Roadspill

And now the events from April 25th in Guatemala. My apologies for any errors in English language usage and spelling. The important thing is the tale to be committed to paper before it disappears into the black hole that is my memory. With that in mind, grab a rum and start reading!

Friday, April 25, 2003
Flores, Guatemala “Of Bo Duke, Puss Puss and Bank Promotiions”

Due to the heat of our oven, or hotel room, we have woken up early. Today is a travel day and the destination is Livingston, Guatemala.

The first order of business is to find some sort of meal. We pop into a small restaurant after comparing posted prices. Brent has this thing for finding the cheapest meal. We spot of place offering breakfast for the equivalent of a couple of US dollars. Which, come to think of it, is not that much cheaper than what I can get back home in my neighbourhood greasy spoon. But then, my greasy spoon is not in Guatemala either.

I order up the Huevos Rancheros, beans, café con leche (coffee with cream), and OJ. Perhaps this is a better deal than at home, where the “HamScram” is nothing more than some greasy eggs and a slice of luncheon meat style ham/salt lick.

The restaurant is nice, featuring primary colours on the wall (Look! Red! How foreign!), exposed rebar, and a ladder in the middle of the dining area that leads to a loft. Handy place to live, I suppose. I sneak a peak into the kitchen. It is huge, with a big cauldron of fire and witches dancing around it. This is going to be one tasty meal.

But it is not. The eggs run more than a marathoner. But, as Brent points out, it was cheap. Using his logic, the amoebas that I have probably just ingested are a nice value added.

At the bus station we fork over US$21 for our tickets. This pays for not only our ride to Rio Dulce, but for the chance to sit around a hot bus station – really an office – surrounded by Germans and their packs. I’ll let you guess whether or not they were annoying.

The bus is not of the chicken variety. We’ve decided that as much as we want to rough it, the comfort of a large Euro styled bus complete with movies and air conditioning – and one that doesn’t stop at every village along the highway – is too much to pass up.

The Germans get on and immediately set out to complain. They move from chair to chair, in search of the perfect source of air conditioning. They are miserable. We chuckle because we know that the air conditioning is broken. When they say there is air conditioning, there never is. We’re also late leaving, which is driving the Germans to near suicide.

After departing Flores, we head south. The televisions throughout the bus light up. We have high hopes for a good Spanish film about the crucifixion of Christ starring Lorenzo Lamas. We’re thrilled that the film selection is even better.

It is a film about the evil powers of lightening (not the Michael Jackson sort) starring Gary Sandy (from WKRP fame) and Luke Duke. Or was it Bo Duke. It was the one that thought he could launch a country singing career. Or was that Boss Hogg? Please excuse the 1970’s culture references, but keep in mind that I am but 2 days from turning 40.

The movie is wonderful, filled with bad scripting, predictable plot devices, plodding action, and alliteration a plenty.

Because this is a premier bus, we get served lunch. It stands up well against the synthetic food-like items found on modern airlines. We are served ham and cheese on a bun, sugar drink, and a item that might have been fruit at one time.

A second movie comes on: Formula 51 starring Samuel L. Jackson. Or should I say, POOR Samuel L. Jackson. It is an action flick in the style of Guy Ritchie. Even while it is playing, I can’t remember even one facet of the plot. It may very well have not had one.

With no air conditioning, the bus is hot. Not hot like a blast furnace, just hot like a fireplace. There are carrot coloured curtains hanging in the windows, shielding us from the supernova outside.

There are only a few other people on the bus other than the Germans and us. A small woman is snoring away. A large man is yelling on his phone. I think is a government official, judging by his loudness.

I peek behind the curtains and see Guatemala flying by at an alarming rate. The blur looks like it might be a mountainous landscape. We slow to warp speed upon entering a town that is hosting a fair consisting of nothing more than materials advertising the local Gallo brand beer.

Brent breaks the vision with another idea: write a screenplay about someone who takes over an email account and eventually drives the rightful owner to suicide. Okay….

