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.
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