For the last two years I’ve had a few images in the back of my mind – they just seem to linger there, never quite going away, the image of the Guatemalan night – not the night of the city but the night of the country. Yet, the image starts in the city – the lights of Guatemala City – I arrived at night, around ten.
The lights over the city mesmerized me. They were green dots, some blue, but not yellow. They were to the side, not just below. I couldn’t make out the topography, but the lights suggested, but never quite defined mountains. The plane rolled from one side to the other as it navigated between the mountains and volcanoes. I couldn’t take my eyes from the window. And then we were down.
I fumbled with my carry-on; I was tired, sore from the cramped coach seats, excited and desperately looking for a bathroom. I hadn’t been out of the country in years, not since Haiti in eight-seven. It was November 2004. I had images of being slapped in a third world jail (let me correct that developing world jail) for not declaring the medical equipment in my luggage. Customs looked bored and ignored me. The airport was a crush, people everywhere, the airport suggested the fifties, clean but dingy. It was a Graham Green novel.
I struggled to the arrival doors with two large suitcases, a smaller one and a backpack. Outside was a madhouse, pushing and shoving, and loud. Men were grabbing at my bags – trying to take them toward the line of cars outside the arrival entrance, “Can I take you bags Senor, need a taxis Senor’ – some in Spanish some English but always three or four talking at the same time. Young boys were in front of me walking backwards and begging. An Indian woman pulled at my sleeve.
I was met by Hedda – an elegant, almost beautiful woman. She represented SightReach Surgical in Guatemala. How she found me I don’t remember. She plucked me down at the curb and went for the car. I tipped the winner of the luggage battle, and waited for Hedda to bring the car. I was four days into my job, my Spanish was a lesson in how not to speak, and here I was in a car on the way to the Hotel in a dark Cuidad de Guatemala. I was in heaven.
I have an image of Hedda’s face as the lights bounced around her features. We were trying to communicate, broken Spanish- English, English – Spanish. She was trying to make sure that I was ok, trying to speak English while I spoke Spanish, trying to make sure I understood the arrangements for the morning. I guess the image remained since I was staring at her to help me understand her English
The Hotel San Carlos, small, simple, and elegant, an old converted mansion; it was on Avenida Reforma and two blocks from the American Embassy. I only had a couple of days to make arrangements for my trip, Grev, my predecessor, suggested the Hotel, but only a suite on the third floor was left – I took it. Again the lights, 40 watt unshaded bulbs overhead, no lamps except in the bedroom. I didn’t roam at night in ‘04 I read.
My next image was the following year on the way back from Chichicastengo and Lake Atitlan. - a day trip to a Mayan market. During the day, the highway was interesting, at night – black. We seem to be driving fast, all of a sudden out of the blackness, an Indian couple, bundles, children, and dogs. I was the only one surprised – we swervered slightly and zoomed by. Fleeting images of small huts dimly light, no front, a few small tables and a few people hanging out and once again the blackness. The car rolled to the left then right, suddenly dipping or rising up. The headlights lit only half a second of highway as we careened through the mountains.
I’d been told not to travel at night so I was nervous - it was only eight o’clock. As we approached the city, the huts got bigger, an auto parts store here and there, and old cars parked on the side of the road, but still the 40 watt bulbs and people hanging out in the shadows.
Once or twice we passed a gas station/convenience store that reminded me of the highway-night in the US – bright high canopies over the pumps and the usual mixture of junk food, candy, paper and soda, only all unfamiliar – mostly central American – co
conut juice, mango juice, chips, and crackers - initiations, but never quite American. It reminded me of my student days in Madrid – my biweekly trips to the American Embassy cafeteria for a real cheeseburger, a chocolate milkshake and a coke a coca.
The night of Guatemala City is now familiar, the security guards with sawed-off shotguns are images ignored even at night. Dark alleys are avoided but the crowded main streets of Zona 10 are not threatening. The night of rural Guatemala remains dense not as threatening as in past but still an image of fatigue and loneliness.
My last rip to Guatemala left me with almost a day and a half – 20 hours of darkness and 12 of sun. The hours of darkness were taken up by over-night bus rides to and from Tikal. You can fly to Tikal in about an hour and a half, but it would have cost about $120.00 more, the bus presented a different type of adventure.
I took a taxi to the Linea Dorada bus station in Zona 1 – the old run down center city. A fifty quetzals trip – about $6.50. The taxis started in the bright Zona 10, as it weaved its way through the city, the wattage of the street lights seemed to decrease as we traveled from the wealthy zone to the old poor area of the city. Like most sub compact manual transmission cars – the taxi’s power was exaggerated; it shifted your organ on every turn. The driver went from crowded dark streets to vacate dark street as he raced through the narrow streets, positioning himself to come out on the right street, on the rights side and into the parking lot, rather part of the way into the lot – it was the barely the size of three cars.
