TheBanyanTree: Winding Down

[apmartin at canada.com]

The day after my trip to Guatemala City, I spoke with
Teresa, the woman who supervised the kitchen and
maintenance staff at Casa Hogar.  New to the Project,
she worked long hours six days a week and was having a
hard time with it; I felt for her and gave her a
listening ear when she needed it.  We had become
friends.

“I have to return to Guatemala City next Monday to pick
up my passport,” I said.  “I didn’t feel safe there on
my own and am thinking of hiring someone to go with me.”

Teresa was always nicely dressed and well groomed.  She
was in her forties and had attractive features but one
side of her face was paralyzed.  She pursed her lips,
but only half of her face cooperated.  She nodded and
said, “Yo tampoco, no me gusta la cuidad.  (I don’t
like the city either).”

“Do you know anyone from Casa Hogar who isn’t working
that day who might be interested?  I will pay 60
quetzales and bus fare.”  

“Quiere un hombre o una mujer? (Do you want a man or
woman?)” Teresa asked.

“Pienso es mas seguro con un hombre (I think it is
safer with a man),” I said. 

Teresa told me she had someone in mind, and would let
me know after speaking with him.

“Diego said he would do it,” she told me the next day. 
“Do you know him?  He works the night shift in the
older boys’ house.  He is a good guy and I have
complete confidence in him.”  

Although I didn’t know him, I trusted Teresa and
thanked her for her help.  Having a body guard arranged
allowed me to relax and enjoy the kids for the rest of
the week.  

The following Monday I woke up to bird song and the
voices of my neighbors conversing in Spanish.  The
bright early morning sun peeked through the gaps in the
curtains and coaxed me from my bed.    

While my coffee brewed, I gathered my clothes from the
previous day and hand washed them in the cement double
sink on my sundeck.  Part of the sink had built-in
cement ribs similar to the scrub boards used decades
ago in Canada.  For some reason, I had begun to feel a
certain satisfaction from washing my own laundry and
had not taken my clothes to the ‘lavanderia’
(laundromat) since my arrival in Antigua.  

When I left the house after lunch, I put a bag with 3
faded t-shirts on the street outside the door.  Because
my time in Guatemala was coming to an end, every day I
either took something to Casa Hogar to give away or
left something on the road for passersby.  I planned to
take a minimum of clothes and shoes home with me.

Diego and I had arranged to meet at the Post Office
near the bus terminal at 1:00 pm in order to be at the
INGUAT office in Guatemala City at 3:00 pm.  Even
knowing I had an escort, I still felt edgy and found
myself pacing as I waited.  If he didn’t show up, I
would have to go alone and the thought filled me with
dread.

Diego, a young man in his twenties, showed up ten
minutes late.  “Hola Patty (Hi Patty),” he said.  In
Canada I go by ‘Pat’ but had discovered that
Guatemalans did not like words that ended abruptly and
preferred to call me Patty.

“Estoy felice.  Pense quizas hay un problema. (I’m
happy!  I thought there might be a problem.”  

“No. No.  Vamanos, (No. No.  Let’s go,) he said and put
a protective arm around my shoulder guiding me through
a jumble of traffic to the other side of the street.

To reach the bus terminal we had to walk through the
market and swarms of shoppers, would-be pickpockets and
shouting shopkeepers.  I moved my backpack to my front
but Diego suggested it was better if I didn’t draw
attention to it and left it on my back.  He also
suggested I remove my watch, even though it was not an
expensive one, so I tucked it into a pocket in my
backpack.

Two buses were filling with people destined for
Guatemala City.  The first bus named Esmeralda was only
half full, but every seat was occupied by at least one
person so Diego and I got on the second bus, Gabriela,
so we could sit together.  As fate would have it, it
was a good choice.  Twenty minutes into the trip, we
saw Esmeralda broken down on the side of the road. 
Buses breakdowns are a common occurrence in Guatemala.  

Gabriela was already over capacity but our driver
stopped and several dozen disgruntled passengers piled
on.  How many people can fit on a chicken bus you ask? 
One more!  (Sometimes even fifty more.)

Diego and I chatted for awhile and then settled into
the mind numbing, uncomfortable ride.  When we arrived
at the final stop, we disembarked and set off walking. 
I felt much safer with Diego by my side and forty
minutes later, we climbed onto a bus headed back to
Antigua with my passport safely stored in my shoe.

Although the four hour trip had been uneventful, it had
tired me.  I put my passport on the little table I used
for ironing and forgot about it.

The next morning, I picked up my passport to put it
away.  To my horror, it was wet.  The steam iron nearby
which had been upright when I went to bed was face down
and had leaked water onto the table.  There are always
small earthquakes here in Guatemala and sometime during
the night a tremor had caused the iron to fall over.  

Blue dye from the passport cover had bled into the
white towel I used to iron on, which belonged to my
landlady.  All the pages in my passport were soaked and
many of the visa stamps were illegible.  I couldn’t
believe my bad luck!

Mumbling under my breath, I set about placing drinking
straws between all the pages so they would dry without
sticking to each other.  My Guatemalan extended tourist
visa was still legible but what would happen when I
passed through the USA on my way to Canada?  

On August 11th I would fly to Mexico where I would
spend a week before heading home.  It was the stop in
Dallas, Texas that worried me. With the heightened
airport security, I might have a problem.  I would find
out soon enough.  

***