Tuesday, August 09, 2005
PART EIGHT: Guatemala
The border crossing from Belize to Guatemala was smooth and easy and uneventful, a sure sign that terrible things awaited. We were hustled into a taxi before we'd even got through customs by an angry little man whose name, for the purposes of this story, was JUAN.
Juan wouldn't let up. After numerous encounters with numerous taxi drivers who circle around international airports and border crossings like sweaty vultures, we knew the best thing to do is always to have a bit of a sit and a think before committing to anything, but such was Juan's hustle, we relented and agreed to take his taxi to Tikal, the largest Myan site in Central America, and our destination for the day.
Travelling is learning. The price was $40 for about 60km, a tour bus, or 'collectivo' would have cost us almost as much, so we dragged our back-twisting packs through the carpark to his 'taxi', a shitbox '78 Corolla with only rust holding it together. I'm not too fussy though, I used to drive a Datsun 120Y. 1975.
We took off and some of the vehicle's mechanical problems surfaced immediately. First, there was no suspension in the rear. I'm not saying the suspension was bad, I'm saying there was NO SUSPENSION. Every bump resulted in ungodly thud that sounded like the axle was carving a new rut in the road. It was so bad, that around every corner, the Crapolla would veer dangerously to the left, resulting in fishtales and near-collisions with oncoming traffic. After five kms or so, JUAN told us he'd need some of the cash upfront to buy some fuel and pick up a spare tyre. I gave him the cash.
Off we went again in Juan's trademark deadly style, bumpy, bumpy, skiddy, skiddy, killy, killy. The further we went, the more cocky Juan got and the faster we went. He was throttling that Corolla at about 80 when a high-pitched whine started chiming from the rear right side. That's where my beloved companion was sitting. She was feeling a little travel weary by this point (we take shifts) and was not amused by the condition of the vehicle, nor the way it was being driven. She was even less amused by what happened next and, I gotta say, that's when the trip lost it's novelty as far as I was concerned, too.
The whining from the wheel was quickly followed by a loud pop. Juan's eratic style had pulled the rubber off the wheel in a spectacular blowout. Juan seemed pretty upset about it, but not at all apologetic. Given that I knew he had a spare in the boot, I didn't think it was too much of a problem. We were out in the middle of nowhere, halfway up a hill, and I looked at it as a chance to enjoy the view and have a fag. Which I did, as my companion seethed.
Juan pulled out the spare. I stared out into the distance with a relaxed smile. The spare didn't fit. My smile fell. Juan told me what I already knew (in Spanish) with no apology. My eyes became slits. After repeatedly trying to put a five-bolt tyre on a four-bolt wheel, Juan shrugged, gave up, and tried to hail passing cars for help. I reached for my stick. One guy stopped, another 'taxi' driver. He was much easier to deal with than Juan, and knew a little English. He explained that the tyre didn't fit. He also explained that he wasn't able to drive us the rest of the way as he was headed in the other direction. Juan's problem had become OUR problem. My companion's contractions started on the kittens she was about to give birth to on the backpack in the trench on the side of the goat track.
With the little Spanish I knew, I began asking Juan what the fuck we were going to do now, and how I could get my twenty back. Of course, the twenty was gone for good, and he did not know. Then another taxi pulled up, en route to Tikal. He knew Juan and came to some arrangment with him. After lengthy negotiation, we agreed (somewhat reluctantly on my part) that I was to give ANOTHER twenty to Juan and this new guy would take us the rest of the way. I looked over at this guy's car.It was a newer Corolla, and in much better condition. Not a bad option, you might think, except the car already contained the driver, the driver's wife, three of the driver's children, and a French couple about our age and, more importantly, our height.
Nonetheless, we shoehorned our bags into the boot, squeezed in the back seat with the Frenchies, while the driver's entire herd squeezed in up front. It was not a comfortable ride, particularly for my companion who rode on my lap with her pretty little legs hanging out the window.
