Guatemala

It had started to rain.  Large puddles were forming in the patches of dirt where the concrete had been eroded completely.  The streets looked as though they had been paved a century ago, in fact they probably had.  Frank and I walked over to the mango stand which was covered by a large beach umbrella.  The owner looked at us expectantly, and I shelled out the five quetzals for the bag of mango with lime and salt.  It was a more delicious combination than anything I had tasted before.  Upon finishing our mango we stepped back out into what had now morphed into a downpour.  I was tired, sore and covered in dirt which was now becoming a muddy paste under the rainfall.  I signaled for a tuktuk and five rushed over, each one now covered in pieces of clear plastic, one with merely garbage bags.  We stepped into the first one to arrive.  "Kilometro quatro por favor," I said to the driver.  "Muy bien, la casa del doctor, no?"  Everyone seemed to know the owners of the house we were staying in.  He immediately slammed on the gas and we began flying through town.  The sun had disappeared and the sky had become nearly pitch black.  The one tiny light in the front of the tuktuk was barely strong enough to illuminate the road five feet in front of us.  I decided that what would be would be and just enjoyed the ride which we took at least twice a day.  I leaned my head out from the plastic sheeting and let the rain and wind whip against my face, reminding me that I was alive.  When we finally reached our house we stepped out and admired the view.  It was a purely apocalyptic scene.  The pitch black volcano was getting repeatedly struck by lightning as storm clouds loomed over head. 

That rain that so courteously ushered us into the beautiful town of Panajachel graced us with its presence every single day.  It never seemed to stop.  The days would begin beautifully.  The sun shining bright, blue skies as far as the eye could see with a pleasant breeze, like your own personal air conditioner.  Then the rain would sneak up on you.  One moment you look into the sky to appreciate the amazing day, then in the three seconds in which you close your eyes to let the sun bathe upon your face the clouds would sneak in.  When you opened your eyes the sun was gone, along with its warmth.  It had been unceremoniously replaced with grey and cold.  The rain came so quickly that we had to attempt to put on our ponchos frantically, often unable to pull them over our heads in time to avoid being drenched.

While I cursed the rain for muddying my clothes and confining me to the indoors, most of the locals welcomed it with open arms.  These villages were all originally farming communities, and most of them still were.  The rain grew their crops, put food on their table and a little money in their pockets.  I too learned to appreciate the rain.  Every day it baptized this corrupt and dirty country.  It washed the pollution out of the air, the blood from the streets, and woke the drunks from their alcohol induced stupor.  As we learned firsthand, alcohol was a major problem in Guatemala.  We passed many a vomiting or passed out man.  These men contributed nothing to their communities.  They abandoned wives and children, stole and begged for enough money to buy the next drink.

`           There were more dogs in Sharon's house than on the streets.  As the painted black metal gate was pulled open from the inside we dogs went wild.  They were barking, jumping, running, wagging, pooping and peeing.  And they hadn't even let out the puppies yet.   Sharon came busting out of her house, and welcomed us to Guatemala.  She ran the "Mayan Families" organization which seemed to be the glue holding together this entire town.  Her house seemed more like a small village than anything else.  There were entire families sitting waiting, for something, and her kitchen was bustling with small Mayan women cooking something that I could smell over the dogs.  For every five minutes we were there, it seemed another person would arrive.  It was overwhelming, even for the few hours we were there.  I assumed this must have been a particularly busy day, but it was really just the norm. 

We jumped in the back of the pickup truck.  No seatbelts, high speeds and draw dropping cliffs, maybe this trip was going to be a little fun.  As we hurtled toward our destination, I couldn't help but smile.  On our journey to the first barrio we were going to be working on we passed beautiful wildlife and amazing waterfalls.  Alongside these things of beauty were malnourished children lugging bundles of wood twice their size up hills which even our truck struggled to climb, and streets signs  riddled with bullet holes.  While the bloody revolution may have ended, the ever present gangs kept the violence alive.  Every rock, telephone pole and stray piece of concrete was painted with the names of the two rival political parties of the revolution.

No I don't want a bracelet.  No, no necklace either.  Thanks, but no thanks.  Look, I have no money.  My pockets are empty, really they're empty I swear.  Please don't follow me.  Damn it.  Ok, ok you win, just take this.  More? You want more.  Really I have NO MORE money.  The children are the worst.  They smile, run around and play with you.  Every single one of them is the sweetest kid you have ever met.   That is until you begin to ignore them and refuse them money.  Then you hear a quick "fuck you gringo."  You do a double-take.  Up until a minute ago this kid didn't speak a word of English, but no, you definitely heard correctly.  In this country niceness is perceived as a weakness.  If you smile or act the least bit interested in any of the things the many street vendors have to sell, you are immediately spotted as prey.  You are consequently stalked as they wait for the moment to go in for the kill.  If you thought you had endurance, you are wrong.  There is no limit to the amount of time that they will pursue you.  Eventually you tire and simply accept your fate, there is no way out, you have been outplayed.  

