Okay, so I guess I am a tiny bit happy to be home

The fact that my apartment is so cozy definitely helps.  I forgot how much I love working on my Mac curled up on my chaise surrounded by candles.  And it also helps that I didn’t completely miss autumn, the trees are still gorgeous up here and I can’t wait to go for a bike ride along the river tomorrow. And that I miss people and look forward to seeing them. And that the facade of my house is COMPLETELY different, which makes me feel like I moved, but didn’t have to pack and unpack. And, there are A LOT of Jersey Shore episodes for me to watch in my bug free bed. But en lugar de thinking about what kind of job I would like to do and where, I am just thinking about my next trip and how I really just wasn’t ready to come back.

My last night in Guatemala made it even more difficult to leave. I left Xela on Thursday after goodbyes to all the wonderful friends I made here and headed to Sololá, a very traditional Kaqchikel market town above Lake Atitlán. The minute I strapped Stanley on my back, I realized just how cushy I had it living in one town and not traveling around much. And when I did go on trips, I was a little spoiled by private transport provided by Stef, Tony and Fernando.  But today, I had to take a microbus to Minerva bus terminal, a sprawling, dirty, confusing, urban transport center and market where I had to catch another bus somewhere in the direction of Guate and get off somewhere along the road and then catch another bus to Sololá. Surprisingly, I do like to map out how I am going to get somewhere before I go, even though it rarely helps me in finding things, but I had to just wing this one because there is no Guatemalan hopstop or online chicken bus trip planner. As it turned out, the whole trip was pan comido.  I keep forgetting how generally friendly and helpful Guatemalans are. 

Got to Minerva and maneuvered my crap through the labyrinthine market to where all the camionetas were lined up. I didn’t even have to ask which bus to take because as soon as I approached the line up several bus touts asked me donde va, and I was instantly ushered to a bus that would take me to where I needed to go.  Stanley was liberated from my back and shoved into the space between the driver and my front seat before I could even say sí, and we were soon on our way. Which was apparently to La Cuchilla, where I was told I could catch my next bus. And since cuchilla sounded close to the word for spoon, I thought it could be some type of fork or utensil with prongs…like a salad fork or the thing you use to scoop out lobster, but it actually means blade or cleaver…and is a spot or maybe a town on the Interamericana which splits the highway in two directions, one towards the capital and one towards the lake.   I actually knew what the place looked like because I passed it a couple of times already in the car, but it didn’t matter, the ayudante and the driver had my back and told me exactly where to get off AND where to stand for the next bus.

And that was easy too.  And both rides were fairly comfortable considering they are on broken-down school buses. I didn’t have anyone sitting on my lap and only had to share my two-seater with a third person for a little while, and she was a child. The microbus was a little bit of a nightmare, but I knew it would be…I had to pay for Stanley because he is literally the size of a Guatemalan and took up a seat.  And even when you think there is no way another person can fit, the amount of human flesh they can cram into one of these things is truly a feat that defies physics.  Stanley was perfectly comfortable, though.

I really like Sololá.  So far I had been to Kiche and Mam villages and this one is predominantly Kaqchikel…which I heard being spoken quite a bit on market morning. When we drove through it a while ago, I was intrigued about how untouristy it was being so close to the lake and I really dig the men’s traditional trajes.  I NEED a pair of those pants.  I looked for them in the market but couldn’t find any. Anyway, as I walked down to the Vista Hermosa, about a mile on the road to Pana, the view of the lake was so intense I found it difficult to walk.  When I got to the hotel, Stef was outside but I was still able to surprise him a little on his birthday.  I love surprising people!! I also made him a joke calendar using the design of the real calendar where I popped in pics of all of us clowns at the house instead of the PP clowns and did my text change thing in Spanish, which actually worked okay considering my questionable language skills.  So. Much. Fun.  And I arrived just in time because the group were getting ready to head into Pana for a free afternoon and dinner.  If I came any later, I would have had the entire Vista Hermosa to myself.  Hmmm, wouldn’t have been too bad considering why it was named Vista Hermosa—Hotel Beautiful View.

The group consisted of health and human rights activists and theater professionals from Honduras, El Salvador, Brazil, Nicaragua and Guatemala (and France, Argentina & Australia también) attending a workshop on Teatro del Oprimido.  I had some interesting conversations (in Spanish!) with a lot of them, and just an overall lovely last night. It started with a thrilling ride on the winding dirt road to the lake, crammed in the back of Tony’s pickup, a boat ride to Pana followed by a few hours of wandering and a lovely dinner with interesting people.  Night boat back and a scary ride back up the same road to my very last night in a dodgy bed where I KNEW I would definitely be getting bit by something.  More sad goodbyes in the morning with Stef, Tony and Lorena before heading off on a three-hour bus ride to Guate and then New York.

I might have spent this time reflecting on what a great experience it was to work with such an interesting organization, with people I genuinely liked and respected, both personally and professionally, but I was desperately trying to keep my ass on my tiny sliver of bus seat and guard my camera and money belt all while avoiding stepping in some kid’s vomit.  The mad dash—almost every single one of my trips has one and it seemed highly appropriate, I might even say destined, that my trip back to reality would be on the most hazardous chicken bus ride EVER.

When I hiked UP the same hill that morning I previously walked down, I realized it probably wasn’t the view that made me almost unable to walk yesterday, but the mochila cocoon I wrapped myself in. And after getting on a relatively empty bus (every seat was taken, but no squeezing or lap sitting) to Los Encuentros, I was lulled into a false sense of camioneta confidence.  This was going to be a breeze, I thought, pan comido. Yeah, well I should have known that when an ayudante seemed to be waiting for me as I got off the bus already holding my backpack (the Guatemalan equivalent of a placard with your name on it) repeating Guate, Guate, Guate, I should have just said no, voy a ir luego.  But instead, I said “sí, sí” and followed my bag to a hellish ride of daredevil curve speeding, and a busload of carsick kids. I get motion sickness myself, especially at this kind of driving (just think three consecutive hours on the Cyclone) but my body was airborne most of the time it didn’t have time to wretch. I have a bruise on my ass cheek and inner elbow that I hope go away before New Year’s.  I was actually happy when we were stuck in a traffic jam for over an hour, just so I could readjust my clothes and body parts.  And during it all I was sitting next to/on the nicest man, Jorge, who took a personal interest in the safety of my onward journey from the city to the airport (I found out later it was his kid who threw up) and who didn’t seem to mind when I clocked him several times in the head with my elbow and bags.  I will still never understand why it was so important to that ayudante to get me on that bus.  At first I thought it was a connecting service and they were waiting for this bus from Sololá, but that is just silly.  Of course it was packed to capacity, or so I thought, and I really didn’t need to be on that particular bus, but Stanley was already comfortably on the roof, I think. And Jorge cheerfully made room for me which I graciously accepted because ironically you are not allowed to stand (for safety reasons???) and then the balancing act began. Miraculously we arrived safely in Guate and, unsolicited, Jorge told me to get off with him and hailed a cab for me to make sure it was official and that I didn’t get ripped off. This type of behavior is more the norm than the exception here.  I truly love the people in this country and during my downtime at the airport, after my very first Pollo Campero, I thought again about how very heartbroken I was to leave it.

So my little adventure is sadly over. As I go through pictures I will probably try to keep it alive a little while longer and post a few more photos along with anecdotes and things I have temporarily forgotten. Thank you all for sharing this with me, the interaction has been fantastic and kept me from being homesick!!