. They smelled my weakness and were now circling for the kill.
They led me further from the park and familiarity. I had no idea where I was going with these men I knew nothing about. We turned left, right, left, right, and walked straight for blocks. There were fewer people on the streets, and as the solo foreigner, my paranoia grew. Gone was the bloodstream of people flowing to the park. I looked backwards, clueless to my location as I walked behind black. Gray's shiny teeth followed me.
"The president is on his way. You will be placed with a family."
There were no more maybes, in their minds I was committed. I didn't speak. My silence was signing me up. We stopped in front of a black door. It neighbored a looming concrete wall that was topped with razor wire. Black pounded on the door with a steel knocker. My imagination started running wild.
With great stealth and effectiveness these two strange me had lured yet another wide-eyed fool to the black gate. Who knows what unknown horrors waited for me on the other side. I thought of Grey's beaming and pleasant smile, and how once we crossed the threshold it would transform into a menacing cannibalistic grin. The door swung open.
A tapestry of the Virgin Mary stared back at me from her sorrowful eyes. A middle aged woman stood at the door. She wore a yellow and white, ruffled blouse, over a yellow dress. Her smile and the bright colors were welcoming.
"Buenas Dias," she pleasantly greeted me.
I was onto that bitch. When I entered the house and they tried to eat me, I'd have to kill one of the men first, probably Gray, because Black was certainly the ringleader, second only to el Presidente that I would meet shortly. Then I'd have to barter my way out with her life. I'd hold something pointy to her canniving throat, perhaps a broken crucifix. I'd back towards the door, while Black and the inevitable reinforcements hissed at my resistance. Mama didn't raise no fool.
I'm sorry.
She was very nice and her smile put me at ease. What kept me on edge was the President and his high pressure tactics. He swept into the house like a whirlwind. He was about 60 years old and spoke confidently. His head was covered with shiny gray hair, that matched his tie and pants. His English was crisp and immaculate. I liked him at first, before I noticed that every well pronounced sentence ended with explaining why I had to sign with them, and pay now.
I did like the idea of staying with a family. It would force me to practice, and concentrate on my learning. It would also offer me a glimpse of Guatemalan life and domesticity I wouldn't receive in hostels. Of course I wanted to meet people, get blindingly drunk on Guatemalan cervezas and sexually harass foreign girls, but that could surely wait a few days in the interest of cultural understanding. I signed under their pressure. I'm a pushover.
I tried feebly to maintain some control, telling The Silver Fox I wouldn't pay him until I had seen the accommodations and met my tutor (who he promised would be a beautiful Guatemalan woman.) He agreed, of course I wouldn't. But we both knew I folded like a cheap tent under his dramatic pressure.
El Presidente- 1, Ben- 0.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Antigua 2
I didn't nap upon arriving. Yes, I was exhausted having been awake for over thirty hours, but felt too excited to sleep. I was the furthest I'd ever been from home and needed to see Antigua. Edmonton was a distant thought.
When he dropped me off, the driver pointed one way.
"Uno cuadro a parque central."
Central Park was one block away and I walked the direction his finger had pointed. A fountain sat in the middle. A large bowl overflowed, held up by several stone maidens whose nipples lactated water in the circular pool beneath them. The square surrounding the park was magnificent. Three of the four blocks enclosing the square were old churches. Two of them were left in deliberate ruin, memorializing the devastation of an earthquake from years before. Ruins were present every few blocks throughout the city's core, all of them churches. They provided excellent snapshots for tourists, and a home for what seemed like dozens of Guatemalans to compliment my tattoos, then try to sell me drugs.
"Nice tattoos/ buenas tattooas."
"Thanks/gracias."
"Quiere weed/you want weed?" (Yes, most said weed."
"No necesito gracias."
"Quiere coke?" (Capitalized with a little sniff."
Pause.
"No necesito gracias."
After hearing no, most turned without a word. A surprising amount wanted to talk about my tattoos.
"Cuantos tiene?"
I have thirteen tatoos.
"Me gusta mucho."
One told me of the tattoo he was getting soon. Even Guatemalans like dragons.
Another of the corner drug dealers spoke English. He explained the rarity of tattoos in Guatemala. Those who have them, are almost exclusively gang members.
"One guy said he was going to get a dragon."
"He's in a gang called the (something) dragons."
"Oh."
"You in a gang?"
I almost wanted to lie to him, to throw up a W and yell 'Wu-Tang." I decided against it.
"No, I'm not."
"If people don't know that, they won't fuck with you. Those mean different things down here."
Far out. Truthfully, I enjoyed the fact that noone had tattoos. Back home, every greaser and his mom has a half sleeve. Edmonton has more shops per capita than any other city in North America and it felt good to stand out again. Anyone one says they don't like the attention that their tatoos attract is filthy, rotten liar. They may not enjoy getting felt up, or interrogated about them by strangers, but every stare that lingers a second longer than it should, is noticed, and enjoyed.
I walked for a few hours, and returned to the hotel. I had accomplished my main goal. I found the cross. Not in some metaphorical way. I located Cerra de la Cruz. When I looked up Antigua back home, the first image that appeared was a large white cross, erected on a hillside that overlooked Antigua from above. It looked beautiful, like a small homage to Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio.
My only goal for my first night was to find which way the cross was. Antigua is surrounded by mountains and volcanoes. I couldn't see the cross from parque central. I walked each direction, until I saw it on a hillside in the distance. Tomorrow. The sun set quick. I thought of Mexico. Before now, that was the closest I had come to the equator, and I recalled how much quicker the sun dissapeared compared to home. It was light at 6, and pitch black by 6:30. The sun fled Antigua, and retreated behind the Volcanoes.