After about 4 hours, we pull into Rio Dulce, Guatemala. This is the end of the line, or the beginning of the journey depending on which way you’re facing. We get off the bus, waving heartily at the frowning Germans, and walk towards the local dock. It is here that we must catch a boat to Livingston. It is cut off from the rest of Guatemala by the fact that there are no roads that go there.

We need to catch a water taxi that will take us on an hour-long ride across Lake Izabal and up to the Caribbean Sea where Livingston is perched. Not finding immediate transportation, our attention is captured by a small bar named Crowbar. It is subtitled “Call of the Gallo.” Gallo is the local beer brand, but also Spanish for “rooster.” I can’t figure this one out without a beer.

We take place on the patio, shaded from the heat. Judging by the rate at which I am losing fluids through profuse sweating, I estimate it to be 4200 degrees Kelvin. It is probably close to 40 C.

The owner of the bar, Jose Lopez (who we will get to know better, later) explains how the water taxi system works. Rather than going every hour, the boat owners wait until they have a full load. Arriving early in the morning means a fairly fast departure. Arriving in the middle of the afternoon means waiting around. Lucky for us the beer is ice cold, Jose serves food, and the beer is ice cold.

As we wait for out boat, we see a stream of ex-pat American sailors who have dropped anchor here. They are well behaved and we are unable to mock them. There is not a black sock/sandal combo to be found. There are also a couple of Canadians armed with a guidebook. Brent asks to borrow it to look up Livingston details, and they ask for 10 Quetzals to read the book, 20Q to take their pictures. We’d been missing that sense of humour.

The bar is completely open to the outside, with the exception of the kitchen. It is a shrine to sailing – with yacht club banners hanging here and there. Both a Canadian flag and a Canadian Coast Guard flag are stapled to the ceiling. There are also some woodcarvings of house facades – the most interesting of which had “No Mas Guerra” (No More War) written on it. One tends to forget that civil war ripped this place apart not that long ago.

Our boat is full minus 2 places for us. We throw Jose some cash and sprint to the boat. We wave goodbye to Rio Dulce (Sweet River) as our little boat takes off. We are still clutching our beers.

We head across the river to a marine gas station. After filling up, the captain has trouble starting the outboard. After numerous attempts, it finally catches and in no time we are hauling across Lake Izabal at a good clip.

I it a beautiful journey – the jungle is a vivid green and dotted with thatched roof homes and thatched roof resorts. Little skiffs zip around the shore, taking the locals shopping and visiting. At one point, we come to a thermal hot spring and the boat stops so that a couple in the boat can hop into the billion-degree water to be cleansed of evil spirits and skin. Have you seen the Robbie Williams video where he peels off his skin?

The engine won’t start. Ka-chugga. Ka-chugga. We’re starting to wonder if it’s going to take some money to get it started. Brap-brap-brap. It goes and we’re powering across the lake again, en route to Livingston.


After crossing the lake, we continue up a wide tributary that leads to the Caribbean Sea. Perhaps this is the Rio Dulce? I’m not quite sure. But it is stunningly beautiful. Behind the walls of green vegetation tower Honduran mountains barely visible through the haze.

As we near Livingston, the number of fishing boats, water taxis, and personal craft increases dramatically. This is very much a water-based community. The ocean spreads out before us and the town clings to the eastern reaches of Guatemala.

Livingston, Guatemala….

The water taxi pulls up to the public dock. It is loud and crowded and plastered in beer adverts. Brent and I grab our belongings and set out to climb the very steep street that leads up into the town centre. The roads are concrete and new, making me wonder if there is some kind of a special tourism infrastructure program has swept through.

As we launch into a climb that would make Sir Edmund proud, new friends surround us. Need a hotel? Need a cab? Where are you staying? Exchange money? Bag of weed?

Most of our new friends drop off quickly, except for one, who is intent on getting us a place to stay. Repeated mentions that we have a place to stay do nothing to dissuade him.
It is only when we, near death, climb the steps of the Hotel Rio Dulce, that he buggers off.

