Wrong Turn Through the Market

Bus station in Xela from window of chicken bus

I'm on hyper alert these days.

Time stood still on Saturday in the biggest moment of panic since I left Mexico.


In two terrifying seconds, maybe less, my wallet was gone with all the cash I'd finally managed to get from the ABM as well as the bank card itself. It's true. The front pocket of your jeans is no place to keep your wallet in Guatemela. Your cash has to be kept in separate small amounts and secret places and you must never take your hand off your bags on the street. Looks like I'll have to start wearing my backpack in the front like everyone else I've seen. It doesn't look very ergonomic but I'll give it a whirl.

I left Casa Argentina with a Korean named Beck. The mini-bus was supposed to drop us off at Terminal Minerva where all the chicken buses meet. Instead we stepped outside to a market. There must have been some misunderstanding but Beck knew where we were. All we had to do was walk through the crowded market and we'd be there. No problem.

The last hurdle was the indoor market at the end of the street. Beck sailed on through with no problems but suddenly 3 old fat women in traditional clothing separated us by jamming up the entrance. No one was going anywhere, in or out. I was pushed against a woman selling sugar, salt and grains from big open bags and she shooed me away from the goods but there was no place to go. Suddenly it was a tight nasty mosh pit. A man in a cowby hat barreled up past from the inside, filling the spot where I had been. His aggressive elbow sent me to the far side of the grannies and then I was somehow caught in the middle of all three of them and they pressed against me hard all at once, squeezing the breath out of me. I barely felt the hand on my thigh when the dam broke. Everyone started moving again. I slapped my hand against my wallet pocket. Nothing there but me and my pants.

Total terror. I had just met my doom. Not a single quetzal to my name and no way of getting any more. I wouldn't be getting to Atitlan that day and it was a long walk home without any food or water. My lungs filled with helium but it was no high pitched chipmunk voice that came out of my mouth. All I said was "Hey!" like one of those big boomer fireworks or a cop with a particularly intimidating voice of command shouting "Freeze!". Everyone jumped. I spied my wallet on the floor under the foot of one of the corrupt old biddies. I crouched fast, dashed my hand through all the legs like an angry rattle snake, before anyone had a chance to kick it away and it was mine again. I grabbed it with a death grip and got the hell out of there, taking advantage of the lull in traffic while I still could. A different man with a white cowboy hat kept asking "Listo?" Anybody out there know what that means?

I had one quick moment with enough elbow room to check the contents. OK. The card was still there and at least a healthy chunk of cash. Beck was still marching slowly along up ahead, oblivious to all the commotion. The man in the white hat had run around the other corridor of the market to catch up with me, still asking "Listo?" He looked very concerned so I assured him I was okay with some universal body language, wiping pretend sweat from my brow with relief.

I'll never know exactly what happened. I think it was a combined effort between the three old hags, the woman with the bulk food stall and Mr. Elbows. How my wallet ended up on the floor beneath that woman's foot instead of in one of those charming hand woven shopping bags, I'll never know for sure. Maybe she just dropped it, thinking the gig was up or maybe the plan was to kick it to another cohort like a well choreographed soccer pass. I think it was my yelp. This yelp, sort of like a controlled focussed primal scream, has previously saved me on my bicycle from banging into doors swinging open from parked cars without warning or being sideswiped by motorists talking on cellphones. It's way more effective than a bell. Everyone jumped and froze for a second. I wonder if I didn't startle it out of her wrinkled hand or give her enough of a jolt to make her fumble and miss the bag.

I've never had any serious problems travelling before, at least not like I've had in Guatemela. You really can't be too careful here. This is the second time I thought I was going to be stranded without cash. I am definitely going to find another way to carry my belongings, especially the finances.

I'm thinking of hiding my wallet somewhere and buying another to put in the same pants pocket as always. Instead of finding money, the lucky thief will find a wad of notes on pages ripped from my notebook with valuable messages like: It's wrong to steal.; Keep your mitts out of other people's pockets. or You may end up in jail. If anyone out there can think of any other messages for the decoy wallet, please share them in the comments.