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.

Market of Terror

It all started off promising enough. The sun was shining. Yay! Carina and I just stepped on to the main street of Panajachel and the chicken bus was right there waiting for us, raring to whisk us away to the fabulous wonders of the world's largest Mayan market. The road to Chichitenango was a climb up and away from the relative warmth of lake Atitlan. I managed to get our window up for a while but the driver's speedy hammering over potholes shook it down again.

I approached that market with deep dread. It didn't help that I'd read a few excerpts from Carina's guide book warning travellers away from the picturesque traditional graveyard and one other spot as vistors have been robbed by gunpoint too often to ignore and sometimes murdered. We were also warned to watch out for pickpockets. I was way ahead of them on that one.

I tried to keep my paranoia to himself. I was there, as a self-appointed escort, to enjoy the company of my new friend, not to whine and spoil the fun. In we went.


Not too bad at first but, after visiting the cathedral, it became just about impossible to move. I tried to keep within half an inch of Carina but somehow old women managed to push us apart and I thought "Here we go again." My claustrophobia was taking over. I had to remind myself I wasn't carrying anything I couldn't afford to lose. All of the important stuff was locked in a safe back in Panajachel. Still, I kept a sharp eye on everything and everyone, particularly Carina, her bag and the pushy old ladies.




The same kid who had been trying to sell me weed and whores in Panachel was there hawking post cards. He started getting nasty. "I'm sick and tired of these stingy fucking tourists, man."

"Yeah, well, I'm one of them." He and his buddy had flat out asked me for money when I refused their help the day before.

It was "How about something for us? We're broke."

I see him every day now and he's been getting progressively nasty, a creepy little hurdle I have to pass every time I walk the street. But more on him later.

There was such an air of desperation at the world's biggest Mayan market. I didn't belong. This was somebody else's hell. Pointless capitalism in the raw. Outside of the real section of the market, offering food and household goods, everyone competed for the attention of the tourists. No local would be there to buy their jewelry and art objects.

It was interesting alright. So many sights I will never forget, so many deformities, so much diseased skin, so much poverty. Nothing I would have dared to point my camera at. The rough looking dude in the cowboy hat wasn't winking. He only had one eye.

In the end, nothing bad happened. I have Carina to thank for an interesting day that I would never have enjoyed without meeting her. It was an adventure from start to finish. No regrets.

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.