Esperando la camioneta

Yesterday I remembered Yuliya's advice from last time we were here: that Guatemalans, when they don't know what direction to point you in, will just point you in one at random but declare it to be the right one with total confidence, rather than let you know that they don't know either.

While searching for the camioneta (an old Canadian school bus, with most seats lacking either the springs or the cushion, neither of which makes for a comfy ride) up to Paso Caballos yesterday afternoon in the market, I discovered that this applies not just to physical directions but to instructions and helpful advice in general.

Last time I was here I only took the bus on the way out of Paso Caballos, at five in the morning. It leaves once a day, before sunrise, and then rumbles back into the village, so I vaguely remembered, in the late afternoon or early evening. I decided to head over early to the place where the buses all gather, a crowded corner of the `old market' (to me indistinguishable from the contiguous `new market') in Santa Elena, to try to ask what time or from where the bus might leave. Paying my five quetzales to a tuk tuk to avoid the midday heat, I wandered up to a group of men sitting around near the microbuses and inquired as to the bus to Paso Caballos.

Tuk tuks waiting near the bridge to Santa Elena

"A la una," one of them replied straight away.

"¿A la una? ¡Gracias!" As I walked away I pulled out my cellphone to check the time, and ¡puchica! it was already 12:40, and my bag, while packed, was back in my room in Flores.

I kicked into high gear - a tough thing to do when it's 32/90 degrees outside, feeling like 42/108 with the humidity - and caught another tuk tuk back across the bridge. Of course, it wouldn't take me all the way to my apartment because the driver didn't feel like going over the bumpy mudded out roads, currently and indefinitely under reconstruction. I threw another five quetzales at him, then hightailed it back to my place. I grabbed my bag and stuffed in a bunch of random food without time to think about it, then rushed out the door again. At the top of the island, on my way back down to the bridge to catch yet another tuk tuk, I glanced again at the time - 12:55. Well, I thought, at least nothing in Guatemala ever runs on time. I don't want to take my time, but I'll make it.

A road where tuk tuks fear to tread

My tuk tuk driver, right after picking me up, pulled over again to pick up a couple of young guys, maybe 17 or 18 years old, asking (although not really asking) if it was ok if we doubled up. "OK," I responded, "but I'm in a hurry, please!" So the two boys squeezed in next to me, going god knows where (they were trying to decide even as we drove), and luckily the driver then took me straight back to the entrance to the market where I hopped out, payed another five quetzales, and made my way in towards the "terminal."

When I arrived, of course, there was no sign of any large yellow school bus. The drivers approached me one by one, trying to load me into their minibuses:

"Poptún?''

"No, gracias."

"Melchor/Belice?"

"No, gracias."

Finally in response, one of them asked where I was trying to go.

"Paso Caballos."

"Oh, that leaves at 2." The man held up two fingers, unintentionally flashing me a peace sign, and walked away.

Two o'clock, then. At 1pm in the market in Santa Elena, it is hot and filthy, and in my rush I had worked up a fine film of sticky sweat over my whole body, that now attracted the grime and dust like a magnet. I also hadn't grabbed my water bottle in my hurry, so with an hour to kill I wandered out to the edge of the market and bought a bien frio bottle of agua pura, then sat on the stoop and drank it slowly, watching people and tuk tuks and motorcycles and dogs and microbuses and bicycles all tumble by me in a wild tangle of heat and orange-grey dust.

At one thirty, calmer and considerably cooled down by the shade, rest, and water, I headed back in to the terminal and found another concrete step to sit and wait on. I watched the women circulate between the buses, selling aguas, frutas, cakes or donuts. A young boy tried to sell me a donut persistently, clearly attempting to use his cuteness wiles on a gringa like me, asking me, "where are you from? Won't you buy just one?" Men wandered through hawking strange medicines and skin potions, and others dragged huge bags of dried corn up the small ladders on the sides of the buses, dumping their loads on top.

At two o'clock, with no sign of a bus (and more suspiciously, perhaps, not many Q'eqchi' around waiting for it), I got up again, and again began the questioning. Another driver pointed out that because the bus was a big one, maybe it didn't come into the center of the market, but just stayed at the edge, where I had been sitting before. I thanked him, and headed back out, happily greeted as I rounded the corner by the familiar sight a large yellow school bus.

I asked the young boy hanging on the stairs up into the bus where it went, and he started listing off place names, but none of them were familiar. "Where are you going?" he asked me at last, seeing my lack of recognition.

"A Paso Caballos."

"Oh, this bus doesn't go there..."

Upon hearing my destination, other passengers started chiming in with advice. One woman began: "Paso Caballos? That leaves at 3.''

"At 3?''

"Yes. But you're right, it looks just like this one!''

And then another woman chimed in: "Paso Caballos? Oh, that one already left."

"It already left?''

"Yes. It's gone.''

And then finally a man with curly reddish hair and a fine spread of gold teeth, "the thing is, that one never came today.''

"It never even came?''

"No, it doesn't come on Saturdays. But is it just you?''

"Yes.''

"Well, I could take you there on my motorcycle.''

I pondered this for a moment. A lone gringa on a strange man's motorcycle out in the middle of nowhere. It would probably be fine, might even be fun, but seemed a little risky.

"How much?'' I asked. The man answered something that sounded to me like "30 chocos,'' which was not very helpful, and then continued by talking about how poor they are there, but that it would be no problem if I went and got on the bus, and then at the other end he had his motorcycle and he would take me the rest of the way.

Again I pondered this, my sense of adventure and the fact that I had put so much energy into trying to get there all week pushing me towards this strange man with the gold teeth, my sense of safety and the knowledge that I could stay and go to Uaxactún tomorrow with Daniel (a worker for the local NGO Balam) in the comfort of a nice air conditioned four wheel drive truck, and try again for Paso a few days later, finally leading me to my decision.

"No, I think I'll wait for another day,'' I told him.

"Another day, then,'' he repeated.

"Yes, but thank you!''

I walked away, paid another five quetzales for another tuk tuk that also wouldn't take me all the way home, got back to my room and called Daniel to tell him we were on for tomorrow, then changed immediately into my bathing suit, walked back out, and jumped in the lake.