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.

Chilly Xela

In the end, everything works out. I landed in a very nice hostel and I have a room to myself. But, whoa, this town is cold. My first impressions of Xela, what with the ATM panic and all, weren't so great. As I've met more friendly and interesting people, it has grown on me.


It rained yesterday. The pictures don't quite show how relentlessly decrepit this city is. I stepped out of the hostel twice on simple errands and got lost in the labyrinth on my way back. Everything seemed a little menacing and unfriendly The rain didn't help. I realize it was largely a perspective issue. It was cold and wet. No wonder everyone looked so miserable. I felt the same.

Here at the hostel, people were going to their rooms in the middle of the day just to cocoon themselves under all of those warm blankets. I did it myself for about 5 minutes until an earthquake forced me out of bed again. I knew it wasn't a big earthquake and I almost ignored it until I realized I was lying right beside a big window that might drop heavy shards of glass all over my shivering body. I stepped under the threshold and chatted to other guests. Some of them were a bit freaked. It was their first earthquake ever. I rather enjoyed my first one in Mexico, for the sheer novelty,like a young child seeing snow for the first time but maybe I'm too stupid to survive and only luck has kept me going this far in life.

The earthquake was a big one, all the way from Chiapas. Here's hoping San Cristobal is still standing. I met some people heading there tomorrow and reminded them to check the news just in case this was a bad time to drop in.

It's nice here but I didn't come all this way just to visit bank machines, drink coffee and chat with strangers at the hostal. The big activity for Xela is the ten hour hike up Santa Maria volcano. On my first night, I heard a crowd of people leaving at midnight on a guided tour in the rain. They were back the next day, twelve hours later. with purple lips. I walked over to ask about the trip, figuring they'd be bursting with stories if they had a good time and quickly understood that wasn't the case as they didn't feel much like talking. One girl said she was extremely glad to be back. They couldn't see a thing while they were up there because of the rain. People were hurt the same night from another tour group on the same trip. I heard it involved rescue helicopters. Another group on a day trip yesterday didn't make it all the way to the top before the trip was canceled. There were concerns that it was going to blow. A young Korean I met this morning was with that group and a fall on slippery rocks gave his back a twist he's still feeling today. I've decided to skip the volcano.


Instead, I visited the free musem in the town square. ----- Incidentally I've learned that "zocalo" is more of a distinct Mexican word than Spanish. Here in Guatemela, they call it a park.------It wasn't a warm, heated museum but at least it was indoors. All of the Guatemelan history was lost on me. I can't read Spanish. The natural history section was just a little odd. There were stuffed animals including a lion with a tongue that could have been made of red Play-dough that completely spoiled the effect. And then there were all of these things preserved in jars like snakes and fetuses, one of which looked kind of human, but surely not. The shark fetus already looked rather sharky.

Night came and my mood eventually lifted. I found everyone back at the hostel very friendly and we were all more or less in better spirits once we resigned ourselves to the constant chill.

There are some great people staying here, a lot of them long term guests studying Spanish at local schools or volunteering on various local development projects without even food and shelter for recompense. Ezekiel from Argentina has been here much longer than expected since he broke his ankle one night from a fall on dark wet concrete stairs. His foot has been in a cast ever since. He can't go anywhere so it's very lucky we have free wireless. He goes to a rustic cantina for all meals just because it's the closest place. I went along last night and was very impressed. Good wholesome food and a very downscale and authentic ambience. Everyone there, children included, greeted their best customer with big smiles.

I've been traveling with two bottles of home made mezcal from Zipolite, a big one for Crazy Horse's friend in Parachela and a little one for me. Ezekiel and I shared a night cap, hoping it would melt the chill. It worked! I love mezcal more than ever. Others looked very interested and I wanted to share it with everyone but they all politely refused. It was probably for the best as I might have been tempted to pull out the big bottle as well and I am honor bound to deliver it to Lonny. That means I must head there immediately tomorrow. Besides, it's raining again.

Panic in Guatemala

I made it to Guatemala. I'm here in a cold, mostly friendly hostel in downtown Quetzaltenango (aka Xela/ pr: Chella). I don't think I'll be staying long. I'm replanning the whole itinerary.

The goal was to reach Lake Atitlan by 2:30 yesterday afternoon. Things got complicated. I met up with three Irish guys at the Tapachula station who had been travelling by bus all the way from New York. A stuffed collectivo van took us to the border on a rather wild ride. A conductor collected cash and customers, flinging the side door open, waving people on before the van came to a complete stop, closing the door again with one hand on a strap and the door handle in the other as we were already speeding away.

My new Spanish word for the day is "frontera". Very useful. On the Mexican side of the border, an official brought us into an office, closed the door and asked for 287 pesos a piece from the three other guys, all of whom had stamped passports but no visa card. I waited outside until eventually they walked out without paying and we all crossed the border without interference. No one made a move to stop us. Strange.

