Entering Guatemala
I’m leaving Comitan, Mexico for the Guatemalan border on a “combi” (a local minivan). It is suppose to hold eleven, maybe twelve people. After a couple of stops, they’ve loaded sixteen people, everyone carrying bags, packages, and one backpack (mine). I’ve learned to arrive early before departure to assure getting the seat of my choice. I jump in the front window seat next to the driver. In one of the stops, we pick up a woman who ends up seating on the console between me and the driver.
Road from Comitan to Guatemalan border
I start a conversation with Julio, the combi driver. He is in his late thirties, married, with three children. A few years ago he worked in Michigan (USA), at a restaurant when he was single. He found it too cold and returned to Guatemala to get married. He would like to return to work and live in the US, and raise his family there. He wants to do it legally, but says there’s a thirteen year waiting list to get the proper documents. Besides, he lacks the funds to make the move. He’s very interested in my description of California, its mild climate, large Spanish speaking Latino population, and diversity of available employment, not just restaurant work.
We stop for Maria, carrying bundles of corn, bean seed and plants, who seats next to me. She is in her forties and going to her “ranchito” (small subsistence farm), outside the border town of Ciudad Cuauhtemoc. Ten years ago she visited her sister in Los Angeles, California. Her experience was positive and she would like to go back, but can’t afford it. Her impression was, “People from the United States are very intelligent, invent advanced technology. The country is modern and clean. I like that.”
Corn fields from subsistence farms
She didn’t have the opportunity to attend school beyond the third grade. Her parents “pulled her out of school to help raise her brothers and sisters, and help on the farm.” She said, “that was our practice back then. We were poor, with no job opportunities. We helped our family in order to survive.” I asked her, since she’s been to the US, what does “America” mean to you? She answered, “I’m not educated. I don’t exactly know. I guess it represents people from the United States. If I had money, I would go back and try to find work. I liked it there.”
I asked about the ranchito. She said years ago the Mexican government divided land and gave parcels to poor people already living on the property. They had to pay the fees for processing the documents and registering as the new owners. These fees were a hardship for most of the people receiving the land. She went on to say, “We grow corn, beans, squash, and chile. We eat and survive on what we grow.”
In one hour and fifteen minutes I arrived in Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, the border town and last stop in Mexico, after an enjoyable ride sharing experiences with local people. I waited in line fifteen minutes at Mexican immigration. There was a tour bus full of twenty (and some) year olds from The Netherlands who were also exiting Mexico. They all seemed to have nose and eye brow piercings, with many having tattoos. They were dressed in unkept clothes, and both men and women sporting dirty long hair. They didn’t speak Spanish and were impatient with the Mexican official. They looked hungover, bored, and disagreeable. Then it was my turn with Mexican immigration.
I greeted the immigration official in Spanish with “Buenos dias” (good morning), a bright smile, and asked how he was going. I also said I was enchanted with the beauty of the natural sites, people, and food in his country. He responded with a good morning, a thank you for the compliment. I had no problems. He stamped my passport with the exit stamp. He said he was glad I enjoyed his country, to please come back for another visit, and “have a safe journey”. It took two minutes and I’m on my way to Guatemala.
I jumped into a taxi for the three mile ride to the Guatemalan entry point. I told the driver to beat the tour bus with the Dutch young people, so I can get in front of them when going through immigration. He did. I was the first person at Guatemalan immigration. I was there less than five minutes. No visa fee, only an entry stamp on my passport. The officials were friendly, courteous, and impressed with my Spanish speaking abilities, though they said I had an accent. They wished me “safe travels and enjoy Guatemala.”
At the recommendation of an elderly Guatemalan gentleman, I hopped on a motorized tricycle to take me to the bus terminal in La Mesilla, Guatemala. I needed to catch a bus to arrive in Quetzaltenago (known in Mayan as Xela) before dark. The driver dropped me off in front of the bus leaving for Xela in five minutes. It was a “chicken bus” - an aging, converted US school bus elaborately painted and decorated. They are called chicken buses because the local population use them to transport chickens, fruits, vegetables, textiles, pots, any other products that are bought and sold at open air indigenous “markets”. They’re all over Guatemala, inexpensive and are the main form of transportation for the average Guatemalan. I paid about seven dollars for the five hour trip to Xela. It made many stops, sat three to a seat, and was fully loaded, with about a dozen people standing in the aisle when we arrived in Xela.
