Roadspill

Note: These tales are still in a rough form. You will probably come across lots of spelling errors and bad grammar. Do not fear it. I simply am doing a brain dump, 2 weeks later, and it is more important to get it out than to spel corextly. And with that, I present the following:

Saturday April 26, 2003
“Where 40 begins”

Livingston, Guatemala

Today is the big day. And at first, I don’t even think about it. As we prepare to start another day, Brent welcomes me to 40. 40. Big number. Bigger meaning. But does it really mean anything? At the moment, it doesn’t even seem an issue. I am so detached from reality that nothing seems as it should. And that is why I am here: not to run away from the clock, but to be doing something I like to do, and something that is memorable. Or would be if we didn’t drink so much beer.

This day marks another significant: there is a stag back in Vancouver for a good friend of mine. It's due to be a barnburner, and I wish I could be there. But I also know that if I were, I would be as much of a target as the groom-to-be. I would be forced into a dress and forced to march through rough bars singing George Michael songs.

I am lucky.

Despite the early hour, the main street is lined with dozens of stalls selling everything from mangoes to soap. Brent points out how unlike Guatemala Livingston is. The majority of the population is black and the town feels like it should be in Belize. There is not a Guatemalan flag to be seen. Yet Spanish fills the air. I scan the various stalls for hot sauce. I have become a hot sauce freak, and I find the stuff that comes from this part of the world to be the best.

We make a return visit to Tilingo Lingo, searching for breakfast. The town is quiet, except for the dance music being blasted from our destination. It’s never too early for bleeding ears.

We order the omlette with secret spices, which turns out to be great. No surprise, as TL is turning into our favourite joint for grub. The music is finally turned down to “really loud” when our waiter is replaced by another. He heads off to crank stereos in the rest of the town. They probably call him Cranker behind his back.

Exploring the town, we pass a huge cemetery where many of the crypts are painted blue and pink. It is a very colourful place of death. This could be a welcome trend in North America. In fact, I have written in my will that I want a burgundy coloured crypt with a yellow cross.

Further up the road is another surprise: a Moorish looking cluster of buildings painted blue and white. They are quite striking, nestled in palm and coconut trees as they are.
A sign on the front says “The African Hotel.” We walk inside to the main reception area. It is beautiful too, with lots of hardwood and vaulted ceilings. We ask the rate, which turns out to be cheaper than the Rio Dulce – only Q70 (US$10). The grounds keeper takes us for a tour and shows us one of the rooms. Again, lots of white, high ceilings, and ornate doorways abound. There is Arabic writing etched into the walls, and it truly feels like we are in Morocco.

I get the impression that this was some sort of Muslim mission, but the groundskeeper says that the place was built as a hotel and has always been a hotel. I still find it hard to believe, but you never know. There are few people here, and we ask about the clientele. Mostly tour groups, the groundskeeper says.

We are tempted to pull up stakes and move here, except that we’ve already paid at the Rio Dulce and this place is a lot off the beaten path. It’s just a sketchy enough neighbourhood that at night, 2 boobs walking home from the bar would make a great target.

Walking back to the centre of town, both of us are melting. We pass a restaurant that looks inviting. The entire front opens onto the street, and it is dark with many ceiling fans whirring madly. We pop in, grab a table, and order a refreshing beer. It is 10am.

Since there isn’t much to do, we figure that doing this will do fine. It is relatively comfortable when the fans are running. They stop every now and then when the power goes out. And the power goes out a lot here.

The owner of the restaurant is a huge black/Indian woman dripping with gold. She is friendly to us, but not too pleased when her family begins to squabble in the kitchen. This is providing fine entertainment for us, and we order another round.

I am flicking through the stored images in my digital camera to try and free up some room. Digital cameras are great until you run out of space. And I have. And I have no means to download the images to open up more space in the camera. The display on the camera is decent, but it is too small to determine whether an image might be slightly out of focus. Since I have been shooting multiple shots of the same image (just in case), I am now faced with the task of deleting some of them. I order a beer.

A crackhead passes and notices my camera and me. Great. She wanders up and asks if she can see the pictures. I tell her no. This, of course, is not very effective and she breaks into a song proclaiming her love for America. That certainly isn’t going to work on me. I ignore her while Brent chuckles to himself. Finally she gets the hint and continues down the street singing her “I love the USA” song.

It’s time to find lunch. We head to a side of town we’ve not yet explored. Brent, in his search for cheap beer, local haunts, and cheaper food, leads us into a bar with a couple of guys sitting there. There is no food here, so we ask if there is anywhere nearby. One of the guys offers to lead us to food.