When he dropped me off, the driver pointed one way.
"Uno cuadro a parque central."
Central Park was one block away and I walked the direction his finger had pointed. A fountain sat in the middle. A large bowl overflowed, held up by several stone maidens whose nipples lactated water in the circular pool beneath them. The square surrounding the park was magnificent. Three of the four blocks enclosing the square were old churches. Two of them were left in deliberate ruin, memorializing the devastation of an earthquake from years before. Ruins were present every few blocks throughout the city's core, all of them churches. They provided excellent snapshots for tourists, and a home for what seemed like dozens of Guatemalans to compliment my tattoos, then try to sell me drugs.
"Nice tattoos/ buenas tattooas."
"Thanks/gracias."
"Quiere weed/you want weed?" (Yes, most said weed."
"No necesito gracias."
"Quiere coke?" (Capitalized with a little sniff."
Pause.
"No necesito gracias."
After hearing no, most turned without a word. A surprising amount wanted to talk about my tattoos.
"Cuantos tiene?"
I have thirteen tatoos.
"Me gusta mucho."
One told me of the tattoo he was getting soon. Even Guatemalans like dragons.
Another of the corner drug dealers spoke English. He explained the rarity of tattoos in Guatemala. Those who have them, are almost exclusively gang members.
"One guy said he was going to get a dragon."
"He's in a gang called the (something) dragons."
"Oh."
"You in a gang?"
I almost wanted to lie to him, to throw up a W and yell 'Wu-Tang." I decided against it.
"No, I'm not."
"If people don't know that, they won't fuck with you. Those mean different things down here."
Far out. Truthfully, I enjoyed the fact that noone had tattoos. Back home, every greaser and his mom has a half sleeve. Edmonton has more shops per capita than any other city in North America and it felt good to stand out again. Anyone one says they don't like the attention that their tatoos attract is filthy, rotten liar. They may not enjoy getting felt up, or interrogated about them by strangers, but every stare that lingers a second longer than it should, is noticed, and enjoyed.
I walked for a few hours, and returned to the hotel. I had accomplished my main goal. I found the cross. Not in some metaphorical way. I located Cerra de la Cruz. When I looked up Antigua back home, the first image that appeared was a large white cross, erected on a hillside that overlooked Antigua from above. It looked beautiful, like a small homage to Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio.
My only goal for my first night was to find which way the cross was. Antigua is surrounded by mountains and volcanoes. I couldn't see the cross from parque central. I walked each direction, until I saw it on a hillside in the distance. Tomorrow. The sun set quick. I thought of Mexico. Before now, that was the closest I had come to the equator, and I recalled how much quicker the sun dissapeared compared to home. It was light at 6, and pitch black by 6:30. The sun fled Antigua, and retreated behind the Volcanoes.
Antigua
I forced myself to stay awake for the drive from Guatemala City to Antigua. I planned to fall asleep the second I sat down. The scenery had other plans as the desperate sprawl of the city quickly gave way to amazing views. We crossed a bridge that hung hundreds of feet over a valley. Shack cities populated the hillsides, possessing views that the wealthy would cannibalize one another for back home.
We entered the mountains. Morning mist danced around people walking the roadways between tiny pueblos and towns. Men propped fruits, art, and obscure furniture along the wonding highway, hoping to entice buyers. An older man with a white beard and checkered shirt smoked a cigarette in a rocking chair, surrounded by vibrant paintings of the last supper. I fought to keep my eyes open as we descended into Antigua.
The streets were narrow. Cars lined both sides of the one-way streets that we soared down, coming within centimetres of colliding.
We passed under a stone archway, connected to a large cathedral. They shared the gold paint, and white trim. The only gaps were intersections. Each city block was one attached building, dividing properties with internal walls. My English shuttlemates stopped the driver.
As he unloaded their bags, they knocked on the hotel's large oak door. It opened inward, revealing a courtyard. Second floor balconies overlooked the central fountain.
We departed, turning several times down the one-way streets. The driver stopped and pointed me towards a corridor. Bright woven colors hung everywhere, formed as blankets, bags, and hammocks, united in their vibrancy. At the end of the storefront was a wrought iron gate. A sign read 'Casa Rustica,' the hotel I booked at the last minute at LAX. With no idea of how many cheap hostels existed in Antigua (it turns out there are many,) I picked Rustica at random. It was somewhere to start.
I thanked the driver, for both the ride and allowing me to join him and his friends at breakfast. We shook hands and I walked through the gate. I approached the front desk.
"Tengo una reservacion, mi nombre Ben Sir."
The woman looked confused. For the first of what would be a million times, i pronounced my name in a way more recognizable in Spanish.
"Ben-ha-mean."
She smiled and found the slip. A white man in a sleeveless Dallas Mavericks shirt turned to me, diverting his attention from the computer behind the desk.
"You're the canuck that booked late last night over the internet right?"
"That's me."
"You know, those internet bookers gouge you. You know with their fees you're paying double the rate you would have if you had just walked up."
Great. I tried to plan ahead for the first time, defying my urge to play it as I impulsively go, and I screw myself. Lesson learned. The responsible way is always stupid.
The Texan chuckled.
"I'm sorry, I know it's bad when even foreigners treat you like you're green."
His laugh was honest and full. I liked him immediately.
"Since you're paying too much, I'll throw you in a bigger room that noone's using."
"Thanks."
"Make no mistake, it's still a small room, like all of 'em, but this one has it's own bathroom."
He led me through a lounge, and a row of washing machines the guests could use. He left me in front of room two on the first floor.
