Guatemala by Julie Pollock
Guatemala
by Julie Suzanne Pollock
We hit the border to Guatemala with Juan Carlos and his friend jammed into the passenger seat of our 1971 Volkswagen camper van. Bob was driving and I was lying cross-wise in the back, feet propped on the ceiling. That morning we had come over the mountains under a sweltering sun from Acayucan to Tecun Uman. Then we rolled south through a wind farm, several army drug scans and some fine-smelling rain showers.
We met Juan Carlos about 20 kilometres back from the border when he flagged us down. He was small, tidy and proud. His fingernails were long and clean, and around his neck hung an official-looking identification. He seemed all right so we hired him as our fixer for the Mexico-Guatemala border.
Bob and I were headed for a year in our newly adopted village on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. En route, we would traverse seven borders, sight 24 Walmarts, see a blizzard of yellow butterflies, and spend a night in a Mexican whorehouse. Other than the van being purple, we probably didn’t stand out much from other Canadian travellers. Until I got out of the van, of course, smiling around in the glow of goodwill that envelops every pregnant woman in Latin America.
As home receded, so did the cool spring weather. By Laredo, Texas, we were awash in 105°F of stupefying heat. I was eight months pregnant and every day my feet painfully shape-shifted from hour to hour. I napped each afternoon on the raised bed in the back and the rest of the time we chatted, ate almonds and listened to blues.
We were somewhat frayed around the edges on this particular afternoon. The old van had developed starter problems and we did not wish to be stranded where we might bid adieu to our possessions and possibly more. We did not want to tackle Guatemala in the dark. Most importantly, we did not want to hang around any border town overnight.
Juan Carlos directed us to the border offices and we crossed into Guatemala, where we waited for the two
fixers to wade through the line-ups, fees and paperwork. The following day being Sunday, we needed to finish our business or we would have problems with offices being closed the next day. Moreover, we needed to pay a premium to get the van cleared now. After all, we would otherwise need to wait until Monday. This made no sense at all. We paid.
Time passed. The van refused to start. Bob was wedged underneath assaulting the troublesome starter, while up above I was lightly buffeted by a small swarm of touts. A noisy nighttime crowd flowed out onto the sidewalks. I pasted my best Giaconda on my lips and laid a demure hand on my giant belly, fixedly ignoring requests for money. My legs ached and my stomach whined with hunger. Bob cursed. A European guy crossed the street and told us to get out of there pronto. Perhaps I appeared to be enjoying myself too much.
Finally, Juan Carlos and his friend reappeared and we rolled the exhausted van down a gated driveway into an oasis of silence: a room, dinner and a guarded parking lot. Juan Carlos left to catch the bus for home. We locked the windows, pulled out the machete, rigged the door and slept like babies.
Morning came and so did Juan Carlos to take us back to Mexico to collect the $200 deposit on our vehicle permit. Bob got the van going. We bought some cash. The sun shone brightly. Turning back for Guatemala, we came upon the long, long line of vehicles waiting to cross on Sunday morning. Juan Carlos steered us past and onward. We would have been in the line-up all day. Instead, we were on the road in green, green Guatemala, the vigorous chorus of sermons and song soaring past the open windows.
Julie Suzanne Pollock communicates environmental science for a department of the Canadian federal government. She lives with her husband and son in Canada and Costa Rica. They look forward to spending time together in Africa soon.