We did get there eventually though, to an overpriced hotel near the ruins. Stepping out of the car and nearly treading on a tarantula was a highlight. As we marvelled at its hideousness, our driver jumped out and trod on it before we could take a photo. This offended me slightly, but I decided against launching into a lecture about the importance of maintaining the area's biodervsity. Even though we were in a national park. Instead, we tipped the driver and checked into our crappy room.
I swam in the hotel's pool as a storm rolled in and let the fat drops clean (some of) the caked dust out of my hair and nostrils. We'd made it to Tikal and the next day we'd see the ruins, which I'd been hanging out to do for ages. With some dep breathing, things were looking up.
Juan wouldn't let up. After numerous encounters with numerous taxi drivers who circle around international airports and border crossings like sweaty vultures, we knew the best thing to do is always to have a bit of a sit and a think before committing to anything, but such was Juan's hustle, we relented and agreed to take his taxi to Tikal, the largest Myan site in Central America, and our destination for the day.
Travelling is learning. The price was $40 for about 60km, a tour bus, or 'collectivo' would have cost us almost as much, so we dragged our back-twisting packs through the carpark to his 'taxi', a shitbox '78 Corolla with only rust holding it together. I'm not too fussy though, I used to drive a Datsun 120Y. 1975.
We took off and some of the vehicle's mechanical problems surfaced immediately. First, there was no suspension in the rear. I'm not saying the suspension was bad, I'm saying there was NO SUSPENSION. Every bump resulted in ungodly thud that sounded like the axle was carving a new rut in the road. It was so bad, that around every corner, the Crapolla would veer dangerously to the left, resulting in fishtales and near-collisions with oncoming traffic. After five kms or so, JUAN told us he'd need some of the cash upfront to buy some fuel and pick up a spare tyre. I gave him the cash.
Off we went again in Juan's trademark deadly style, bumpy, bumpy, skiddy, skiddy, killy, killy. The further we went, the more cocky Juan got and the faster we went. He was throttling that Corolla at about 80 when a high-pitched whine started chiming from the rear right side. That's where my beloved companion was sitting. She was feeling a little travel weary by this point (we take shifts) and was not amused by the condition of the vehicle, nor the way it was being driven. She was even less amused by what happened next and, I gotta say, that's when the trip lost it's novelty as far as I was concerned, too.
The whining from the wheel was quickly followed by a loud pop. Juan's eratic style had pulled the rubber off the wheel in a spectacular blowout. Juan seemed pretty upset about it, but not at all apologetic. Given that I knew he had a spare in the boot, I didn't think it was too much of a problem. We were out in the middle of nowhere, halfway up a hill, and I looked at it as a chance to enjoy the view and have a fag. Which I did, as my companion seethed.
Juan pulled out the spare. I stared out into the distance with a relaxed smile. The spare didn't fit. My smile fell. Juan told me what I already knew (in Spanish) with no apology. My eyes became slits. After repeatedly trying to put a five-bolt tyre on a four-bolt wheel, Juan shrugged, gave up, and tried to hail passing cars for help. I reached for my stick. One guy stopped, another 'taxi' driver. He was much easier to deal with than Juan, and knew a little English. He explained that the tyre didn't fit. He also explained that he wasn't able to drive us the rest of the way as he was headed in the other direction. Juan's problem had become OUR problem. My companion's contractions started on the kittens she was about to give birth to on the backpack in the trench on the side of the goat track.
With the little Spanish I knew, I began asking Juan what the fuck we were going to do now, and how I could get my twenty back. Of course, the twenty was gone for good, and he did not know. Then another taxi pulled up, en route to Tikal. He knew Juan and came to some arrangment with him. After lengthy negotiation, we agreed (somewhat reluctantly on my part) that I was to give ANOTHER twenty to Juan and this new guy would take us the rest of the way. I looked over at this guy's car.It was a newer Corolla, and in much better condition. Not a bad option, you might think, except the car already contained the driver, the driver's wife, three of the driver's children, and a French couple about our age and, more importantly, our height.
