TOURING GUATEMALA: Night Bus to Flores, I’m an RPCV and I’ll cry if I want to

NIGHT BUS TO FLORES:

When Amanda and I left on the night bus, we grabbed some street beans “amoebeans” we called them, and myself with chao mein on styrofoam plates. Local AF. I couldn’t believe there was a trash can to put them in. We got on the bus and I begged the luggage ayudante to let me take my backpack on. He said the drivers discouraged it, but I convinced him to climb inside the bowels of the big bus and unearth my backpack. This made me happy.

And while I thought I would use it, I didn’t use it at all. Not even a little bit. But I didn’t want to be estranged from my computer/passport/etc seeing as they are the most valuable things I own. I crammed it into the ‘overhead bin’ and tried to figure out the seats. I’ve taken overnight buses in Germany, but not Guatemala which, in so many ways, is the exact opposite of Germany. But there was some sort of base for our feet that made us feel like we were sort of sleeping. A lady, Sandy, (aren’t random bus ladies always named Sandy) sat behind us looking very lost.

At 2am, I awoke to a activity: “Paramos para chequear la fruta, todos bajen for favor!” I repeated to Amanda in a haze: “We have to get off because they’re checking for fruit.” Amanda knows Spanish, she lived here, worked here, struggled like all of the other volunteers, but I still had to say it. “Oh” she said, eyes closed. And here sits Sandy behind us with the big eyes, looking lost, craning her neck as if to say “Help” but without saying anything.

Now here’s a fun fact about Sandy. After several translations we learned that she is hard of hearing. But she also doesn’t speak Spanish, so when we tried to tell her what was going on in English, she always said: “What?” and leaned in like we were the ones who were speaking too softly instead of her hearing too barely. I felt two things for Sandy: sheer annoyance and utter respect. What is a woman of her age, without any knowledge of Spanish, alone, doing in Guatemala on an overnight bus? The mysteries of the river of life run deep. 

Eventually we all stumbled off. The guy walked by with an official shirt that said: “Control del Fruto” and I wasn’t wrong. They were literally, actually checking for fruit? Which was odd because we weren’t crossing any country borders… we were still very much smack dab in the middle of Guatemala. But, nevertheless, he told us the majority of the folks already got off the bus so we could stay on. Well Fruit Man, we’re already up with bright-eyed Sandy, so I am not going to translate to her: “You can stay on, actually” after all of the passengers on this two-story bus are outside. She is going to think it’s a drug sting.

Amanda got in line in the dimly lit bathroom at a distance. I was glad I didn’t have to go. In 5 more minutes, when the bus appeared to be fruit-free (? belongs here) we climbed back up and on, Sandy having finished her cigarette, and resumed our unnatural but not untenable sleeping positions. At 5:30 someone shook me into consciousness. My left arm. It was a man in a uniform. “Ya llegamos” and we stumbled off the bus. I was grumpy, tired. I wasn’t sure where we were. The sun hadn’t risen, but Sandy had with more questions. “Where are we?” “We don’t know.” Amanda left to investigate as Sandy brandished another cigarette. I was glad because I was totally disoriented. Amanda returned and said: “Sandy has a shuttle coming and we’re going with. The bus stopped at Flores but we slept through it.” Analtzij I muttered under my breath. Liars. If they announced it, they forgot they were announcing anything to a NIGHT BUS of sleeping people. When our “shuttle” arrived in 15 minutes, it was a pathetic compact car with a large, hatted man inside. I just want to report back that I’ve not ever seen obese people in this country, but in Flores, for whatever reason, there are so many. I am not saying this as a point of body shaming, but I just want to point out yet another difference between the pueblo and other parts of the country: obesity.

And we took off in this old compact car and I said to Yenner (that was his name, Yenner):  “Where are we?” He said: “Panajachel.” I was not amused. I didn’t take an overnight bus to a lake 40 minutes from where I used to live. He laughed and Amanda said: “No hombre!” He said: “Santa Elena es el pueblo and ahora estamos cruzando Lago Petén Itzá” he said. The name was familiar, even before 6am. We crossed over a big lake. He said to Sandy, who had a lot of questions: “We’ll go to the tourist office and help you there.” “Okay” Sandy said. This would keep her temporarily confused but without further questions.

THE ISLAND OF FLORES 

When we arrived to the tourist office, we were literally feet from our hostel “CASA ULA HOSTEL” that had a small manta/sign on a very plain building. I was nervous because I booked the place and the pressure was on me if it was a dump. Yenner pushed up the metal door to the tourist agency and circled around a desk. He asked us: “What are your travel plans?” and, de una vez, he sold us our tickets to Tikal, and our trip to Semuc Champey and from Semuc Champey to Livingston. It was almost all of the tickets we needed for the remainder of our travels. We pulled several Qs in 100 bills out of our wallets and handed them over. We were too tired to think about how these prices lined up with others, or if we should trust this guy, and we left Sandy with English-speaking Yenner to figure out her plans. Que le vaya bien, en dónde sea.