After walking a couple of blocks, we end up near where we started. Our guide points to a structure that is politely described as a shack. Tourist unfriendly bars in Guatemala are really little more than a few sheets of plywood topped with a metal roof. Bare wires hang from the walls, and cockroaches and geckos scurry about doing their business.

This particular bar is like that. Open on two sides, so as to get some airflow. It also has a covered patio and a fridge that runs when there is power. The woman behind the bar is Jamaican. We sit and chat with her as we take shelter from the sun.

A little while later, a little man walks in and introduces himself to us. Danny is wearing a flowery shirt and sports short dreads and a little red hat. Despite the early hour, he appears to be operating on more than a few drinks. Another adventure is about to begin.

Danny sits down at our table and begins telling us the story of his life. We order a round of cheap rum and he shows us how to drink it with salt and lime. The whole concoction is rather awful. The salt makes it worse. Think of doing tequila shooters with antifreeze instead of tequila.

Danny tells us about growing up, living in Livingston, his German wife, and so on. We have our doubts about the German wife, but he peppers his stories with German words, so maybe, just maybe, he’s not spinning tales for a couple of naïve tourists.

I ask for directions to the loo, and Danny points to a tree in the back yard of the bar. There is also an outhouse here, and I choose that over the tree. The outhouse sports a stack of old newspapers and a concrete “toilet” which has no seat. For my purposes, this will do fine. But this may be the most basic loo I have seen with the exception of the woods.

On the way back to our table I spot an outdoor bedroom. A bed is propped up on milk crates, and a tarp hangs a few feet above it. It is open on three sides. I wonder if this is Danny’s home.

After a while, Danny seems really hammered. His stories are ramble, his gaze becomes distant, and we begin to make escape plans. This is easier said than done. Having met us, Danny knows a good thing. Brent and I pay the bill, and wander back to the main street, Danny in tow.

He wants us to go with him somewhere on the other side of town, but we want to get on with the day and find something to eat. We stand in the middle of the street, mired in indecision. This is too much for our wobbly friend, and he teeters off in search of something more interesting. Our ruse has worked. We immediately bolt the other way, and head back to the restaurant beside the bar we have just left.

Again, this place is much like the bar; little more than a shack. We both order the stewed beef, and cross our fingers that this isn’t mile one on the road to food poisoning. When the food comes, it is piled high and accompanied with a bottle of green hot sauce.

We tuck into what appears to be safe food and are delighted when we discover how good it is. And how good the hot sauce is. This is probably the best meal that we’ve had on the road. And I don’t think this is because I’ve permanently damaged my taste buds on cheap Guatemalan rum.

The afternoon passes quickly after our lunch. We wander around exploring and sweating. Surely the sweating will counteract the intake of beer.

It is suppertime. We are back at the Tilingo Lingo where something weird is going on. Someone has left the braided-hair girl-cloning machine on. In a scene from what could be a modern version of “The Stepford Wives,” the restaurant is filled with at least a dozen women all sporting the tight hair braids and similar clothing. They might all be going to the disco up the road, but it is still a strange site. There isn’t a cheap cruise ship to be seen. By the time our disappointing meal arrives, the Stepford crowd has disappeared into the night.

Later on, Brent crashes while I go to the internet café to be a geek. To my surprise I find a number of birthday greetings in my inbox. After a reading them and doing a quick check of the news, I decide to go for a stroll down to the main dock. I suppose I am in a bit of a melancholy mood, thinking about my life and what I have done with it.

I am interrupted by pretty young woman who asks me if I speak English. When I answer yes, she tells me a long story about how she and her boyfriend were robbed, and that all the banks are closed, and her parents in California are sending money, but they can’t access it until… and on and on.

Now, having lived in Vancouver for 5 years, I am no stranger to strangers spinning yarns about why I just have to fork over some money. And I have learned that all these tales are just scams.

Thus, it is no surprise that I instantly dismiss her pleas for financial assistance as a scam. I confirm my suspicions when she resorts to well timed tears.

I put myself in her supposed position: what would I do if I were robbed in Guatemala? I certainly wouldn’t beg for money from tourists. I would demand that the hotel where I was robbed would offer me free room until money arrived from home. Or, failing that, I would suck it up and sleep outside in a hammock for a couple of days. I definitely would not target my fellow travelers, appealing to their soft hearts. Still, she was so well dressed and appeared to be so honest.

I dismiss her, and pushing the guilt away, and walk home. I head up to the balcony of the hotel, squeeze into a hammock and swing back and forth as the world goes by. And I wonder about that girl. After an hour of this, I return to the room, and this first day of being 40 comes to a close.

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