When last we left off, I had just spent my first night in Guatemala. Thus began my adventure to find a bus to Flores. Before I left home, I spent literally hours poring over my Guatemala Moon guidebook, and I had felt fairly confident about getting around when I was leaving the US of A. However. Being in Guatemala in reality was different than being in Guatemala figuratively. I asked my guy in the office if he could call a taxi for me so I could get to the bus station. He comlied, and let me just say, kudos to him, it must be a fairly frustrating job to deal with turistas on a regular basis who just suck at Spanish. So, I sit in the sitting area (fittingly enough...), reading Walden until my taxi comes. With the hostel guy acting as intermediary, it's established that I need to get to a bus station. "Si!", I add helpfully, "autobus!" (It is a testament to their kindness that neither of them rolled their eyes.....)
So I said goodbye to Hostel Los Volcanes.....
The rooftop patio outside my room
The inner courtyard at Hostal Los Volacanes
The taxi ride to the bus station was uneventful, but in a good way. Guatemala city was just as I expected it to be. No, no, rather, it was familiar in a way that your hometown is familiar. Everything fit, felt right to me. The city seemed huge. It's actually the largest city in Central America, I believe. The roads wound round and round. I couldn't have found my way back if I had to. I was wrapped up in looking at everything I possibly could, even the asinine and ridiculous, like the KFC I saw.
We reach the bus station. I pay the taxi, take my bag, and gather my bearings. Kind of. The station is a building that does not lend itself to bus stations. Homeless are sleeping on the sidewalks. The station and bus yard take up about a quarter of a block (not a city block...). I drag my bag towards the tiny door, through a group of people who regard me with eyes that I cannot fathom. People are everywhere. For a moment, I feel lost. Like this place is something I will never, could never, understand. Once inside the station, I walk straight to the woman behind the glass at the counter. I need a bus ticket. I can do this. I understand this. "Speak English?" I ask in Spanish. Her face is inscrutable, she shakes her head. This woman has no compassion for me, who she does not know. "I need go Flores?" I try. She nods, starts speaking. She writes down the time the bus leaves, the cost of the ride. I feel myself exhale and relief floods my body. I gather some courage from the situation. I pay my US$22 for the 8 hour ride and go and sit in the fairly spacious waiting room. I have an hour to kill and Walden is not going to fill me right now. So I sit and observe and try to relax.
People, men, women, and children, stick their heads in the door every so often with something to sell. Sunglasses, candy, belts, newspapers. That and more they are peddling. Ocassionally someone will buy something, a candy for the patiently waiting 2 year old.
I wonder where these people are going, what their story is, but I'm too shy, too unsure of my meager Spanish, to strike up a conversation. Next time, I will know better.
Finally, it's time to get on the bus. I drag my bag out to the waiting bus (there are two and I find the right one). As the bus drags out of the tiny yard into the tiny street, I smile. My journey continues. The bus ride is punctuated by frequent stops. We pick up some people, drop off some people here and there. At every stop, women and occassionally men board with food and drinks to sale. At some stops, people get off and return with plates of deliciousness. I buy a plastic baggie filled with fresh mango slices, with a wedge of lime in it. As the bus rattles along, I sit back and wallow in the juiciness of fresh mangoes and the overwhelming countryside.
Up next: Getting in Late, Homesick?!?!, and The Lake
No comments:
Post a Comment