I opened the door, and appreciated his honesty. The room was tiny. The door stoped against the end of the bed before it was three quarters open. The head of the bed rested against the bathroom wall. It was tiny, but more than I needed. I was a traveller now dammit! I wouldn't be rotting in a hotel room, I'd be suckling the social nectars of Guatemala, only to return when bedding a rotating bevy of international beauties! Right?
By 7:30, I was sprawled out in my ginch, thanking God that a channel was showing Gladiator in English. I laughed at myself. I flew all this way to spend my evening kicking it with Maximus.
We entered the mountains. Morning mist danced around people walking the roadways between tiny pueblos and towns. Men propped fruits, art, and obscure furniture along the wonding highway, hoping to entice buyers. An older man with a white beard and checkered shirt smoked a cigarette in a rocking chair, surrounded by vibrant paintings of the last supper. I fought to keep my eyes open as we descended into Antigua.
The streets were narrow. Cars lined both sides of the one-way streets that we soared down, coming within centimetres of colliding.
We passed under a stone archway, connected to a large cathedral. They shared the gold paint, and white trim. The only gaps were intersections. Each city block was one attached building, dividing properties with internal walls. My English shuttlemates stopped the driver.
As he unloaded their bags, they knocked on the hotel's large oak door. It opened inward, revealing a courtyard. Second floor balconies overlooked the central fountain.
We departed, turning several times down the one-way streets. The driver stopped and pointed me towards a corridor. Bright woven colors hung everywhere, formed as blankets, bags, and hammocks, united in their vibrancy. At the end of the storefront was a wrought iron gate. A sign read 'Casa Rustica,' the hotel I booked at the last minute at LAX. With no idea of how many cheap hostels existed in Antigua (it turns out there are many,) I picked Rustica at random. It was somewhere to start.
I thanked the driver, for both the ride and allowing me to join him and his friends at breakfast. We shook hands and I walked through the gate. I approached the front desk.
"Tengo una reservacion, mi nombre Ben Sir."
The woman looked confused. For the first of what would be a million times, i pronounced my name in a way more recognizable in Spanish.
"Ben-ha-mean."
She smiled and found the slip. A white man in a sleeveless Dallas Mavericks shirt turned to me, diverting his attention from the computer behind the desk.
"You're the canuck that booked late last night over the internet right?"
"That's me."
"You know, those internet bookers gouge you. You know with their fees you're paying double the rate you would have if you had just walked up."
Great. I tried to plan ahead for the first time, defying my urge to play it as I impulsively go, and I screw myself. Lesson learned. The responsible way is always stupid.
The Texan chuckled.
"I'm sorry, I know it's bad when even foreigners treat you like you're green."
His laugh was honest and full. I liked him immediately.
"Since you're paying too much, I'll throw you in a bigger room that noone's using."
"Thanks."
"Make no mistake, it's still a small room, like all of 'em, but this one has it's own bathroom."
He led me through a lounge, and a row of washing machines the guests could use. He left me in front of room two on the first floor.
I opened the door, and appreciated his honesty. The room was tiny. The door stoped against the end of the bed before it was three quarters open. The head of the bed rested against the bathroom wall. It was tiny, but more than I needed. I was a traveller now dammit! I wouldn't be rotting in a hotel room, I'd be suckling the social nectars of Guatemala, only to return when bedding a rotating bevy of international beauties! Right?
By 7:30, I was sprawled out in my ginch, thanking God that a channel was showing Gladiator in English. I laughed at myself. I flew all this way to spend my evening kicking it with Maximus.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Buenas suerte!
I read dozens of posts about the Guatemalan City airport. They unanimously agreed that shuttles to Antigua were the safest bet. Chicken buses were the cheapest, but bags frequently dissapeared from the luggage racks on top of the converted school buses. TukTuks, three wheeled motorcarts with enclosed cabins on the back were plentiful, but occassionally prone to leaving travellers on the outskirts of Guatemala City, without their bags and passports. For about 10 dollars, a shuttle would make the 45 minute drive to Antigua in both safety and comfort.
I'm apprehensive of travel reviews. People have such a wide array of preferences. For every positive word someone voiced for a hostel, bar, or transport, there was another disgruntled person recalling how apocalyptically awful their experience was. I decided I couldn't base my plans off reading those. As nervous as I was, I trust my intuition. If I get a good feeling about a place or person, I'm going to go with it. As long as I'm not hunting down cheap cocaine in brothels, or immersed in other equally shady circumstances, I should be fine. And if I am, I hope I trust whoever brought me there. The safest route is rarely the funnest. As long as I keep my head, I should be fine.
I decided to look for a shuttle. I stepped out of the deserted Guatemala City airport at a few minutes after 5 AM. Already a group of 30 or so men had assembled. Upon site of me, the one pale traveller, they yelled in competition.
"Antigua! Antigua!"
"Best price! Best price!"
"Antigua! Best price! Best friend!"
I hid behind my sunglasses and walked past them. I stared at the overpass above me. A voice came from behind me.
"Hello my friend. My name is Joe. You need to go Antigua?"
I turned towards Joe, a short Guatemalan man with a thin moustache and Chicago Bulls baseball cap.
I recalled what I wrote in my book.
"Si, necesito ir a Antigua."
Joe began to rapidly speak Spanish. The confused look on my face informed him of my Spanish limitations
"Right this way my friend."
We walked away from the airport doors and towards a large white van. Two men sat inside. Joe introduced me to them. Both worked for him and spoke no English. We had a fragmented conversation.
"Soy de Canada."
"Si, mi pais esta mucha fria"
"Si, me gusta futbol."