We walked 50 feet to the blue door of our hostel. We kept our bags on our backs. We knocked again. We waited. We knocked again. Eventually a young girl opened the door (we heard her coming to our great, lost relief). She looked tired but so did we. She let us come in. It was hot already, even at 6:15am. We tried to whisper. The place was decorated with those pinterest things- what are those called?- pallets! We eventually settled on paying 100 more Q to check-in early. The young girl kept saying “mira” before she explained anything. “Look”… It was confusing. Like we weren’t listening or didn’t understand. But we were listening and we did understand. De plano it was just her forma de expresarse. She opened the room to our door and I was relieved to see that the mattresses looked firm and the sheets looked clean (see: traveler with mattress phobia).

Amanda is a wonder woman so she got dressed to go run, in spite of an unwieldy overnight bus sleep into the interior of Petén, and me, to bed. That’s how we deal with things: Amanda moves and I don’t. I write and she runs. We are different. I slept for three hours and woke up in the heat of the morning around 10:30. Amanda got back from her run, showered and ate breakfast while I unfolded myself from dreams and got dressed. I took my computer and began to walk around Flores, a random town where I found myself without really knowing much of anything about it. I walked until I found a waterside café. I decided: I like Flores

And I really did. My breakfast was too small and my coffee unimpressive, but I sat and stared at my computer until Amanda came. Wrote a little. I started to cry a little. I am sad. I told her. Just yesterday I was ringing the bell in my Santa Clara traje and wishing farewell to my host family at the bus stop. When will I see them again? And what is going to happen with this broken heart of mine that feels like it’s going through a meat grinder every time I think about the gentleman caller. And Amanda listened, a good friend, as the waters of Flores lapped up against the edge of the street. It was beautiful, this place. And to be honest, I was still exhausted and I could feel it. Moving out of site, hiking an overnight volcano, reconnecting over the phone with the gentleman caller, ringing the bell and saying goodbye to my host family and taking an overnight bus to a place I wasn’t allowed to step foot in when I was a PCV, 24 hours ago.

With change comes loss. And with change comes trips with a friend to the edges of a country before forbidden. With that, I folded up my sadness in a spare envelope in my heart and let the sunshine air out my mildewy insides from months of tears. I needed a change. I’d been sitting in the pueblo and crying for the last two months. It was remarkable how sad I felt. And I felt concerned for Amanda, she had lived a lot in Guatemala too and I wondered how she felt coming back to all of it, all at once. And how she would feel throughout our travels and if I would have the wherewithal to support her and be a good friend amidst my own lo que sea.

Amanda had gotten an insider tip that we should take a night boat tour that served hot drinking cacao and did típico dances during the tour. We went to the restaurant to ask about it, and I felt like riffraff rolling in in my beach gear. The hostesses informed us that such a boat tour was only on the weekends. Bummer. It was Tuesday. You wonder why we didn’t look it up online? These things do not exist online in Guatemala. And even if they do, you can’t rely on them. You have to find two eyeballs (or at least one) and a mouth for accurate information.

Plan B: Plan Boat. We would find something else to do and we noticed all the boat drivers offering tours. We asked a man “Hey: can we take a private tour?” Things you can ask in developing countries without thinking the price will eat you out of house and home…

We got a picture of Amanda by the FLORES sign, but before we jumped in, there was a guy who was feeling himself so much that he was thinking very hard about his poses in front of the FLORES sign. Which I would later recreate in mockery throughout the trip. I couldn’t handle the extraness of it all. And I loved it, too. I loved to hate it.

We decided we would do a boat tour in a bit, but that first we needed a real meal. We walked around the edge of the island until we found a restaurant that looked good. We were discovering the quaintness of this charming, hot island. We made our plans to go to Tikal the next day at 4:30am. We could get there when the sun was rising, that sounded ideal! So nice to travel as two people and make your decisions as you go. And we would just go to sleep early that night (I had to remind myself that Amanda hadn’t slept since the bus!). We waited for almost an hour for our food, and I was again disappointed by the meager portions of this ‘quesadilla’ in front of me. We went back to the hostel, put on more sunscreen and boat clothes, and set-off to set-sail, settling on a boat with a jovenaso at the helm whose shirt said: “SUNS OUT GUNS OUT” without knowing what it meant (like, he didn’t know what his shirt said). Our choice was made for us. We determined a price, Q150 for an hour, and we went!

