| - Essays: On The Road (And A Little Off) |
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 | PANAMA ENTERS GUATEMALA AND BARELY ESCAPES THE RAPTURE Remate, Guatemala, Jan 28, 2007 -- It is Sunday. Yesterday at the border crossing, the last Belize school bus I would ride dropped me off in front of a building, one side of which was for the purpose of Belize extracting one more pound of flesh before letting me out of the country: it cost about 18 bucks US just to go away. There are places I've been that were glad to see my backside going somewhere else at no charge to me. Some even bought the ticket. At the other end of the hall was the Guatemalan entrance desk. I paid a far more reasonable amount to enter...I think it amounted to a couple of bucks US. I stepped outside into the DMZ between Belize and Guatemala. I was immediately accosted by a taxi driver with a barracuda smile, who offered to drive me to Remate for "only $80 US." "You gotta be kidding," I said. "Look at me! Do I look like I can afford $80 for ANYTHING?" "Well, for you, I can do it for $60." "You haven´t LOOKED at me.! $60 is a fortune to me!" "Oh, Senor, I´m afraid you're in trouble, because it´s very expensive to get around here in Guatemala." "Hey, dude, last night in Belize everyone told me it´s very cheap here in Guatemala." A small boy was watching this exchange. "Most things, yes. I´m surprised your friends in Belize did not tell you how much a taxi, which is the only way to go, costs." There is a fence running perpendicular to the building. I could see that if I walked about 80 meters to the end of it, I could make a U-turn around it and go back to Belize(there would this time be a re-entry fee). "Well, screw this! I´m goin back to Belize" and I set off walking to the end of the fence. The small bay caught up with me. "He is lying. You can go through Guatemala customs and my father´s taxi will take you into town for 10 quetzales. There you can get a small bus for 30 quetzales to Remate or Flores if you like." And so I came to meet Edwin, whose school-learned English made communication easy, and his taciturn but pleasant father, Jose. And the ride into Melchor did indeed cost 10 quetzales, and Edwin and his father took me directly to the mini-bus terminal. [The street rate is currently 7 quetzales for one dollar. The official rate is a little higher: about 7.2 to one. I think it´s neat that the unit of currency has the same name as the national bird. We sometimes used to call dollars "eagles," too. But here it's official.] We pulled up beside an empty new soccer-mom Toyota van and I met the driver, Nery. "You can sit in the front - the seat of honor," he laughed, while a couple of other small boys stowed my backpack and guitar on the roof. We drove around, picking up other passengers, and then we were off to Remate. I saw a big truck lettered in Korean. "I bet it´s from area code 404, too," Nery said. And it was. "Atlanta," I said. "Yes. I just came back from there. I lived there 20 years." His English was nearly American. And so I heard Nery´s story. "It is very hard to get ahead here in Guatemala, as you can see," and so 20 years ago I went to Mexico and from there across the border into New Mexico." "Were you illegal?" I asked. "Hell, no, man. I wasn´t illegal. I was a wetback." He bagan to sing "Born in East LA", and we laughed. "I love that movie," I said. "I somehow found myself in Atlanta where I went to work for a company making spun-aluminum light shades. And so for 20 years I stayed there, not being paid much by American standards, but a lot by ours. But it was like any job where you have a boss, or too many bosses. I saved up some money, though, and sneaked back through Mexico and then Guatemala with it. That was four months ago. I paid 140 thousand quetzales for this van and another 60 thousand for...uh, 'permits'." He laughed. "Permits!" The road had so far been very muddy. Nery stopped. "He won´t make it," he said, indicating an empty flatbed tractor rig going up the hill in front of us. "He doesn´t have enough weight on his drive wheels." Sure enough, the tractor slowed, then strted backing carefully down the hill. We waited. "They're working on the road on the other side of the hill, "he said. "Watch what happens." A giant road machine, with cleated steel wheels, , breasted the hill and turned around. The tractor driver and his helper attached a steel cable to the road machine and got back in the tractor. The machine pulled them to the crest of the hill and as we passed they were unhitching the cable. "Happens all the time," Nery laughed. We passed the road to Tikal. "We'll be at your stop soon," Nery said. And we were. A small boy and girl grabbed my stuff as soon as it hit the ground. "Hotel, sir? Only 35 quetzales." "Mira," I said. And I was led down some stone steps to The Eden and shown a room and the bath. I paid my quetzales with some self-flagellation, for the place was funky even by my standards, but the family was poor, I could tell, and so... I told myself that I would walk down to town later and find quarters more suitable to my august station for tomorrow night. It was a good decision, and later I did just that. I walked around a bit and had dinner in town for 20 quetzales ($3) and then hoofed it back up the lakeside trail to the Eden at about dusk. One of the little girls of the family was having a cumpleanos (birthday) party, and I took some pictures and played and sang "Happy Birthdaÿ" in English and extemporaneously translated Spanish. Later, after the party, we sat around and I recorded the father and children singing (one of the songs was about September 11). Then, the dad asked if I was religious. This is always a loaded question for me, because "religious" means so many different things to so many different people. But finally, I said, "Yes, I am." Mostly because I do not know how to say "maybe" in Spanish. Big mistake. "¿Catolico?" he wanted to know. "Presbyteriano," I replied. I am really a Cumberland Presbyterian, in fact really a Rockvale Tennessee Cumberland Presbyterian, but expressing denominational nuances in a language you can barely order dinner in is bound to be futile. Then he set in. He brought me a tract in Spanish about El Apocalypto and how only 140,000 are gonna win that lottery and be saved from hellfire...it was in Spanish so I could pretend (quite easily and truthfully) that I did not understand it long enough to discourage him from breaking out the snakes or whatever they do around here. [I have to say right here that when the Rapture happens, judging by my impression of the idea's adherents, I´m gonna ASK to be left behind. Our Pastor doesn´t talk about that kinda stuff at Rockvale CPC, though I suppose there are one or two who wish she would.] Finally, I was able to slip off to bed. There had been a huge 7-legged spider on my wall earlier, and he was still there. I guess he was pissed off about that leg, so I got out my pills and, the spider and I eyeing each other warily, I lay down in my bed in the thatch-covered mouldy room which could surely not be doing my old lungs any good, and went to sleep. Next morning, the roosters woke me up before dawn (how do they know? Do they have internal watches?). I'd packed my stuff the night before and now, in the darkness, the lake sitting calm as the night itself, I made my quiet getaway on the path beside the water down into town. Panama NEXT: GUATEMALA TIKAL GOTTA KEEP MOVIN' BLUES -30-
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