A guard was at the door the usual sawed-off shot gun in hand. Over my shoulder the white light of a gas station from across the street, brighter but dirty, it made the oil stained cement and asphalt and broken curbs look poor. I was told to stay in the station, not to go wandering about Zona 1 while waiting for my bus. The station was a mirrored ‘L’ with a few rows of plastic molded chairs, a couple of tables, a TV hung from the ceiling a Spanish soap opera or a variety show was on, a ticket counter, luggage room, and a snack bar. The walls were a dirty burnt orange.
The station was almost empty. I had made reservations but still arrived more than an hour
early. I bought candy and water for the trip and a coke for the wait. I took a few photos but was shy about taking photos in the small room of people waiting for the bus. I should have taken more.
I met Eric, a backpacker, English speaking, I would have thought American, but he was Australian, traveling through the western hemisphere before finishing his last year of school. He had staying in the old city – Zona 1 for the last week waiting for a US visa, he was on his way to Canada by way of Tikal and Belize – after the miserable hostel in Zona 1 for the last week he was drooling over the image of napping on the beach on an island off the coast of Belize. He hadn’t had a good nights sleep since he got to Guatemala City – he was afraid his things would be stolen if he slept. He told me a little about his adventures, nothing dramatic, interesting but not memorable. He didn’t think Zona 1 – the old city was particularly dangerous; he had fended off some street thugs with a simple ‘fuck off’ – he was 6’1”, they were 5’2”. He didn’t speak Spanish, so he craved conversation, anything in English. I felt sheltered I was in a comfortable hotel while he slept with one eye open
As the departure time approached the small waiting room began to fill, the passengers were mostly Indians, the room filled with jerry-rigged luggage, some secured with cotton rope, other just plastic bags, and the aroma of Pollo Companero – the McDonalds of Guatemala. At the boarding call Eric and I separated, he needed to get his backpack successfully from the luggage room to the buses’ luggage compartment; I only had a day-pack. I was looking for solitude so I was happy for the separation. As it turned out we had seat assignments and he was a few rows away. I was hoping for a seat by myself, I wanted to read, make an audio recording, spread out, but mostly just be alone. I was lucky; nobody was assigned the seat next to me.
The buses windows were curtained, again the lights were dim; they seemed to make everything gray. Guatemala by day is a country of bright luxurious colors but tonight on this bus, in the old city, it was gray. I took photos through the window, the windows were dirty, the flash kept going off; I felt like Lucy Ricardo.
It wasn’t long after boarding that the bus pulled out, now I really want to get photos as the bus worked its way out of the city. Again I did my Lucy routine, either I wasn’t ready or the bus was traveling too fast, or the flash went off; I failed, never got any of the images I wanted on this part of the trip; yet, some of the images will stay with me forever - the bare bulbs on shops open to the street, the silhouettes of people standing in the shop opening, the dingy paint on the walls, and the blow-up Mickey Mouse in the door way.
Before long the bus was no longer in the city and the road was black, if I strained I could see a little of the roadside lit by the headlights – now was the time to inventory my gadgets. I had only taken a daypack, but I was loaded for bear, I have a reading light, books, utility knife, palm pilot, ipod, camera, a ton of extra batteries, a blow-up ‘U” shaped pillow, a water bottle, and snacks, and a change of socks and underwear. What I didn’t have was sun block or mosquito repellant. The trick was to know which pocket, which gadget, and not to drop anything on the floor. It’s not hard to imaging how that turned out.
The trip was scheduled to take about ten hours. At this point I wasn’t sure exactly where I was going, San Elena, Cuidad Flores, Tikal. Whenever I had asked if the bus was going to Tikal, they said, ‘Si, Senor, esto es el autobus al Tikal.’
Before long a box lunch was handed out – some kind of chicken sandwich on a hamburger bun, it crumbed and fell apart before I could get it to my mouth. I’m not sure what the soda was, it made me think soda pop of my youth. The soda delivered by the beer distributor – once case of Iron City, one case of soda pop; orange cherry, line, grape, root beer, and the dreaded cream of soda six ounces per bottle. The kind of soda that the taste had no relation to the name, the color was right, who knows where the taste came from.
I think it was grape. I didn’t finish it, eventually they came around with a garbage bag. For twenty minutes I guarded the can from spilling.
As the night wore on and I got an occasional glimpse of a hut or shack on the side of the road my mind explored images of Indians being rounded up by the Guatemalan army, the nuns trip back from the airport running into the night ending in rape and death these were the night images planted in my head by the news and movies of the Central American night. The power and the density of the rural night transported me to the night of the homesteaders on the plains and forest of America two centuries ago.
I made a recording, I read, I tried to sleep, I was uncomfortable. The interior lights pushed at the darkness but never really penetrated it. Finally my body pleaded for movement, my bladder suggested a trip to the bathroom. I assumed the bathroom was at the back of the bus; the lights were out and the curtains shut. I went from seatback to seatback hoping that my hand wouldn’t find someone’s face.
