From the Highlands to the Coast, Part 3

Update: I forgot to mention that when Susannah and I were talking to the owner of Johnny's Place and trying to find the best way home, the owner said, "Oh but you must be very careful to leave early, if you don't, you might get stuck in this terrible place called Escuintla that is very dangerous, even for us." When we told him Escuintla was where we spent the previous night, his eyes got huge and then he laughed, a lot.

Before we settled into our beds on Saturday night, Stefan announced, "I will not want to get up in the morning. I will roll over and pull the covers over my head and tell you all to go without me. Make me get up." Come 5am, we all shared that sentiment. I felt greasy and gritty from the heat, the bug spray, the sand. But it was the absolute most comfortable bed that I have slept in so far in Central America. I longed to carry the mattress home of top of the buses.

We rose, dressed, and walked groggily onto the beach, where the surf continued to rage. The world was damp. Sand, dirt, tree, shrub. We walked down the beach to the turtle sanctuary and met our guide, who walked us back onto the dirt road that wound between concrete, thatch and tin houses that at daybreak already had fires going. There were many chickens about, busying themselves in the wet earth. And ducks. A few dogs, lots of pigs. One thing I love about Guatemala: there are hardly any cats about. We cut off the road and walked down a trail that led to the lagoons, where a dozen wooden canoes were tethered to the muddy bank. The canoes were soaked and the wood was swollen from being soaked often, and the paint was peeling off them, and our guide climbed in and began scooping the water out of the bottom of the boat with an old plastic bottle of vegetable oil that had been cut in half.

I spent a lot of time obsessing about what clothes to bring here. Everyone I consulted had different opinions. And because there are dozens of climates throughout the country, it was hard to pack. Still, I knew I would be living here during rainy season. And for some unknown reason that knowledge didn't prompt me to invest in a jacket that was actually waterproof. Instead, I found one whose color I loved -- eggplant -- and that could be stuffed into its own tiny pouch. And even though it was only water resistant and not waterproof, and even though the clerks at REI advised me not to buy it, I did, and have lived to regret it again and again and again. Most recently on a hour and half tour through lagoons in the rain.

So, with the boat empty, we climbed in and launched off. Mangrove lagoons are quiet, dark places, even in daylight. Mangroves, I have been told, can live in salt or freshwater, and their elaborate root systems grow out of the water into labyrinths of tree and leaf and sky. The mangrove tour is supposed to be a bird watchers paradise, but the birds were smarter than us and knew better than to hang out all morning in the rain. There are allegedly caimans that inhabit the lagoons as well, but we never saw any. We did see turtles, and egrets, and herons, and small red and purple crabs that passed time on the mangrove roots.

Despite the wet and the rain and the mosquitoes, it was really beautiful in places and I figured there are worse ways to spend an early Sunday morning. After about 30 minutes we exited the mangroves and found ourselves in open water, surrounded by forest and mist and mountain. It was incredibly breathtaking. The mountains rose through the cloud cover and egrets circled overhead and from a long way off I thought they looked a little like pterodactyls must have.

By the time we returned to our bank, my water resistant rain jacket was entirely soaked and clung to my skin like saran wrap. We headed back to the hostel and on the way there were two huge toads that had been run over. They were the flattened to the size of dinner plates and looked like they had been pressed, like flowers, between the pages of a very large book. Stefan went back to bed immediately, but Susannah and Olivia and I took breakfast on the beach before Susannah and I left.

We had pieced together what we felt sure was a quicker way home. A boat to La Avellana, and buses from La Avellana to Taxisco to Escuintla to Mazatenango to home. We asked for directions to the dock and were told to go back to the center of town and make a left. Doing that deadended us onto the beach, and the wind and rain had picked up and the beach was empty except for a tiny fishing canoe and about 30 men surrounding it. I thought, surely this is not the boat we are supposed to take, and not into the sea, which could be easily described as violent. So we turned around and headed the opposite direction that eventually deadended into a small pavilion on the canals, where again, about 30 men loitered about. We were told we could take a private boat for 50Q or wait 20 minutes and take the public boat for 5Q. We opted to wait.

By the time the boat arrived (shaped like a canoe, twice as long as a limo, with rotting floorboards, two wet rows of seats and a canopy overhead) the dock had filled up, and as more and more people and chickens and baskets of goods and car engines were loaded on, the rim of the boat sank lower and lower and lower into the water. This did not inspire confidence. I began mentally preparing myself for life without my iPod should we sink. We set out, the little engine straining, and before long, the driver reversed us and we headed back the way we came. We came back to pick up two more men and something wrapped in brown paper and plastic twine that was very, very heavy. And thus, the lower we sank. The trip took about 25 minutes, and once I realized we probably wouldn't sink, it was very pleasant. There was a Japanese guy on board, the hippest and most attractive person I have seen in a while, and he spoke perfect Spanish, and he held court at the front of the boat while two dozen men laughed and egged him on.