Joe informed me that they needed two more passengers to make the trip worthwile. There was another flight arriving in ten minutes.
"Is it okay that we wait?"
I assured him this was fine and sat down on the concrete next to the shuttle. I was exhausted. My flight had left at three pm the previous day and I had woke at 5 to move out of my apartment.
The flight arrived and the mob of men launched into their enticements. People rushed past them. Three obvious travellers were scooped into a different shuttle which screeched off. Fearing a shift in my loyalty, Joe walked towards me.
"Very slow day. Very slow day."
"When's the next flight?"
"6:30 my friend."
I wasn't excited to wait another hour, but I committed to Joe, and would stick with him. He smiled broadly when I told him I'd wait.
"Esta bien. We go for breakfast!"
I walked towards him and the two others.
"Leave your bag here my friend."
My mind flooded with the warnings I read. The one constant rule was that you should never, NEVER leave your bag unattended in an unfamiliar place. I froze, unsure of what to do.
Joe sensed my debate.
"You can bring it, if you want."
On the one hand, I knew nothing about these men, or their reliability. I had been in Guatemala for half an hour. It would have to be a record if I lost my bag that quick. On the other hand, I felt like an asshole. My reluctance was an accusation to these men. I removed my bag and threw it in the open shuttle.
I followed them alongside a security wall. The barbwire on top was punctuated with broken glass that was grouted in, so climbing over would be impossible. We arrived at a checkpoint. The military guard nodded at the 3 drivers in recognition. Upon seeing me, he glanced quickly at Joe who spoke in a reassuring voice. Reluctantly, the guard waved me through, clipping a security card on my shirt. We walked across a concrete lot to a Guatemalan greasy spoon. Inside two women worked the tables and behind the counter while an enormous Guatemalan man attended to a grill. It sizzled and the man bellowed at Joe. Joe sat and replied with an order. The other two men wanted the same thing. Joe turned to me.
"What you want?"
"Just coffee."
"Un cafe por mi amigo."
I was excited to try my first cup of Guatemalan coffee. One of the women brought a cup on a ceramic plate. She asked a question. It was too quick for my ears.
Joe translated the simple question.
"Do you want milk or sugar?"
"No necesito gracias."
"Un cafe negro," the woman muttered as she wrote it down and spun to the group of soldiers that entered.
Cafe negro. Black coffee. My first practical lesson.
The soldiers joined us at the two picnic tables pushed together. They orders the same thing as Joe and the other drivers.
"Cafe con leche" the soldier next to me added. He unslung his automatic rifle from his shoulder and placed it on the table, inches from where my hands clutched my coffee. A soldier across the table saw me smirking at the gun. He leaned to the soldier next to him and they laughed.
The drivers food arrived. The plates stacked with black beans, rice, and a fried egg. The waitress returned with two baskets, each covered with checkered red cloths. The drivers hungrily emptied the baskets of the bread and tortillas. Pan y tortillas.
Joe looked at me.
"Desayuno tipico."
Usual, or common, breakfast.
I nodded. I picked a newspaper off the floor. I flipped through the pages, trying to find sentences I understood. I must have looked ridiculous, like a child trying to impress his parents. Coffee in hand, glancing over something I couldn't read.
The cover was what I would learn is the usual Guatemalan frontpage. In the top corner, several football players celebrated a goal. The bottom corner showed several women in tiny bikinis. The main frame displayed several bodies, laying dead in the street. They were uncovered and soaked in blood. One mans face seemed to stare into the camera.
Across the restaurant were a group of seven young women who worked at the airport. They wore matching white blouses and black pants. The drivers and soldiers alternated glances at them, many turning their heads, then emploring their friends to do the same.
One poor girl, the hefty one of the group, sat with her back to us. Her panties has raised significantly out of her pants, and over her shirt. The men thought this was riotous. I laughed.
The giggling soldier across the table looked at me and nodded his head towards the girl, flicking his eyebrows in a motion that suggested "you like the big girls?"
I assumed a perverted face and nodded, "si." The men erupted with laughter.
We paid our bills and walked back past the checkpoint. Another one of Joe's men was walking two people to our shuttle. Joe shook my hand and wished me good luck.
"Buenas suerte!"
I climbed in and sat down next to my bag.
I'm apprehensive of travel reviews. People have such a wide array of preferences. For every positive word someone voiced for a hostel, bar, or transport, there was another disgruntled person recalling how apocalyptically awful their experience was. I decided I couldn't base my plans off reading those. As nervous as I was, I trust my intuition. If I get a good feeling about a place or person, I'm going to go with it. As long as I'm not hunting down cheap cocaine in brothels, or immersed in other equally shady circumstances, I should be fine. And if I am, I hope I trust whoever brought me there. The safest route is rarely the funnest. As long as I keep my head, I should be fine.
I decided to look for a shuttle. I stepped out of the deserted Guatemala City airport at a few minutes after 5 AM. Already a group of 30 or so men had assembled. Upon site of me, the one pale traveller, they yelled in competition.
"Antigua! Antigua!"
"Best price! Best price!"
"Antigua! Best price! Best friend!"
I hid behind my sunglasses and walked past them. I stared at the overpass above me. A voice came from behind me.
"Hello my friend. My name is Joe. You need to go Antigua?"
I turned towards Joe, a short Guatemalan man with a thin moustache and Chicago Bulls baseball cap.
I recalled what I wrote in my book.
"Si, necesito ir a Antigua."
Joe began to rapidly speak Spanish. The confused look on my face informed him of my Spanish limitations
"Right this way my friend."
We walked away from the airport doors and towards a large white van. Two men sat inside. Joe introduced me to them. Both worked for him and spoke no English. We had a fragmented conversation.