Chicken buses lining up for passengers
Passengers looking for the right bus
Workers loading and unloading buses
There's my bus, leaving in five minutes
Musings from a Chicken Bus
(Special note from publisher: The following is a stream of consciousness statement written while riding on a chicken bus to Xela, Guatemala. By design they’re thoughts captured in real time without concern with punctuation, with the intention of illustrating feelings of raw emotion and unfiltered experience.)
Inside the chicken bus as the journey begins
Our destination is beyond the banana trees and over those mountains
Terraced fields of corn
Nothing like being the only gringo on a chicken bus, going 60 miles per hour, around windy curves, hard rain hitting the windshield, wipers barely working, clearing only the right side of the driver’s window, he leaning over to the right cleared area to see, all windows fogging up, driver’s assistant periodically wiping a twelve inch square spot for the driver to view the road and oncoming traffic, driver’s face, head, body completely focused on driving, shifting gears with his right hand, handling curves with his left hand, right foot constantly moving from brake to gas pedal, loud Spanish lamenting romantic love songs, smell of human sweat, burning firewood, woman’s perfume, chewing gum, stale milk breath of baby in the front seat, wet pine trees, attempting to pass a semi-truck on a two lane, blind curve, when another bus comes directly at us from the opposite direction, all other sounds drowned out by loud blowing horns from both chicken buses and the semi, to realize you’re on an adventure of a lifetime, possibly the last adventure if we don’t make it pass the semi-truck, the truck we’re passing pulls as far to the right without going over the edge of the mountain, the oncoming bus swerves to the left hugging, possibly scraping the side of the mountain, as we tread the middle, riding the fading double yellow line, cold breeze blowing, I’m sweating profusely, driver and his assistant laughing, apparently jubilant after cheating death, all in a day’s work for them for low wages, for me my hearts pounding, legs and knees hurting from hitting the front seat, smelling hot burning asbestos from brake pads, arms sore from contractions of holding as tightly as possible thinking I don’t want to be thrown from the bus in case we crash, there is no where I’d rather be right now then on this bus, if my life is in the balance, I know I’m still living, and cherishing every second of it, if I don’t make it, and someone finds these notes, have no regrets, sadness, or tears for Manny de, I went with eyes wide open, looking straight ahead, feeling gusto, excitement, with a wide smile at death’s approach, and lusting for more, thank you God and Goddess for the passionate life you’ve let me experience, ears popping as bus comes to a rolling stop, does not stop, bus assistant yells for passengers waiting in the rain to “hurry up”, “hurry up”, they run along side of the bus, stepping in mud and rain puddles, hop on from a running start, bus grinds into second or third gear, we’re at fifty miles an hour within seconds, move over Manny three to a seat, six across, fifteen people in the aisle with babies, packages, bundles, looking out the window at steep mountain sides planted with corn, beans, coffee, bananas, indigenous farmers working the terraced mountain, “Dios Es Amor” (God Is Love) written on the inside front of the bus, over the driver’s head, and on a Mayan woman’s blue navy watch cap, except for the watch cap, she’s dressed in traditional indigenous attire, skirt with vertical purple lines, black and blue stylized designs of triangles, dots and flowers, and a dark blue blouse with red roses along the neck line, other Mayan people are actually sleeping on this wild bus ride, music changes to a fast salsa, with horns blowing, dancing beat encouraging driver to keep the gas pedal to the floor, getting the bus back to top speed, most people look patient, unconcerned, accepting the arduous nature of the journey, they’ve done it before, will do it again tomorrow, and the next day, until death finally catches up with them. This is the commuting life for working people in Guatemala.
We made it to the halfway point of Huehuetenango
Manny de after writing his musings on the bus and
resting at "Huehue"
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