Again, there was forest on either side of us and gorgeous, cloud rimmed mountains in the distance. And egrets. And crabs. And every once in a while a concrete house that looked flooded and abandoned. Near the end of our trip I noticed in the distance a very strange and beautiful bird, bobbing in the water. I made a note to remember it and to tell my mom about its strange plumage, but as we neared I realized it was only a 2L Pepsi bottle. We arrived in La Avellana and right on the dock was a small green house/tienda with a metal scale hung from the rafter and two parrots swinging themselves back and forth in it. We loaded onto the bus and headed for Taxisco, which the guidebook had said would only be a drop off point along Hwy 2, but turned out to be an actual town with somewhat of a depot. The ride to Taxisco featured the best driver of the entire trip. And by best, I mean the most dangerous. He couldn't have been more than 18 years old. He wore a backwards baseball cap, with long dark hair curling around the rim, and he subjected us to really loud, vulgar rap music. He reminded me of my brother (who I hope has cleaner taste in music) and I loved him immediately. He drove the bus like the hounds of hell were too close for comfort and we were slung around inside. I remember thinking, "thank goodness he knows how to drive." We arrived in no time at all. We had about a 10 or 15 minute wait until a bus arrived with our next destination painted on the top, Escuintla. Boarding the bus, Susannah and I both asked the driver, "This bus is going to Escuintla, right?" and were told yes.

Once we were on the way, the ayudante passed through to collect our fares. We told him we were going to Escuintla and he started talking very excitedly and from what we gathered, we weren't in fact headed there. We got agitated, he was agitated, and we explained to him that both the bus itself and the driver stated we were going to Escuintla. He said, no, we weren't and so we refused to pay him. Instead, we went to a very small place called Chiquimulilla, which wasn't even on our map. Once there, at the smallest bus "station" ever, featuring 2 buses, we were told to get off, and board another bus whose route made no mention of Escuintla. I was, shall we say, pissed at this point. And I mentally took it out on everyone I saw. The sweet women who boarded the bus trying to sell us tortillas. The clerk at the tienda next door. The driver. The ayudante. I listed all the reasons I had to dislike Guatemala and wished I knew how to explain to someone that I had no desire on earth to go back to Escuintla, but I had to, because it was the only way home.

It took an hour for this next bus to leave and I was seething inside. I was seething because I had the not entirely irrational fear that we would get stuck for one more night in Escuintla and have to stay at that dreadful "hotel." As we were finally leaving on this bus, the ayudante kept yelling, "Guat!" and from our map, it looked like the route to Guat totally bypassed Escuintla and would put us some 4 hours east of Xela. I thought, to hell with it. I'd rather be in stuck in Guat than Escuintla anyway. So I began listening to my iPod. Once the engine starts on a bus, it is reasonable to assume that you are almost on your way. The ayudante will generally try to entice more passengers on board until you pull out of the depot, but from there, the bus has left. Not so with this driver. We CREPT along through town and at one point parked in the middle of a 4 lane road and waited for more passengers, while other buses' horns screamed at us as they flew by. I should have been too weary to be angry at this point, but it too angered me.

Finally! we we off. We paid our fare onboard and a few hours later, were dropped off in Escuintla. Que bueno! But we were dropped off at a different location than two nights before, and since there is no map of the town in Lonely Planet, because Lonely Planet acknowledges that the town sucks, we didn't know where we were. We asked several drivers of different buses where to find the bus to Mazatenango and they kept telling us that there was none, but would be happy to take us to Antigua. You get this a lot. Sometimes other drivers are very helpful and accomodating and sometimes because they want your business they will lie to you and tell you the bus you need doesn't exist. I got really irritated at these drivers and for the first time since I have been here I yelled at someone in my unintimidating Spanglish. We then asked someone else where the center of town was and headed that way. Once there, there was no bus to Mazatenango either, and we just kept walking until we found someone who looked trustworthy enough to ask. We ended up asking 3 or 4 different people where to find the bus, and with less and less crude directions each time, we finally ended up in a place that looked somewhat familier and behold there were 3 buses and they all said Mazatenango on them. Such relief!

We got on that bus, and because it was both muggy and rainy and I had my saran wrap raincoat zipped up and we had been running around desperately for the past half hour, I was drenched in sweat. And did I mention how hot it is on the buses? I thought I might never dry out. The ride to Maza was uneventful, if climbing back into gorgeous mountains can be considered such. And the ride home from Maza to Xela was lovely. Tranquil and quiet. Lots of farmland. Mules but no donkeys, which perplexes me.

The Minerva bus station is Xela is maybe the ugliest part of the whole city, but I have never been as happy to see it as I was last Sunday. I disembarked and meant to head to the mall for more cash but on the way I discovered my shampoo had exploded in my bag on the trip, including all over the library book I had borrowed from school. At that point the only thing I had the energy for was to head to my favorite pupuseria and get my bearings again. I was able to clean the book mostly off while I waited for my pupusas (a delicious corn tortilla filled with beans and cheese, then grilled, then served with slaw and salsa). After dinner and a stop by the grocery for new shampoo, I headed home and took a longer shower than we are really supposed to, and collapsed into my rickety, lumpy twin bed, happy to have been near the ocean and totally OK with never seeing the Guatemalan Pacific coast again.