Market of Terror II: Escape From Chichitenango

The rain came down hard. We were both soaked before taking a sheltered table in the courtyard of the one beautiful hotel in town where they had hot coffee and yummy food and we could watch the rain pouring on to the lush garden courtyard. I was cold but happy. A marimba band started playing from an upper balcony. A much nicer place to be.



All good things must come to an end and the rain eventually stopped. Back to the market. Carina hadn't seen enough. I didn't try to reason with her. There was only a bit more than an hour left before we had to catch the last bus out of town. I knew I could make it. The rain had driven off a lot of people and it wasn't as jammed as before.

I know Carina must have thought it was totally wimpy but she humored me when I insisted on taking a nice comfy shuttle bus for the return trip.

Those who know me best know what a hardass I can be when it comes to beggars. Back in Toronto, we all know perfectly well that no matter what they say, the money is always going for crack, crystal meth or booze. In places like these, I know parents send their children out looking as pitiful as possible to collect cash and if they do a real good job and turn into little cash machines, that's going to be their career and they'll never have a chance at going to school. Too much kindness from strangers can destroy their futures. But while we waited in the van with the door wide open, I was confronted with the plaintive voice of a small child futilely calling "Una quetzal." I caved.

Please don't judge me too harshly. You had to be there. It was miserable and cold up there. She must have been 7 years old. She had a little five year old brother beside her and a lumpy baby on her back. I knew it had been one long suffering day for the little waifs. No one was giving them anything. We all knew better. Anyone reading this would have done the same. I was leaving in a comfy van. They were staying.

Now, I'm not looking to make anyone cry but I got the sweetest "Gracias." for my pitiful useless offering. She walked away a few steps and then backed up so the little baby could tell me "Gracias." too. I wanted out of there so bad. Later, I saw her still at it, still not having any luck. The quetzal and a half I'd given her had already been spent on a little snack. The baby was taking care of it, pulling it up out of the little fold in the blanket she was wrapped in while the big sister kept trying gently to push it back out of sight until later. No, life isn't fair.

Meanwhile, across the street, an absolutely wretched old beggar woman with no legs wailed helplessly while tickytok cabs kept passing her by. I suppose none of them wanted the job of lifting her into the cab. Eventually a nice young man did. He had no easy job.

We finally made it out of there. It was so good to be back to Panajachel. Our driver stopped at some nice lookout points and we all got much better shots of the lake from high than I did through the dirty wet window of the chicken bus. And then it was dinner and happy hour at the rock 'n' roll bar. A nice end to an interesting day.

Mission Complete

It took the entire bus ride from Xela to Panachel for the adrenaline and paranoia to settle down after the market incident. Beck wanted to step off the bus for a cigarette and asked me to watch his bags. I didn't take my eye off them for a second. People kept pouring on to the bus selling snacks. One boy set his load down on the empty seat beside Beck's bags and stood there causing a jam in the traffic flow while two others joined him, intentionally or not, obscuring my view to the best of their abilities. Already on red alert, I thought this might be a classic shoplifting ploy and I blatantly craned my head to peer through them until they left.

I felt the negativity finally lift when I caught my first peek of the lake. Things were looking up. Panajachel is no paradise but the lake is an impressive sight. Street hustlers hassle me for boat trips they're not connected to. They want to help with everything. Very friendly guys. If you're incapable of walking up to a hotel desk on your own and asking the price, they're happy to help. If you don't need them, they'll be glad to hook you up with weed, cocaine, prostitutes or all of the above.



I met a new friend, Carina, a brave young lady from Austria travelling on her own, within ten minutes of checking into my hotel. She had landed in Guatamela City and lost her camera in the hotel. I was off on a quest to find Becky's Bar and I invited her along.

It didn't take us long. We poked our heads in the door and there was Gary, late of Zipolite. What a welcome sight. He managed to cross the border from Mexico with virtually no hassles and things are looking up for him.


Lonny was there and I passed the big bottle of Mexican mezcal to its rightful owner. He seemed happy and shared a drink. It was too early for me and my stomach was empty but how could I refuse?
Lonny and I aren't really giants. Karen was sitting down when she took the shot.

We stayed there for a bit, trading stories. It felt like being back at the hostel in Xela, very relaxed. Eventually Carina and I headed down to the lake to find a restaurant for dinner. I think we were the only customers for about 7 restaurants. Hard to tell how long the slump had been going on so I didn't order chicken. We had a nice view of the lake with the lights from the other towns on the dark horizon. Then it was happy hour back in town where we ran into my travelling Irish friends again until a sleepy end to another big day.

Carina had already decided to visit the world's biggest Mayan market, Chichitenango, the next day. It didn't sound like anything I would want to do after the market in Xela but I didn't like the idea of her going alone so I invited myself along. Um, no regrets.

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.