"Soy de Canada."
"Si, mi pais esta mucha fria"
"Si, me gusta futbol."
Joe informed me that they needed two more passengers to make the trip worthwile. There was another flight arriving in ten minutes.
"Is it okay that we wait?"
I assured him this was fine and sat down on the concrete next to the shuttle. I was exhausted. My flight had left at three pm the previous day and I had woke at 5 to move out of my apartment.
The flight arrived and the mob of men launched into their enticements. People rushed past them. Three obvious travellers were scooped into a different shuttle which screeched off. Fearing a shift in my loyalty, Joe walked towards me.
"Very slow day. Very slow day."
"When's the next flight?"
"6:30 my friend."
I wasn't excited to wait another hour, but I committed to Joe, and would stick with him. He smiled broadly when I told him I'd wait.
"Esta bien. We go for breakfast!"
I walked towards him and the two others.
"Leave your bag here my friend."
My mind flooded with the warnings I read. The one constant rule was that you should never, NEVER leave your bag unattended in an unfamiliar place. I froze, unsure of what to do.
Joe sensed my debate.
"You can bring it, if you want."
On the one hand, I knew nothing about these men, or their reliability. I had been in Guatemala for half an hour. It would have to be a record if I lost my bag that quick. On the other hand, I felt like an asshole. My reluctance was an accusation to these men. I removed my bag and threw it in the open shuttle.
I followed them alongside a security wall. The barbwire on top was punctuated with broken glass that was grouted in, so climbing over would be impossible. We arrived at a checkpoint. The military guard nodded at the 3 drivers in recognition. Upon seeing me, he glanced quickly at Joe who spoke in a reassuring voice. Reluctantly, the guard waved me through, clipping a security card on my shirt. We walked across a concrete lot to a Guatemalan greasy spoon. Inside two women worked the tables and behind the counter while an enormous Guatemalan man attended to a grill. It sizzled and the man bellowed at Joe. Joe sat and replied with an order. The other two men wanted the same thing. Joe turned to me.
"What you want?"
"Just coffee."
"Un cafe por mi amigo."
I was excited to try my first cup of Guatemalan coffee. One of the women brought a cup on a ceramic plate. She asked a question. It was too quick for my ears.
Joe translated the simple question.
"Do you want milk or sugar?"
"No necesito gracias."
"Un cafe negro," the woman muttered as she wrote it down and spun to the group of soldiers that entered.
Cafe negro. Black coffee. My first practical lesson.
The soldiers joined us at the two picnic tables pushed together. They orders the same thing as Joe and the other drivers.
"Cafe con leche" the soldier next to me added. He unslung his automatic rifle from his shoulder and placed it on the table, inches from where my hands clutched my coffee. A soldier across the table saw me smirking at the gun. He leaned to the soldier next to him and they laughed.
The drivers food arrived. The plates stacked with black beans, rice, and a fried egg. The waitress returned with two baskets, each covered with checkered red cloths. The drivers hungrily emptied the baskets of the bread and tortillas. Pan y tortillas.
Joe looked at me.
"Desayuno tipico."
Usual, or common, breakfast.
I nodded. I picked a newspaper off the floor. I flipped through the pages, trying to find sentences I understood. I must have looked ridiculous, like a child trying to impress his parents. Coffee in hand, glancing over something I couldn't read.
The cover was what I would learn is the usual Guatemalan frontpage. In the top corner, several football players celebrated a goal. The bottom corner showed several women in tiny bikinis. The main frame displayed several bodies, laying dead in the street. They were uncovered and soaked in blood. One mans face seemed to stare into the camera.
Across the restaurant were a group of seven young women who worked at the airport. They wore matching white blouses and black pants. The drivers and soldiers alternated glances at them, many turning their heads, then emploring their friends to do the same.
One poor girl, the hefty one of the group, sat with her back to us. Her panties has raised significantly out of her pants, and over her shirt. The men thought this was riotous. I laughed.
The giggling soldier across the table looked at me and nodded his head towards the girl, flicking his eyebrows in a motion that suggested "you like the big girls?"
I assumed a perverted face and nodded, "si." The men erupted with laughter.
We paid our bills and walked back past the checkpoint. Another one of Joe's men was walking two people to our shuttle. Joe shook my hand and wished me good luck.
"Buenas suerte!"
I climbed in and sat down next to my bag.
Flight 3
All notifications on the airplane intercom are read in Spanish. I'm the only anglophone on the flight. The flight attendants rotate through familiar motions in a different language.
Would I like a pop (refresco) to drink? Do I want eggs or pancakes for breakfast. Te quiere juevos o panqueques por desayuno?
I contemplate my insufficient Spanish. I pour over my dictionary, and practice conjugating verbs. I write down phrases that I will need once I land in Guatemala City. I need to find a shuttle to Antigua.
Necesito ir a Antigua.
Cuanto cuesta por una persona?
My stomach clenches with excitement. I'm getting very close. I look out my window into the darkness that surrounds the airplane. I wonder which part of Mexico I'm flying above right now. The only Mexican city I've flown into is Manzanillo, which is on the Pacific Coast. I'm crossing new territory.
The plane lurches violently. The pilots voice emanates from the speakers. The seatbelt light turns on . The handful of other passengers tighten their belts.
The plane rocks and I have no idea what he said. I think 'plane' was in there somewhere. My Spanish needs work.
Would I like a pop (refresco) to drink? Do I want eggs or pancakes for breakfast. Te quiere juevos o panqueques por desayuno?