Nonetheless, we shoehorned our bags into the boot, squeezed in the back seat with the Frenchies, while the driver's entire herd squeezed in up front. It was not a comfortable ride, particularly for my companion who rode on my lap with her pretty little legs hanging out the window.
We did get there eventually though, to an overpriced hotel near the ruins. Stepping out of the car and nearly treading on a tarantula was a highlight. As we marvelled at its hideousness, our driver jumped out and trod on it before we could take a photo. This offended me slightly, but I decided against launching into a lecture about the importance of maintaining the area's biodervsity. Even though we were in a national park. Instead, we tipped the driver and checked into our crappy room.
I swam in the hotel's pool as a storm rolled in and let the fat drops clean (some of) the caked dust out of my hair and nostrils. We'd made it to Tikal and the next day we'd see the ruins, which I'd been hanging out to do for ages. With some dep breathing, things were looking up.
PART SEVEN: Things that can suck my cock (a list)
OK, I'm in New York at the moment and have a lot of catching up to do, blog-wise. I'll do a quick, one par round-up first followed by a simple to use ready reckoner IN POINT FORM.
Soooo, after Belize went to Guatemla, highlight: Antigua (beautiful colonial town), then Costa Rica for a week, then Venezuala for what was meant to be two weeks but ended up as one as we scurried the fuck out of there as fast as we possibly could to New York. Details later...
THINGS THAT CAN SUCK MY COCK (in no particular order) ...
1. Days Inn, Sherman Oaks
2. Day's Inn, Inglewood
3. Spanish
4. Quebec
5. American Express
6. American coffee
7. American customs officials
8. American border guards
9. Venezuala
10. Caracus (Venezuala)
11. The French
12. Jeff from Boston
13. My backpack
14. All the cunts in Caracus who wouldn't give me any change to make a phone call
15. Overpriced internet
16. Jeff from Boston
17. Sales taxes
18. Departure taxes
19. Lying scumbags
20. Defective taxis
21. Skytram, Costa Rica
22. The Empire State Building
23. Nigara on the Lake
24. Me for locking the keys in the car
25. My companion for making us go on the Skytram while the keys were locked in the car
26. Drivers in Costa Rica
27. The price of hotel rooms in New York
28. The price of cigarettes in New York
29. The price of everything in New York
30. The guy on the subway with the bandage over his leaking brain who told me I was disgusting
31. Bears
32. Ritz Camera
33. The Fuji Finepix
Of course, there's a lot more things to go on this list, but I left my paper copy at home. Stay tuned for additions.
Next chapter, Guatemala...
Soooo, after Belize went to Guatemla, highlight: Antigua (beautiful colonial town), then Costa Rica for a week, then Venezuala for what was meant to be two weeks but ended up as one as we scurried the fuck out of there as fast as we possibly could to New York. Details later...
THINGS THAT CAN SUCK MY COCK (in no particular order) ...
1. Days Inn, Sherman Oaks
2. Day's Inn, Inglewood
3. Spanish
4. Quebec
5. American Express
6. American coffee
7. American customs officials
8. American border guards
9. Venezuala
10. Caracus (Venezuala)
11. The French
12. Jeff from Boston
13. My backpack
14. All the cunts in Caracus who wouldn't give me any change to make a phone call
15. Overpriced internet
16. Jeff from Boston
17. Sales taxes
18. Departure taxes
19. Lying scumbags
20. Defective taxis
21. Skytram, Costa Rica
22. The Empire State Building
23. Nigara on the Lake
24. Me for locking the keys in the car
25. My companion for making us go on the Skytram while the keys were locked in the car
26. Drivers in Costa Rica
27. The price of hotel rooms in New York
28. The price of cigarettes in New York
29. The price of everything in New York
30. The guy on the subway with the bandage over his leaking brain who told me I was disgusting
31. Bears
32. Ritz Camera
33. The Fuji Finepix
Of course, there's a lot more things to go on this list, but I left my paper copy at home. Stay tuned for additions.
Next chapter, Guatemala...
