Day 1

And we’re off! I had a redeye, so I landed at 7:30 am Sunday in Guatemala City, greeted by Maria (de Guate), who whisked me off to the bus station to catch the 8:30 am bus to Xela. Maria de Guate is a 5-feet-nothing grandmother who can barely see over the steering wheel and who drives like Tony Stewart, just like everyone else in town. Clearly, these are my people. We had a nice little conversation (in Spanish, claro) and we arrived at the bus station in no time. Unfortunately, things like bus schedules are not always reliable in Guatemala. Apparently the bus broke down the night before but they were confident that it’d be ready by 2:30 pm. Maria de Guate was not happy with this news, so we threw my stuff back into her car, heading to another part of town. I continued to be impressed with her driving, particularly as she now threw in talking on the phone while shifting gears. We made it safely to another bus station, and that bus was leaving at 10:30, so I’d have to wait a couple hours, but an improvement at least. Maria de Guate gave me a hug, I gave her $15, and she was back to the rat race. I did get to see a lot of the city, so I appreciated the quick tour. It reminded me of Mexico City—old, crowded and kinda dirty, though offering modern city amenities. The city (and entire country) maintains strong connections to its roots, with lots of street vendors and an affinity for Mayan dresses. The main thing that stood out for me was all of the policemen with big guns hanging out all over the city. Assault rifles, not biceps. There was a policeman with an assault rifle stationed at the bus stop, and he’s even the one that checked our tickets to get on the bus. It’s a bit disconcerting, but as long as the good guys have the bigger guns, what could possibly go wrong?

The big gun police presence is actually all over the country, as I saw them continuously on the four-hour bus ride. The distance between Guate and Xela is only about 130 miles by the crow, but the road that connects them winds its way through the mountains. It’s gorgeous and frightening. There are tons of buses on the road, many of them famous “Chicken Buses’, which are old school buses painted pretty colors and beyond packed, as they’re dirt cheap to take and the main transportation for many. Along with the buses, there are lots of motorcycles, cars, pedestrians, dogs, cows, and sheep. And they all handle the road like Tony Stewart. I’m barely exaggerating; we saw a truck overturned along the way. Also, the road is actually very nice—two lanes in each direction, usually with a median. However, you know those signs that say “Falling Rock’ and you don’t really care because, c’mon, what are the odds? Well, the odds are pretty high here. Actually, they had some severe weather this year that destroyed many parts of the road, taking us down to two lanes every few miles. So one minute I’d be enjoying the views and the next I’d be hanging onto the girl next to me for dear life. I’m sure the half that I missed is very pretty too.

We arrived in Xela in the afternoon and I was supposed to be just a block from the school. Of course, those directions were for the bus station of my cancelled bus line and I didn’t have a map, just an address. Me being me, I didn’t want to pay for a taxi, figuring I know how to find 1st street. Now, if I were the mayor of Xela, I’d fix what I perceive to be its biggest problem—a serious lack of street signs. Those of you who know me might think I was being stubborn and wouldn’t ask directions, but I stopped and asked for new directions four different times—hey, if the locals can’t figure it out, then they should vote for me for mayor. All the while, I’m dragging my three bags through throngs of short brown people, being an annoying gringo. Fortunately, the people here are very sweet and helpful. Finally, an adorable 7 year-old boy knew what I was talking about and led me to the school. Me and kids speak the same language, apparently.

So I make it to the school and the first thing on the list is to meet the family. I’m not actually staying with a family, I’m staying with Maria (de Xela), a sweet little grandmother who owns a little complex of rooms that she rents out to the many adult Spanish schools in the area. There’s one street entrance, an outdoor courtyard, then about 6 individual rooms with our own access. It’s not quite as glorious as it sounds though. My room is decent sized—about 10 by 15 feet—but it sure could use a paintjob and some disinfectant. I have a single bed that consists of a one-inch mat on top of a box spring. I can sleep about anywhere, but this will be challenging. There’s an old desk and chair, an awkward attempt at shelving, and a light bulb in my room. That’s it. Not even an outlet to charge my phone and computer. The tiny bathroom that most of us share consists of a toilet and a shower, enclosed in old dingy brick. There are two sinks in the courtyard and a small kitchen and table. Did I mention how old and dirty everything is? I’m not really complaining. That’s just bourgeois Joe speaking. Pepe adapts to his surroundings without a care.

Maria de Xela, who now calls me Pepito, made me some unknown thing when I first got here for lunch. I think it was potato with a spicy sauce, rice and tortillas. Then for dinner, there was more rice and tortillas, of course, plus a fried plantain and super yummy plantains in mole sauce. I ate with Maria de Xela and Kelly de Minnesota, who has been here for eight weeks, with two remaining, She’s cool, though I’m jealous of her Spanish skills. It’s tough to have a fluid conversation where you’re constantly looking stuff up in the dictionary. But overall, I’m pretty proud of how much I understood. There was very little English in my life today. This might actually work…

Oh, and I already miss my boyfriend. ¡Besos, mi amor!