I contemplate my insufficient Spanish. I pour over my dictionary, and practice conjugating verbs. I write down phrases that I will need once I land in Guatemala City. I need to find a shuttle to Antigua.
Necesito ir a Antigua.
Cuanto cuesta por una persona?
My stomach clenches with excitement. I'm getting very close. I look out my window into the darkness that surrounds the airplane. I wonder which part of Mexico I'm flying above right now. The only Mexican city I've flown into is Manzanillo, which is on the Pacific Coast. I'm crossing new territory.
The plane lurches violently. The pilots voice emanates from the speakers. The seatbelt light turns on . The handful of other passengers tighten their belts.
The plane rocks and I have no idea what he said. I think 'plane' was in there somewhere. My Spanish needs work.
City of Angels (not the Nicholas Cage movie)
The last time I passed through the frantic mandibles of LAX, it was Christmas Day, 2007. My flight didn't depart until the next day of business, preventing me from checking my bags or crossing security. I found a corner on the second floor of the International terminal where I could wait and sleep.
This time, my layover is a comparitively small four hours. I feel experienced. My immaculate geography tells me that Los Angeles to Guatemala City is an international flight, and I begin walking to the familiar terminal.
It's frantic inside. A multitude of languages echo over the intercom. The check-in lineups are enormous and ethnically divided. Mexicans wait for Air Mexicana, and hundreds of Chinese wait patiently at several airlines. The amount of cowboy hats in the Air Mexicana line is staggering. Many of the Chinese passengers clutch to large carts filled with large boxes, mostly electronics that are heavily taped and ready to make the flight back to where they were probably assembled.
Hanging from the ceiling, in the corner is a gigantic, non-digital departure chart. When a flight departs, it dissapears from the top of the chart, and the remaining flights move one slot up. Hundreds of white placard letters flip over in unison. The sound is antiquated and defiant to the digital age.
I watch the bottom of the chart. 1:00 AM to San Jose, Costa Rica. The 1:30 to Guatemala City should appear any second as the 12:15 Lima vanishes. Flip. 1:45 Mexico City.
What the fuck?
I claw for my boarding pass. I search the ticket booths for anything that mentions my airline. My confidence for navigating LAX is disintegrating. I don't want to spend a second longer here than I have to. An old black man senses my confusion. He has white hair and glasses.
"You look lost young man."
I explain my situation to him.
"Your flight should be right here. It seems every city except the one you need is up on that chart."
He laughs for a few seconds. He finds no reason to be stressed, and I find this reassuring.
"I wish I could help you more son, but I think your safest bet is to talk to one of those pretty Mexican ladies over there."
He points to the Air Mexicana greeters, smiling in their red skirts. I thank him and ask his name.
"My name is Richard. I've volunteered at this airport for 8 years, collecting funds for disadvantaged youth in Los Angeles. I don't want you to think I only offer my help for donations, but if you have anything you can give it's greatly appreciated. We accept any currency, but not coins."
He's wearing an ID badge around his neck that declares his organization, and airport security clearance.
"What about Canadian coins?"
"Oh yes, we take the one and two dollar coins."
I give my last six Canadian dollars. They won't be any use to me in a few hours. Richard's words and laughter have been calming. He thanks me with a firm handshake and wide smile.
I approach one of the Air Mexican women. I'm excited to use my first Spanish.
I mumble something intended to mean: 'excuse me, where are flights for this airline located.'
It comes out closer to: 'I don't know my airplane.'
The woman stares at me. She's gorgeous and reaches for my ticket. In unaccented English she infroms me that the airline has been moved to terminal 5.
I don't remember if I said thank you or gracias. Either way she thought I was an idiot.
I hustled along, and on to Guatemala City.
This time, my layover is a comparitively small four hours. I feel experienced. My immaculate geography tells me that Los Angeles to Guatemala City is an international flight, and I begin walking to the familiar terminal.
It's frantic inside. A multitude of languages echo over the intercom. The check-in lineups are enormous and ethnically divided. Mexicans wait for Air Mexicana, and hundreds of Chinese wait patiently at several airlines. The amount of cowboy hats in the Air Mexicana line is staggering. Many of the Chinese passengers clutch to large carts filled with large boxes, mostly electronics that are heavily taped and ready to make the flight back to where they were probably assembled.
Hanging from the ceiling, in the corner is a gigantic, non-digital departure chart. When a flight departs, it dissapears from the top of the chart, and the remaining flights move one slot up. Hundreds of white placard letters flip over in unison. The sound is antiquated and defiant to the digital age.
I watch the bottom of the chart. 1:00 AM to San Jose, Costa Rica. The 1:30 to Guatemala City should appear any second as the 12:15 Lima vanishes. Flip. 1:45 Mexico City.
What the fuck?
I claw for my boarding pass. I search the ticket booths for anything that mentions my airline. My confidence for navigating LAX is disintegrating. I don't want to spend a second longer here than I have to. An old black man senses my confusion. He has white hair and glasses.
"You look lost young man."
I explain my situation to him.
"Your flight should be right here. It seems every city except the one you need is up on that chart."
He laughs for a few seconds. He finds no reason to be stressed, and I find this reassuring.
"I wish I could help you more son, but I think your safest bet is to talk to one of those pretty Mexican ladies over there."
He points to the Air Mexicana greeters, smiling in their red skirts. I thank him and ask his name.
"My name is Richard. I've volunteered at this airport for 8 years, collecting funds for disadvantaged youth in Los Angeles. I don't want you to think I only offer my help for donations, but if you have anything you can give it's greatly appreciated. We accept any currency, but not coins."
He's wearing an ID badge around his neck that declares his organization, and airport security clearance.