BOAT TOUR AROUND FLORES: 

His name was Fabricio, Honduran, and entirely enamored with Amanda who wanted to drive the boat. I just sat, still adjusting to this island vibe and laughing at Amanda’s antics. She jumped into the ocean and I said: “no thanks. There are alligators” (there are not alligators). Fabricio jumped in. I was just on the boat thinking there was too much water in my soul to submerge myself in it.

After 40 minutes, we docked at a lookout and climbed up to a ledge called “The Mirador” (the lookout). I felt flashbacks from the 9-hour overnight hike we did on Saturday up Acatenango. We took pictures at the top of the smallish platform we were sharing with a woman who was entirely engrossed in taking selfies. We offered to take the picture for her but she said: “no gracias…” The selfie, the aesthetic. After Fab. took some pics of us, Amanda asked if there were beaches nearby and we made a plan to extend our boat tour to go to a beach for the sunset. I was still too out-of-it to make a decision but Amanda really wanted to.

Ucgh…. steps…. to the Mirador
The view of the island of Flores from The Mirador
Us next to the selfie queen!

We took the small boat another 20 minutes to a beach called Chechenal with a small dock and folks enjoying the water on the side of the island. I must admit, it was beautiful. I noticed a wireless speaker playing a song in English I’d not heard: “Excuse me I’m holding hands with my depression” the lyrics said. “Huh?” I thought, and made a mental note to look-up the lyrics later. That feeling sounded familiar. Ah! Just found it online, Julia Michaels: My friends, they wanna take me to the movies I tell ’em to fuck off, I’m holding hands with my depression. I’m not depressed in the ‘can’t get out of bed way,’ I’m often sad and sometimes devastated. But I continue to eat food and shave my legs and leave the house (whatever my ‘house’ is at that given moment). Isn’t this life, change? And isn’t this transition? “This too shall pass, Julia. This too shall pass.” I just looked Julia Michaels up, she is blonde. She has no business feeling this way (I’m only half-kidding here).

I sat on the dock as Amanda and SUNS OUT GUNS OUT swam around in the water, giggling, looking for quartz. I could hear their laughter and Spanish as I sat on the dock, positioned to look at the sun. I listened to the group of dude-friends nearby swimming, de paseo. They kept saying Guatemalan slang that I never heard in the pueblo. Pisado, que mara, órales… puta this and that. I stayed in the same spot on the dock, my pale thighs squished together and mostly shaved. I always try to find the unshaved patches ‘cuz I am almost estranged from my thighs in the pueblo. I never see them. When was the last time I wore shorts? A year and a half? Before service?

The Guaté men kept walking on the dock where I was sitting and it felt like earthquakes. This country does have earthquakes, but they also have creaky wooden docks. Still. It felt like tiny earthquakes. Then one guy came up to me, just out of the water, and said: “Speak Spaneesh?” and I said: “Cómo?” There was his answer. And he asked me where I was from… this question would be repeated 40 times during our travels, and I told him in Spanish: “I’ve lived in Guatemala for two years but I am from Atlanta.” They want to know where I am from from. Not where I’ve been. I didn’t really want to talk so he went back with his buddies. I thought about gentleman caller and how I don’t care about talking to any other men but him. These were Guatemalans who swim. Also something I’m not used to. No one in my host family knew how to swim, and most in the pueblo didn’t either. I took a time-lapse of the sunset. It was really calm, serene, simple and healing. But really it was so quiet.

Amanda and SUNS/GUNS came back with five quartz stones that were the size of large boogers. They gave me three, they were pretty albeit tiny. I thought of volunteer Eloisa who always connected with crystals and stones. We watched the sunset, which was truly beautiful. This beach was calm, clean, orange pink and blue. After the sunset we headed back to our little boat, noticing all the eyes on Fabricio for being with two gringas, and set off for Flores. On the return Fabricio took pics of Amanda and I. We got off the boat, paid Fabricio and left for our short walk to the hotel. I found out later I left my sunglasses on the boat. On the first day of our trip. Cool cool.

We were already getting EATEN UP by the bugs. We walked to La Torre to buy bug spray, snacks and water. I was so thrilled that Flores had a LA TORRE, the bourgeousist of grocery stores, and it fulfilled the city mouse within I’ve been suppressing since I stepped foot in the pueblo.

Back in the hostel we had the 8-bed dorm to ourselves. We took a shower and confirmed the details for our early morning departure to Tikal. We texted Yenner and he confirmed that the driver could swing by our hotel to pick us up. I don’t remember dinner, but I bought bread for Q10 to make peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I didn’t know how deep we were going into the jungle to see Tikal but I didn’t want to be hungry for it. I don’t remember that night except that I slept.

And sleep was like a gift after a long, and beautiful, day of arrival, Sandy, sunshine, boats and SUNS OUT GUNS OUT.

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