“Be at dis bus stop at 8 o’clock. Don’t loose da ticket!” I swear to God that I was looking the real live “Pedro” from Napoleon Dynamite. I seriously almost begged him for his autograph but instead I inquired “Is this a real ticket? Because you just wrote that guy a ticket for a tour of Tikal and those tickets look mighty similar. If this ticket isn’t real…I will find you and I will cut your throat.” I didn’t say that, but I thought it. He smirked at me. Then he started jabbering to me very rapidly which is what they do. The local guides feel that if they can catch you in the moment; that if they can make you feel like your only choice is to buy and buy right then and there, they can sell you anything. They use phrases like “we’re the only ones in town with this price” and “we only have 2 seats left”. Those lines will send the average tourist into a temporary, unneeded panic which results in a premature purchase.
Somewhere, lost in his spitfire of words, he explained to me that the ticket had a phone number on it so it had to be real. I inserted an eye roll. We exchanged a few more reassuring words to each other and I left. I strolled around the cobblestone streets a bit, window-shopping stores that lacked glass in their window frames. The air smelt of salt with an occasional whiff of armpit. It could have been mine. But I didn’t investigate. The sun was bright but not warm. The unleveled street made it hard for walking; so I did a lot of “pretending like” I didn’t just trip.
I breezed by the hostel and said my good-byes. Our flights were at different times so the group’s journey together was ending by default. Our farewells were short and 100 percent sincere. You form a bit of a bond with somebody when your week has been spent entirely together; participating in adventures together, doing life’s essential things such as finding food and water, and of course; shitting. Finding a place to crap together will bring you closer to someone than you can ever imagine.
It was my time to find my bus stop. I inquired from a local business man how long it would take me to walk to the stop. He told me 20 minutes. I left at 7:30 pm to give me that extra 10 minutes of getting lost time. I arrived at my destination at 7:33 pm. Hmmmm.
I shared seat number 9 with a creepy but smiley guy. He had a mustache. I immediately stereotyped him as the man with 4 kids locked in his basement. I gave him a courtesy smile and began my attempt at getting comfortable in my seat. I used to hate being short. I couldn’t spike the ball when I was captain of the volleyball team; I had to stand on something to kiss my high school friend boy; and long legs just looked sexy. Now, I have come to complete terms with my shortness. I’m travel size. You can find me in the aisle at target where they sell all the mini soaps and tiny shampoos. They may be small, but they are a lot more freaking comfortable on chicken bus rides, car rides, shuttle, airplanes, small boats, tents and even small beds. Yep, I’m travel size for a reason.
The bus ride is ten and a half hours. No, you didn’t just misread that. Mustache man kept falling on my shoulder and I kept pushing him off. They played awesome Sylvester Stallone movies from the 80’s in Spanish subtitles. There was a not-so-awesome slumber party going on behind me that involved 10 French teenagers with their burger king bags and constant exaggerated giggling. Once I fell asleep about the same time the bus hit a bump in the road. My head hit the glass window with a loud bang. The French kids thought that was hysterical. I secretly wished that their skinny jeans would cut off the circulation to their brains. Just for the bus ride.
We arrived in Guatemala City at sunrise. I muscled my way through the herd of taxi drivers with only one thing on my mind; THE BATHROOM! I didn’t care if there was a line. I didn’t care if it was a unisex bathroom. I didn’t care if there weren’t any spray or fans to numb the smell. I didn’t even care that the door didn’t shut all the way or that the seat cover was an odd shade of grey. I needed to take a crap. And fast.
After the best crap of my life, I found my way to the markets. They weren’t alive till 8 am. So I decided to take a tour of McDonald’s extensive coffee menu to kill an hour. I bought coffee. I found the best table for people watching. I sat down. Then it hit me again. I had to take another crap. The security guard was standing by the bathrooms; guarding the toilets with his big gun and tiny hands. So I took out a book and tried to wish away the afflictions in my lower stomach. Wishing did no good. So I crept to the bathroom. You had to get your toilet paper before you entered the stalls because there was no paper once you closed that door. I grabbed more than a hand full; while I ignored the stares of the cleaning lady. I squeezed in the stall that was obviously made for “sitting room only”. I just kind of turned in a circle while trying to figure out what to do with my backpack that held all my belongings. I looked like a dog chasing its tail. Finally I gave up. I opened the stall and put my backpack outside of it because I was not about to hold it while taking a deuce. That’s just weird. About 20 minutes later I did the walk of shame out of the bathroom, past the security guard. The hairs around the top of my forehead were damp with water. After that dump, I just felt the need to wash my face. I was 15 lbs lighter. And I could even breathe better for some reason.
I walked past the awaking markets. Everybody sold the same things; all with a “buen precio for you”. But I was still sucked into every stand, looking at it as if it were the first. I walked through the park. I stared at the gorgeous fountain in the middle that didn’t have any water in it. There were more pigeons than taxis. I scaled the steps to a church, digging in my pockets along the way so I could have change for the homeless people that sat outside waiting. The pegged me from a distance. Their cries became louder when they saw me, getting their point across. The amusing part is that I knew I had to save some change for when I exited the building, because they would ask for more; which I would gladly give them.
I entered an old catholic church and the 100 foot ceilings grabbed my focus. It was morning mass. My back pack and I stayed near the back so that I wouldn’t disturb the prayers. “En el nombre del padre, su hijo, y espiritu santo…..” The priest was doing his thing. There were pictures of newborn baby Jesus up and there were pictures of his death. It smelt like cold concrete. There was a silence. That silence could have either been uncomfortable or peaceful. I stared at a woman in a teal green scarf that circled her head. She was kneeling. Her lips were moving, but just barely. Her eyebrows were thick and mushed together because her eyes were closed so tight. Maybe she was praying for comfort. Maybe out of habit. Maybe to ask God for enough money to feed her kids or to send them to school. With my age, comes compassion. I looked at her, not with pity, but with a strain in my brow. I also closed my eyes. Maybe because that’s how I was taught how to pray. Maybe it’s because it allowed me to focus without distraction. But whatever the reason, I prayed that the lady in the teal scarf, that her prayers would be answered.
Sometimes I trap myself in this illusion that the “things” in life really matter. I will tell myself that I do need to make a name for myself, I do have to make a lot of money, and I do need an office with my name in all capitals on the door. And even though it’s healthy and needed in life to have goals and plans and dreams and aspirations…..I can’t forget the seemingly small yet ever so important things!! I can’t forget how important it is to be an amazing mother because I am shaping and molding another human life. I can’t forget to make time for my family or my best friends because those are the people who have molded and shaped my life. I can’t forget to love and let myself be loved because what good are my accomplishments if I have to come home to a house where the only person to congratulate me is my reflection? And I can’t forget to stand in the back of a church, holding sweaty change in my hand, and be filled with compassion for another human life. That is what life is all about.
I grabbed a taxi and headed for the airport. My time was up. The driver was nice. He had a bunch of dangly things swinging from his rear view. He spoke very clear Spanish which is always a rush of adrenaline for me because I could understand every word that he spoke. He charged me 5 dollars too much. Normally I would voice my disapproval until I got my way, but not today. I was calm. I was tranquila. I was exhausted. And I was reflecting on my trip. This trip reminded me of why I travel. Of course I travel just to travel. I travel for the stories. I travel for the perspectives that I couldn’t gain elsewhere. I travel so that I can traverse lands with no rules. I travel so that I can accept the consequences and rewards of getting lost. Because when I am lost, new faces are introduced, new places are always found and eventually you find what you were looking for—or did you? Travel brings me out of my comfort zone and into a new one.
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