"What about Canadian coins?"
"Oh yes, we take the one and two dollar coins."
I give my last six Canadian dollars. They won't be any use to me in a few hours. Richard's words and laughter have been calming. He thanks me with a firm handshake and wide smile.
I approach one of the Air Mexican women. I'm excited to use my first Spanish.
I mumble something intended to mean: 'excuse me, where are flights for this airline located.'
It comes out closer to: 'I don't know my airplane.'
The woman stares at me. She's gorgeous and reaches for my ticket. In unaccented English she infroms me that the airline has been moved to terminal 5.
I don't remember if I said thank you or gracias. Either way she thought I was an idiot.
I hustled along, and on to Guatemala City.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Hallelujah Halifax! (Sounds better than Hallelujah Denver)
Airports are incovenient for addicts.
Regardless of how short any smokers layover is, there is only one thing on their mind when wheels hit the tarmac. Where can I smoke?
Fuck the baggage, I'll find the carousel later. The kids can ask any number of strangers for directions to the toilet. There could be a mandatory cavity search performed by Andre the giant, and smokers would still be running through the terminal faster than Macualey Culkin.
Except in Denver.
As I returned from Manzanillo, Mexico, on Boxing Day, 2007, I discovered that Denver International was The Last Mohican of indoor airport smoking.
I was exhausted. I killed an epic fourteen hour, Christmas Day layover at LAX, and was still one flight away from home. I only had an hour before departure. I searched for the baggage claim sign, directing me to the nearest exit. Then I remembered how vast the airport was.
When passing through with my family years before, I had been amazed at the immensity of Denver International. It was the only airport my brothers and I had seen the enormous treadmills that carry weary, ancient, and obese travellers to their departure gates. The gauntlet of treadmills seemed to go on forever.
I consulted a television map of the airport. I was several terminals away from baggage and would not make my connecting flight. I was furious. Then, like a beacon from the heavens of vice, I saw Airways Lounge on the second floor. In letters as big as the name of the establishment, it said 'Smoking Permitted.' I think I nearly wept.
The location of Airways was left imprinted on my brain. I exited the plane, hurried through the pedway at a desperate pace, and broke for ten minutes of stinky reprieve. I remembered from my last visit there was a one drink minimum to be eligible for Airways benefits. I had zero dollars that time. The waitress allowed me to stay anyway. I must have looked that bad. I plan to tip well this time in atonement for that wrinkled, and smoke weathered angel.
I think I aged ten visual years walking through the vacuum sealed entrance. The smoke was thick and overwhelming. It didn't matter, I sit at the table nearest the bar and pull out an American twenty dollar bill.
I look at my fellow addicted travellers. Many are eating hot dogs. A sign informs me it's the Airways deal. A pint (sixteen ounces), a hotdog, and a bag of potato chips for ten dollars. The Japanese man at the table next to me is inhaling two of these deals. The waitress approaches, emptying ashtrays along the way.
"Jameson and ginger please."
"Make it a double for a dollar more."
I can't tell if it's a statement or a question. My trip has yet to truly begin. The days of fretting my dire financial state are ages away. I'm buying magazines before my flights to take my mind of flying. Various nuts and candy serve as excellent distractions. I'd be foolish not to get a double.
"Yes. Absolutely Yes."
She returns a moment later, collecting half-full ashtrays that were empty two minutes before.
"That'll be 9.50 for the drink"
Goddamn! I pay the woman and request eight dollars back. I think about the racket Airways has going for it. I read somewhere that 12% of adults are smokers. If that number is accurate, Airways has a deatclutch on a substantial and desperate demographic everyday. Denver is one of the biggest connecting hubs in North America (alongside Minneapolis and Chicago.) If for example, 100,000 people fly through daily, Airways has 12,000 people salivating to suckle from her nicotine stained teet.
I happily pay for the drink. It pleases me to see Airways participates in the American pasttime of freepouring. My tiny rocks glass is three quarters whiskey, the other a mix of ice and Canada Dry. I finish the drink in three moderate sips.
"You want another drink?"
I will be in Guatemala in less than twenty four hours, where ten dollars will buy me five drinks in bar. I should be saving my money.
"I would love another."
"Make it a double for a dollar more?"
"Yes. Absolutely yes."
Regardless of how short any smokers layover is, there is only one thing on their mind when wheels hit the tarmac. Where can I smoke?
Fuck the baggage, I'll find the carousel later. The kids can ask any number of strangers for directions to the toilet. There could be a mandatory cavity search performed by Andre the giant, and smokers would still be running through the terminal faster than Macualey Culkin.
Except in Denver.
As I returned from Manzanillo, Mexico, on Boxing Day, 2007, I discovered that Denver International was The Last Mohican of indoor airport smoking.
I was exhausted. I killed an epic fourteen hour, Christmas Day layover at LAX, and was still one flight away from home. I only had an hour before departure. I searched for the baggage claim sign, directing me to the nearest exit. Then I remembered how vast the airport was.
When passing through with my family years before, I had been amazed at the immensity of Denver International. It was the only airport my brothers and I had seen the enormous treadmills that carry weary, ancient, and obese travellers to their departure gates. The gauntlet of treadmills seemed to go on forever.
I consulted a television map of the airport. I was several terminals away from baggage and would not make my connecting flight. I was furious. Then, like a beacon from the heavens of vice, I saw Airways Lounge on the second floor. In letters as big as the name of the establishment, it said 'Smoking Permitted.' I think I nearly wept.