Coca? Weed?  I have the best, hydroponical.  Purple, white widow, very good, as much as you need.  I looked over at Frank and we both laughed.  Ok bro, were from California, we have the best, the stuff down here is just bammer.  Four or five times a day we were offered drugs.  Luckily before we left we had received a bit of a lecture.  "Unless you want to spend five years in a Guatemalan prison you will not buy any drugs while we are down there.  The whole police system is corrupt and you better believe we are not paying the bribe to get you out."  My parents never believed me when I told them that I didn't even smoke anymore.  It wasn't a health precaution or even school related.  I just didn't like the feeling of being high any more.  I felt too "out of it" and was tired of being content with doing absolutely nothing.  However I won't lie to you, those offers that we received every single day became more and more enticing.  With each new proposition our wills were slowly worn down.  I mean, how bad could five years in a Guatemalan prison really be?

One morning we woke up early, really early.  We hopped on a bus that took us on a two hour drive to Chi Chi, the town home to the biggest market I had ever seen.  It was the type of place that you could walk in one day and never come out.  Little booths and stalls stretched as far as the eye could see.  Hammocks, pipes, knives and clothes covered every square inch of available room.  People were packed into the small streets like cattle.  It was a struggle just to get around.  I reached into my back pocket and put my wallet in my front pocket.  Couldn't be too safe I thought.  Frank had told me to tuck all my zippers into my backpack.  Not a bad idea.  We weren't there ten minutes when I felt the first hand touching my backpack.  I laughed to myself and turned around.  Whoever it was had already disappeared back into the crowd.  Frank at this point had flipped his backpack around and was carrying it on his chest like a baby.  I wasn't surprised.  Frank might have had blonde hair and blue eyes but he was more Jewish about money than I was.

A pungent smell crept into my nostrils.  I gagged a little and then caught myself.  We had managed to wander into the local section of the market.  There wasn't a gringo in sight.  Un-refrigerated meat hung from the ceiling and fish lined the tables.  Parts of animals I had never seen before were being haggled over.  The flies were overwhelming.  They surrounded everything and danced over the meat and fish without any form of restraint.  Nobody made any attempt to shoo them away.  I guessed it was a pretty futile effort.  At this point it was so crowded that there was no hope of turning around.  All we could do was follow the flow of traffic.  When we finally saw an opening we struggled to fight our way towards it.  Our attempts to flee weren't aided by the locals in any way.  No holes were made and we were shamelessly cut off as if we didn't exist.  Yeah I know white people suck, we fucked you over a bunch, I deserve it, fine.  When we finally burst out of the putrid meat market the fresh air struck me in the face and I could finally breathe again.

BANG!  Holy shit they fucking bombed us.  The revolution is starting again.  I thought this fucking country was safe now.  My ears are still ringing.  That means I'm alive.  That's a good thing.  Maybe it was just lightning.  God knows its struck just about everywhere but our house.  My nerves were finally calmed.  I looked over to the kitchen where the deafening bang had emanated from only to see my brother standing in front of the oven in shock, his legs visibly singed.  The oven door and the compartment below it were suspiciously open.  Suddenly all the pieces assembled themselves in my mind.  Alex you are a FUCKING retard.  You could have killed us all you piece of shit.  My mom tried to calm me down but I wasn't having any of that.  I should beat your little punk ass right now.  Is there no brain in your tiny little skull? 

There were no electric stoves in this town, nor did anyone seem to have a microwave.  My brother had tried to cook tortillas in the oven, which was a bad idea to begin with considering he could barely work a toaster.  He had turned the oven to 450 degrees, but had failed to press the ignition switch that lit the gas allowing the oven to function correctly.  Instead, the oven filled with gas for five minutes until, luckily, he leaned on the ignition switch, unleashing a massive explosion.  While it scared the crap out of us no real damage was done.  If he had left it on for a few more minutes I could very easily not be here today.  It was a fitting end our stay in Guatemala.  Everything we had experienced in Guatemala seemed to be leading up to something, just what it was we never really knew.  That night we packed up our things preparing for our thirteen hour drive to Honduras.  As it turned out, the near death explosion wasn't so much an ending to our Guatemala experience, but a prelude to our adventures in Honduras, where we bribed the police, nearly died on the freeway, and almost fought a taxi driver.  And Honduras was supposed to be our vacation portion of the trip.  Go figure.