Three bucks for a Guatemelan border stamp and we were on our way.

A friend in Zipolite had given me basic instructions to change some cash and find a bus and the Irish guys had some info as well. It should have been simple. We jumped on the wrong bus. He was going our way. He collected our money. Then everyone else got off. It was the end of the line and we had to wait while they changed the oil, filled up with diesel at a lot and finally went to the back of the line of buses leaving from the station. Two unnecessary hours later, off we roared.




The conductor was amazing, loading backpacks and cargo on the roof, removing bus seats. I didn't realize what he was up to at first. He passed my seat from the back of the bus but I hadn't noticed him pass from the front in the first place. Yep. With the bus rolling down the road, he was climbing on to the roof from the front, checking and rearranging the luggage and re-entering from the back. Quite a job.

In downtown Xela, I split up with the Irish guys and then it seemed my luck came to an abrupt grinding halt. There were only three bank machines in the center of town and my card didn't work in any of them. Dang. I got bad directions to nowhere from a few people. Night was coming quickly and the situation didn't look good. I had enough quetzals from the border exchange to grab another chicken bus in the morning to the border and straight back to Mexico where my card works and maybe buy beverages on the way. I was tired, hungry and grubby. I was unhappy. I wanted a meal and a warm safe place to stay with a bathroom. I had the cold streets of an unfamiliar city and alleys to pee in after dark. It sucked. I felt like an orphan.


An American by the name of Kirk came to the rescue. He took me into a bank to explain the situation in Spanish and a man gave me an address to a distant bank location that might accept my card. Knowing that I only had 61Q and 5 American dollars plus a few worthless pesos, Kirk called a taxi driver friend of his he swore would not rip me off. If the worst case case scenario happened, I'd get to that bank, a safe cheap hostel and have enough left for the chicken bus as long as I didn't squander any money on luxuries like bread or water. Well, we made it to the bank. It was a matter of intense suspense until that money popped out of the machine. I felt so much better.

Bartolo ripped me off big time. Nothing I couldn't afford but I resented it. If the machine hadn't delivered, I wouldn't have had near enough to cover his fare let alone a room. 250Q. To put that in perspective, I made it there and back to that same machine today for 2.5 Q, about 30 cents.

I ran into Kirk at the park yesterday and thanked him for stepping in at my hour of need and told him what happened. He started giving me all these lame excuses. "Well, this guy is really poor. He's lucky if he makes 400Q in a week" Then he was especially lucky the night before, wasn't he? I assured him I wasn't angry.



The other excuse was very revealing. "The way he sees it, you were paying him for his time as well as the gas." That explained so much, the way he kept dragging everything out. His methods seemed odd at the time but now I understood the purpose. It wasn't until we got back to the car that he suggested going back to change the big bills for smaller ones. Inexplicably (at the time) he guided me past the first bank to a more distant one in the big mall`with a longer line.

Next he wanted to help me buy a cellphone. "They're very cheap! Only 20 dollars!"

"Wow. That's a good deal. But who am I going to call in Guatemela?"

He persuaded me I needed dinner before a hotel so, what the hell, we drove to a distant McDonald's when I knew there was a closer one and I treated him to dinner for being so helpful. He ate very slowly.

There were a few more stalls. "Do you want to see where Kirk lives? It's right up this street." Not realizing I was paying for all this time, careful chewing and all, I humored him. Finally he dropped me at Casa Argentina but not before offering to call up some prostitutes. Presumably these women wouldn't mind that I hadn't showered or shaved in over 36 hours. It was one of those little warnings that I might be in for a sting, that and all the trouble he he had gone through to tell me how hard his life was and how his life was dedicated to helping people in trouble. It wasn't so bad but in the end he lifted 25% of the amount I was able to get from the machine right out of my wallet plus dinner. He was no saint.


I smelled another rat talking to Kirk. "Well, he's my friend. He's helped me out in the past and I don't mind helping him out when I can." Like hooking him up with victims? Hmmm. I really shouldn't hold a grudge. I don't really. Bartolo stung me for an exorbitant bill but, if what he and Kirk told me is true, and it probably is, his life sucks and mine doesn't so I'll just take my satisfaction from that. As mean as that might sound, my simple understanding is that anyone who hurts me or even tries to is my enemy.

So, whatever. This Kirk character was probably not so cool as I originally thought. In the big picture, who cares? He was bragging me to me about his achievements yesterday. "It's really hard to get a job in this city unless you know someone." That is absolutely not true. They want English teachers everywhere in this town. A free tourist zine has five ads looking for teachers. At this hostel, I've met a young guy from England teaching English on the side while he learns Spanish. He has no university degree or teaching certification and he just fell into it. I'd say it's harder not to find work here.