MESILLA, GUATEMALA / 2012
“Siete y media por la mañana,” the man at the Tierra Maya counter says.
He waves a slip of paper at me. I nod and slide 600 pesos across the counter. The van will come for us at 7:30 AM.
I ask how long the trip will be.
“Muy rapido! Siete horas, mas o menos.”
Seven hours. An interesting interpretation of “fast”. But I figure it‘a better than walking. I shake his hand and set off to exchange pesos for quetzales before heading home to pack.
*
It was time to renew our Mexican tourist visas. 180 days flies when you're having fun. Instead of doing something perfunctory, we decide to take a little excursion to somewhere new—Lago Atitlan, Guatemala, a fabled lake in the Guatemalan highlands created when a volcano blew its top off, yet unsullied by all-inclusive hotels and MacDo's. The photos on the internet show shimmering waters lapping gently at the base of three volcanoes. Done. We need little more to convince us that this is a great way to renew our visas and have our minds blown.
The next morning, we wake at 6:30 and tidy the house, locking our small pile of valuables inside the impenetrable Second Room. Tor stations himself outside our front gate as I stuff last-minute things into our packs: a flashlight, headphones, wool hats. 7:30 comes and goes. Finally, at 8 AM, a white Hi-Ace, it's crazily-bungeed roof rack piled high with backpacks, makes its way awkwardly down our narrow street.
We crawl inside. Ten groggy faces greet us with the un-thrilled, early-morning regard that strangers reserve for other complete strangers at the beginning of a trip. Squashed next to the far back window, I flash back to our nightmare van ride from Palenque to Misol-Ha in January.
"Didn't we swear off vans once?" I glance at Tor and he grimaces, remembering the butt-numbing, character-building journey we had endured through the Chiapan mountains. Ah, well.
*
We speed off toward the Guatemalan border, stopping only once for a bathroom break. By noon, we reach the frontera (border), at Mesilla. Overall, the crossing is simple—we hand in our exit cards and have our passports stamped on the Mexican side. Then, we pile back into the van, drive another five miles and queue up on the Guatemalan side to have our passports stamped and pay a twenty peso entry fee. Our bags are not searched and we barely spend any time in the offices. Not long after, our new van for the Guatemalan leg of the journey pulls up and the group piles in.
The road out of Mesilla is sunny and pleasant. Tarp-roofed dwellings give way to a ripple of small towns. Small stores and fruit vendors line the highway. Soon, the surrounding landscape becomes rugged and steep, almost Alpine in nature. Houses appear on far-off outcroppings and small flocks of cows and sheep roam the ravines. We whiz past flowering trees dripping with clumps of lilac and magenta petals that seem to burst off the branches, like fruit, themselves.
*
We have been traveling for about an hour when the van suddenly slows to a crawl, and then, disconcertingly, to a complete stop. Traffic is backed up, the driver explains. We could be in for a wait. Any idea how long? We collectively ask, trying not to sound whiny.
“Yo no se.” He gives a noncommittal shrug before sauntering off to one of the two tiny restaurants that face each other across the highway.
It soon becomes apparent that this is no ordinary traffic jam.
Word ripples through the highway grapevine that a derrumbe, or landslide, blocks clear travel across a large section of the road ahead.
Vehicles are passing through one at a time and the backed-up traffic in both directions goes on for miles. Finally, we all hop out of the van and begin to scope out places in the shade.
Hours pass. We entertain ourselves with various activities. The Japanese man takes up residence on a nearby slab of concrete. The Swedish girl pulls out a battered copy of Charles Dickens. Like some sort of cheerful, vagabond chef, the dred-locked Brazilian guy prepares a meal of lentils and miso in his mess kit.
We watch the endless train of indigenous people as they walk past—elderly women in traditional dress trundle by with huge sacks of vegetables on their backs, thick straps secured around their foreheads for extra leverage. Sinewy men trot beside them, bent under the weight of large bundles of wood and metal in tarps lashed with rope, not one of them breaking a sweat. A small army of cart-wielding vendors roam the shoulders of the road, selling everything from fried chicken to shrimp cocktail, of all things.
Finalmente! Almost four hours later, our driver suddenly throws aside his torta and emits a round-up whistle signaling that traffic is moving again. Just as we gleefully run for the van, a smattering of fat rain droplets begin to fall. The engine revs and we rumble down the road, windows open, the mood inside one of near-giddiness as a fresh breeze filters through. The tone shifts, however, as we roll through the landslide area. Hastily-constructed shanties lean against the remnants of flattened houses. People mill about; uniformed soldados with guns slung over their shoulders half-heartedly attempt to direct traffic. It is, in essence, a hot, muddy mess.
The line of traffic going the other direction is a river of pained faces behind windshields. People are crammed in the backs of lorries with their belongings piled haphazardly next to them. Our driver lets out a long, low whistle as we inch past, finally clearing the bottleneck.
"Vamanos, amigos!" he crows, making the sign of the cross in the rear view mirror as we speed up the mountain and into the darkness.
*
Thanks to the derrumbe, we miss the boat. Literally. By the time we pulled into Panajachel, the main point of embarkation on Lake Atitlan, it is close to midnight and far too late to catch a lancha to Tzan Cruz, our final destination across the water. To make it more interesting, we are some of the van's last remaining passengers, most of our fellow travelers having gotten off at Xelha and other towns along the way.
"So, uh, where are we going to sleep?" Tor yawns groggily as we stand outside the van.
It‘s a good question.
Luckily, I have been sharing a seat with Ivan and his mother, Alma, an incredibly nice pair from San Cristobal. During the drive, with pride practically shooting out of her eyes, she tells me what a good son he is, how he is lucky to have a job with TelCel. As we wait for the driver to throw our bags down from the roof, Alma turns and asks if we want to follow them to their hotel.
"Muy limpio, no es caro," she says reassuringly. Very clean, not expensive. It sounds like heaven. And it is. Even if it is a penny-saver near the waterfront marked by an illustrious pink gate, which Ivan bangs on until a slat opens and a man's bleary face appears.
Seventeen hours after our day began, we climb the stairs towards sleep. Our room awaits with its leaky toilet, resident cockroach family, no towels or soap, and a rumpled bed that looks like it has been slept in already. Overjoyed, we pass out immediately.