Cheap continues to be the order of the day, and our double room fits our budget: Q80, just over C$15. We’re pleased with our accommodation and the entertainment when the manager of the hotel starts ripping into a woman selling stuff on the porch of the hotel. In Italian. We look at each other, shrug, and go off to deposit our stuff in the room.

We thought it was hot before. This is beyond hot. And humid. Even after a shower, beads of sweat instantly re-appear. I look like a zebra with all the lines of salt stains on my clothes. I don’t know if I have ever experienced weather like this. The locals tell is it is unusual. I wonder if there is anywhere on Planet Earth where 100% humidity and 110 degrees is normal. A coke oven, perhaps.

A little while later, we are heading towards the other side of town, which is easier since its downhill. Brent’s search for the best beer deal is on. The main road leads past all sorts of homes. Some colonial in appearance, with heavy bars and gates. Others little more than shacks topped with corrugated zinc.

Main Street comes to an abrupt end at the Caribbean Sea. We turn left and follow the shoreline past several shack bars. Brent is doing the math – 2 litres of Tecate Q26. 3 Gallo Q17, and so on. We discover the correct combination of cheapness and location: a little place right on the water’s edge, coconut trees above us and comfortable seats below us. This is damn close to paradise. We sit there and let the experience waft over us.

I can hear my stomach cry out. We’ve both neglected to eat in some time, and this must be taken care of. Walking back along the beach we spot a place called Tilingo Lingo. It looks suspiciously like a place that caters to tourists. Who cares? We need food.

So we order a couple of Gallo, which is ice cold. Perhaps the coldest beer to be had in Livingston. It is also a few centavos more expensive. Outrage!!

The woman that owns the joint is friendly and tells us a bit of her story. She is originally from Mexico, and now living here with a local man. The menu is quite diverse, but she recommends the chicken curry. Sold. While we wait, we are entertained by the house cat, Puss Puss.

Night has fallen and we are now passing by the main bank in town. There is a huge crowd, and a semi trailer piled high with speakers blocks the road. It is some kind of cheesy promotion for the bank, and they are blasting the music in an attempt to lure new customers. If my bank did this, they would lose me as a customer. The crowds seem less interested in savings accounts than the prizes being given away. The bank is smart though – they give the prizes away slowly, thus ensuring that the blasting music will go all night.

We squeeze through the crowd looking for an internet café. After a quick news and mail check, it is time to find the Vancouver Canucks playoff hockey game on TV somewhere. This was easy in Belize where we had access to ESPN and ESPN 2. Guatemala is a different story,

A disco on the main street has a television. The entire joint is lit with black light, and everything glows eerily. Even my sweaty brow. I order a gin, just for the fun. After explaining to the woman behind the bar that we want to control the TV, she says that the channel has never been changed. We plead our case and before long she is teetering atop a chair, flicking through the channels. She lands on ESPN Espanol. We celebrate with a glow in the dark cocktail. Or was it a beer?

Game time, and we are ready to watch a little hockey in cool comfort. The other patrons who have come in are watching the screen too, probably wondering why the channel has been changed. And then: disappointment. Soccer comes on.

Disappointed, Brent heads back to room while I head back to the internet café in a lame attempt to keep my blog up to date. But it’s closed. Beside the hotel is a restaurant that has a couple of internet terminals and cold beer. Perfect! I try and listen to the Canucks game with streaming audio, but it just crashes the computer. On the NHL site, I find that there is a page of updated stats. Not as exciting as actually seeing or hearing the game, but I am able to keep track of the score. It’s 1-1 when I decide that it is time for me to head off to slumber land in the sauna that we call our room.

I look at my leg – the scrapes from Pandy Hill seem to be healing, but still look terrible. This is not an attractive feature. And then I remember something else: this is my last day of my 30s. Is this a good thing or bad? Good, I think.

The room is sweltering. Brent is sleeping soundly despite the still screaming music from the bank street party. Luckily, this is Guatemala. And that means that there are frequent power cuts. And suddenly, the music stops. Saved! The fact that the fan stops too is a drag, but if I try hard, I can get to sleep before the music comes back on. It never does. The power returns, but I think the bank people have taken it as a sign from God that it is time to go home.

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