The location of Airways was left imprinted on my brain. I exited the plane, hurried through the pedway at a desperate pace, and broke for ten minutes of stinky reprieve. I remembered from my last visit there was a one drink minimum to be eligible for Airways benefits. I had zero dollars that time. The waitress allowed me to stay anyway. I must have looked that bad. I plan to tip well this time in atonement for that wrinkled, and smoke weathered angel.
I think I aged ten visual years walking through the vacuum sealed entrance. The smoke was thick and overwhelming. It didn't matter, I sit at the table nearest the bar and pull out an American twenty dollar bill.
I look at my fellow addicted travellers. Many are eating hot dogs. A sign informs me it's the Airways deal. A pint (sixteen ounces), a hotdog, and a bag of potato chips for ten dollars. The Japanese man at the table next to me is inhaling two of these deals. The waitress approaches, emptying ashtrays along the way.
"Jameson and ginger please."
"Make it a double for a dollar more."
I can't tell if it's a statement or a question. My trip has yet to truly begin. The days of fretting my dire financial state are ages away. I'm buying magazines before my flights to take my mind of flying. Various nuts and candy serve as excellent distractions. I'd be foolish not to get a double.
"Yes. Absolutely Yes."
She returns a moment later, collecting half-full ashtrays that were empty two minutes before.
"That'll be 9.50 for the drink"
Goddamn! I pay the woman and request eight dollars back. I think about the racket Airways has going for it. I read somewhere that 12% of adults are smokers. If that number is accurate, Airways has a deatclutch on a substantial and desperate demographic everyday. Denver is one of the biggest connecting hubs in North America (alongside Minneapolis and Chicago.) If for example, 100,000 people fly through daily, Airways has 12,000 people salivating to suckle from her nicotine stained teet.
I happily pay for the drink. It pleases me to see Airways participates in the American pasttime of freepouring. My tiny rocks glass is three quarters whiskey, the other a mix of ice and Canada Dry. I finish the drink in three moderate sips.
"You want another drink?"
I will be in Guatemala in less than twenty four hours, where ten dollars will buy me five drinks in bar. I should be saving my money.
"I would love another."
"Make it a double for a dollar more?"
"Yes. Absolutely yes."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Vamos!
I have an unfamiliar knot in my stomach. I´m standing outside Edmonton International. I hate how familiar this airport is. There´s been too many goodbyes here. That might be why I hate this moment. There´s nothing hard about it. I don´t feel like I´m leaving anything behind. Though, that´s exactly why it made so much sense to leave.
My stomach is a rollercoaster. I have no idea what I´ve gotten myself into. The plans end after the flight itinerary. Edmonton to Denver. Denver to Los Angeles. Los Angeles to Guatemala City.
I´m excited and I´m worried. What friends will I make travelling on my own? Will I make friends travelling on my own? I'm haunted by the travel experiences of others. Will mine be as formative? Will I lose myself as completely and enjoyably as they did? Will I lose too much of myself? Will I find a contentment that I lack back home?
I´ve been blabbing about epic travel plans for several months and as I sit in front of the airport I realize I´m 25 and preparing for my first immersive travel experience. I should have paid more attention in Spanish class. I don´t want to end up sitting alone in the corner of a bar. No matter where you are in the world, it´s never cool to be that guy.
I want to call someone. I want to vocalize my fears. I can´t. I wanted to do this on my own, and I will do this on my own. Maybe I've too heavily relied on others in the past. These moments make us stronger, to embrace isolation and keep moving. I finish the last of my many pre-flight cigarettes and walk inside. I know I can do this.
My stomach is a rollercoaster. I have no idea what I´ve gotten myself into. The plans end after the flight itinerary. Edmonton to Denver. Denver to Los Angeles. Los Angeles to Guatemala City.
I´m excited and I´m worried. What friends will I make travelling on my own? Will I make friends travelling on my own? I'm haunted by the travel experiences of others. Will mine be as formative? Will I lose myself as completely and enjoyably as they did? Will I lose too much of myself? Will I find a contentment that I lack back home?
I´ve been blabbing about epic travel plans for several months and as I sit in front of the airport I realize I´m 25 and preparing for my first immersive travel experience. I should have paid more attention in Spanish class. I don´t want to end up sitting alone in the corner of a bar. No matter where you are in the world, it´s never cool to be that guy.
I want to call someone. I want to vocalize my fears. I can´t. I wanted to do this on my own, and I will do this on my own. Maybe I've too heavily relied on others in the past. These moments make us stronger, to embrace isolation and keep moving. I finish the last of my many pre-flight cigarettes and walk inside. I know I can do this.
Skeleton Keys- Words from Livingston, Guatemala
I´m sitting in an internet cafe overlooking the piers of Livingston, Guatemala. The peeling green paint matches the aging tin roofs outside. I´m obsessing over the album Collapser by Banner Pilot while looking out a window over the Carribean. This album, and the world in general is to put it eloquently, pretty rad right now.
A few weeks ago an English girl dropped my first, and only camera into a river in Lanquin. I have no way to photographically document my travels in Central America. It´s another roadblock to remembering the detailed memories. I´m starting this travel blog to recall as much of it as possible.
I will be starting from the beginning. I left home about seven weeks ago and have a lot of time to make up. My plan is to make several postings at a time. I hope reading these stories is as enjoyable as living them. Writing them certainly has been.
A few weeks ago an English girl dropped my first, and only camera into a river in Lanquin. I have no way to photographically document my travels in Central America. It´s another roadblock to remembering the detailed memories. I´m starting this travel blog to recall as much of it as possible.
I will be starting from the beginning. I left home about seven weeks ago and have a lot of time to make up. My plan is to make several postings at a time. I hope reading these stories is as enjoyable as living them. Writing them certainly has been.
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