The bathroom on the bus was tiny, a closet really; a fluorescent light behind a yellowed translucent shade, a sickening mixture of excrement, urine and diesel, and the unexpected jolts of the bus will never completely leave me – this claustrophobic closet saved me from ending up on my face from a sudden turn as I attempted to stand. I have added disposable toilet seat covers to my standard travel gear.
As the night wore on and I got an occasional glimpse of a hut or shack on the side of the road my mind explored images of Indians being rounded up by the Guatemalan army, the nuns trip back from the airport ending in rape and death in El Salvador were the night images planted in my head by the news and movies of the Central American night. The power and the density of the rural night transported me to the night of the homesteaders on the plains and forest of America two centuries ago.
I hoped for a rest stop, a chance to get out of the bus and stretch my legs, finally the bus pulled over, the police had stopped the bus for a quick search. I have no idea what they were looking for, if anything. We stayed on the bus; they walked up and down the aisles, occasionally poking a package or bag in the overhead bin. It was the middle of the night; I was too tired to get anxious about it. After a few minutes the bus pulled back onto the highway. It was normal, I just don’t know why.
About nine hours into the trip we were pulled over again, this time it was an inspection station run by the army – La Primera Brigada de Peten. We were ordered off the bus, they asked if we were carrying any fruits, or vegetables. It was an aggressive military fruit inspection. Someone talked to the driver, someone else went through the bus as we milled about, a few soldiers carrying M16s kept an eye on the scene. To be truthful, I haven’t a clue what type of guns they were, the best I could do was distinguish between a rifle and derringer. I took a few photos of the solders. I tried to get them to first give me their email address, and finally asked them to write the address in my palm pilot. I promised to sent them the macho photos of these two boys decked out – camo-fatigues, harnesses, and rifles. Eric told me I was nuts to try and photograph the Guatemalan army. They were just boys looking for bugs. I never could get enough of an address to send them the photos.
Only an hour or so from the destination, the cool night air, the milling around had revived me a bit. A final stop before the end, a empty bus station at 5am, and on again. Finally, the ride ends, we are dropped off on the street, a wide open space. Where was I, I didn’t think Tikal, was it Santa Elena, Flores, I hadn’t a clue. Disoriented, I don’t know where I was or where to go. Eric had grabbed his bags and was off down the Street. A man approached me, ‘Tikal, only 150
quezales,’ trying to make a deal, I resisted, I just walked away. Water was to my left, I knew Flores was an island in Lago de Peten Itza, but Santa Elena was on the shore across from the island – I guessed I was in Santa Elena. The light was eerie, it was pre-dawn, black on one side of the sky, deep dark purple blue black to the other.
I walked down the street, looking around, pausing - trying to re-orient myself. There was a small café, it wasn’t much more that an opening in the building; the tables – three or four were under a roof, but otherwise outside. Except in the cities in Guatemala there is little distinction between inside and outside; the line is blurred. I’m accustom to the clear distinction of the north where the weather imposes a strict ‘in’ and ‘out.’ I asked the woman about the bus to Tikal – I wanted to take the bus, not a cab. She told me I could get it right here. Her Spanish was heavily accented, I wasn’t sure. I kept looking around, a pair of young women walked up, they overheard; they told me I was in the right place. I ordered a coffee, and bought a ticket from a man in front of the café. I sat down and waited still not quite sure. Finally a van pulled up, in I went. We pulled off, down side streets, young backpackers we on most corners, occasionally someone got in, others just stood and waited. The streets were narrow and dark. We finally pulled out onto a main street; we were down the street from the café. We whizzed by, turned onto a causeway, now I knew we were in Flores on the island and crossing over to Santa Elena.
It was almost dawn, the night lingered, but it wasn’t black just empty – the time before everyone gets up, the night had ended.
Maria Bartiromo signs with Murdock to be first Wall Street Journal Girl. When asked to comment the ‘Money Honey’ said that she was motivated by rumors that the girls for the new feature would be flat-chested and have a big butt. Maria appeared with Murdock in a news conference to launch the new feature. Maria said in her statement that the feature should not be compared to the Page Six girls in the New York Post. Rather the Wall Street Journal girls will always wear glasses and will represent the raising sexual power of the aggressive woman in a global economy. When asked directly if that meant that a blond flat chested woman with a big butt from Connecticut would never appear in the new feature, Murdock was quick to assure the blond big butted CNN news bunny that there would be no discrimination based on body type. Any woman would be consider for inclusion in the feature as long as she had slept with a married CEO of a fortune 500 company, worn glasses, and represented the high ideals of the commercial markets of the world.
Murdock congratulated Cavuto on his suggestion and assured him that the idea would be considered, he also however, assured the audience that Cavuto would never be considered; "We will have not ass licking lackeys in the new WSJ!" Murdock flatly stated. Cavuto was seen leaving the auditorium with either tears or hair oil streaking down his face.
