A few memories, among many, of my trip to Guatemala

Maximon

Apparently he was an actual person, but he’s now worshipped by the indigenous people as a god—a god unlike any I’ve ever known. He smokes a big cigar, dresses in the finest clothes, and accepts mostly offerings of liquor, especially the expensive stuff, though he usually has to settle for cheap tequila.

Since the effigy is moved to a new house every day, I had to pay a little boy dos quetzales to show me the location. I arrived in a small one-room house, where the effigy was surrounded by one woman and a dozen or so men, most of whom seemed either drunk or high. I gave another three quetzales to the effigy and asked to hear the story of Maximon. They told me, as best I could understand, that Maximon was a great Shaman, went by other names in other parts of the country, and that he helped people succeed in love and business. I joked that I needed help in both of those areas, and the room roared with laughter as if I were the next Richard Pryor. After the obligatory questions about who I was, what I did, and where I was from, everyone in the room took turns trying to pronounce my name, each butchering it a little more than his predecessor—and then I said adios.

The boy who had taken me to the house was waiting for me outside. He wanted more money—another five quetzals, which is nothing, but, out of principle, I told him no. He and his brother then followed me around for the next hour trying to get their pay, eventually settling for the opportunity to hurl insults at me.

More than anything, Maximon struck me as an indigenous person who had adopted all the traits and mannerisms of the dominant culture—a conquistador, in other words—who uses his wealth and power to get all the drugs and chicas he desires: the embodiment of success in the western world, a modern day shaman.


Sunrise in the Jungle

I woke up at three am to watch the sunrise from the top of a Mayan temple. The sunrise was nice, less for the view than for the symphony of sounds we listened to as the jungle awoke.


The Hold-Up

Estuve en un internet café, cuando un hombre entro con una pistola. El commenzo luchar con un otro hombre y entonces ambos salieron, el hombre con la pistola perseguindo el otro hombre. Tuve miedo, y esta me sorprendido. Nunca habia visto una pistola esa cerca (casi un metre). Despues la incidente, los trabajadores del café cierraron la puerta y esperamos hasta que toda era seguro.

Nunca regresse a este café otra vez.
(it would take too long to put in the accent marks, so.... and feel free, Ron, to correct my grammar).

One Night Stands

Not something that’s ever been a big part of my life—and not something I intend on ever making a big part of my life—but….

We’d been talking for maybe three or four minutes and she asked if I knew what a “something or other” was. I didn’t. She said it was a local term for “makeout session”. So we made out for about twenty seconds before she asked if I wanted to have sex. Believe it or not, I seriously considered saying no—that things were moving way too fast for me. But I didn’t. Before I knew it, I was back at her place being smashed against the wall and my pants dropped to my ankles.

Later though, once our clothes were scattered about the floor and once the booze started to wear off, I lost my nerve. Naked and in a well-lit room, she didn’t look quite as attractive to me as she did in the bar, so instead of fucking we lay in bed and talked. She told me she’d never been in a relationship; she’d had plenty of one-night stands, she said, but had never been in a long-term, meaningful relationship. And at one point, without provocation, she started to cry and I consoled her. The honesty of the moment got to me, so we did what we originally went there to do, and then I left. She wanted me to stay, but, since I didn’t have any contact solution with me and because it was nearly sunrise anyway, I decided I had to go.

At 4:30 am, the sky full of stars, in a profound silence, I made my way back to the hotel. The whole city was mine; there wasn’t a person in sight and hardly any light (no street lights in Xela and the moon had fallen). I hadn’t experienced that kind of pure liberty and wonder in a long time. It was one of the most beautiful moments I had in Guatemala, or in my entire life—and probably one of the loneliest.

The Snake Woman

To celebrate the town of San Pedro’s Saints Day, they had a big dance, circus rides, and a genuine freak show in which a young woman was buried up to her neck in sawdust with a dead boa-constrictor body pushed next to her head. I’ll give her this: she took her job seriously, not breaking character once.

New Friends

Lots to say here, but for now I’ll just give the names and nationalities: Mira (Finnish), Addie (US), Meagan (US), Silven (Guatemalan), host family father whose name I can’t remember (Guatemalan), Conrad (Swiss), Trevor (US), Brandon (Canada), Brooke (US), Maria (India), other girl from India (name starts with a P), host family eldest daughter whose name I can’t remember (Guatemalan), Nery (Guatemalan), Merlinda (German), bar owner in San Pedro whose name I can’t remember (Dutch), Trines (Guatemalan), Wilco (Dutch), Sarabeth and Abbie (fellow Coloradoans), the two guys from Boulder who hiked the volcano with Mira and I, guy I went kayaking with whose name might be John (US), all the interesting ex-pats at the party in Panajachel (US), Max (Israeli), Emily (US), Brian’s novia (Guatemalan), and many more that I spoke to briefly and would like to have gotten to know better.

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A few more (added later):

Standing at the mouth of a cave with thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of bats swarming around me.

A should-have-been forty minute bus ride in which we had not just one but TWO flat tires!

Conversations with my traveling buddies, in which we asked each other personal questions like “what would surprise us most to learn about you?”, “what is your proudest achievement?” etc. Conrad, the quiet unassuming Swiss guy, would preface each answer by telling us how much he hated these types of questions—then give a detailed thirty minute response.

The five foot one teenager who wanted to fight me. Still not sure why.

Taking a seven hour chicken bus ride while hung over. Bad idea.

The Italians in the Cafe in NY who took overwhelming pride in their baking.

Being stopped and frisked by the police. They asked me if I was there to buy marijuana, and, drunk and unable to understand the tone of their question in Spanish, I thought maybe they were selling.
I played it safe and said no.