Sleaze and Filth: The Guatemala Roadtrip

Wednesday 15 July, 2009

DAY ONE

8.30am: Swiss Companion and I arrive at the Iguana hostel in Lívingston. Managed to get ourselves involved in a roadtrip cross-country back to Antigua in a van full of other travellers. We are setting off today. Said other travellers had an extremely drunken night the day before so 9am departure time seems optimistic. Still, can't hurt to show up early.

9.00am: The power cuts out. Everyone needs the ATM. "Sometimes they don't reset the machines until after 12pm," says the hostel manager, "It's just some automatic setting thing." It is entirely possible that we will not be leaving today. Swiss Companion has a flight out of Guatemala City tomorrow at 12pm so this poses something of a problem.

9.15am: Fellow roadtrippers are taking it all in their stride, drinking breakfast beers and serenading Swiss Companion and me with Enrique Iglesias and Ronan Keating. They sing marvellously.

9.18am: They are now regaling us with a filthy ad-libbed version of "Inside of You." For censorship concerns I can not include their lyrics here. Suffice it to say that they are inventively filthy, and rhyme impressively.

9.20am: The American has been here for three months and today is his final morning. The Englishman and Irishman decide to see how long they can play Hotel California before the American loses his shit. The American walks away out of the hostel and they go skipping after him like overgrown leprechauns clutching a guitar. What they lack in knowledge of song lyrics they make up for in extreme enthusiasm.

9.25am: Can still hear them faintly singing, "but you can't ever leeeeeeeave..."

11.00am: After much wrangling, we manage to depart the hostel on a private boat. Lívingston is only accessible by water and we need to get to the village in which the van is parked. Adventure! A Swiss girl, an American, an Irishman, two Australians, two Poms and two Norwegians. On a boat. Six of the nine are hideously hungover. Guess which six!

11.30am: Boat pulls up in the riverside town of Puerto Barrios. It is a shithole. All nine of us sit around while British Jack, the baby of the group and the only one besides me who speaks any kind of competent Spanish, negotiates with a minibus driver to take us directly to the van. This involves using the word "comico" repeatedly in the face of the man's demands for more money. The man tells us that our van is 30 to 40 minutes away. The American, whose van it is, says that it is only ten to fifteen minutes away. The driver finally agrees to our sum and points at his extremely bling gold watch with a finger adorned with a matching gold pimp ring. I don't think he really needs as much money as he claims. "You just watch the time," he says. "Half an hour."

11.40am: Stop for money. The American returns with a 2L bottle of rum and some coke. Did I mention that I am travelling with five alcoholics? That is in no way an exaggeration. Five half-naked booze hounds who drink from breakfast onwards. It is not that they get drunk so much as just a constant topping up of their state of inebriation. Plus they have the filthiest minds and mouths of anyone I have so far met on this trip. Oh, and three mild-mannered other girls... and me. This is going to be great.

12.20pm: Forty minutes after departing Puerto Barrios, we arrive at the van. The driver is pissed. We do not pay him more as per his demands.

The van is parked in the backyard of a roadside pinchazo, or tyre yard. It is maroon with North Carolina plates. One window has duct tape in lieu of glass. It is, as promised, a molester van. FREE CANDY was painted on the side in white and then sprayed over in black, but the letters are still legible. It is our chariot and it is glorious. However, it is a bit small. It is one van, two seats, nine people, and fifteen bags. Tight fit = understatement.

The American is getting squeezed for money. "I offered to talk money with this fucker three months ago and he wouldn't hear it. Now he wants me to pay another 300Q." Unsurprising. There is a penchant for last-minute money demands in this country.

1:00pm: We are on the road. Due to some crafty maneuvering (car sickness - a blessing in disguise), I am riding shotgun. I was nobly offered it by the American: "Well, I guess you can have the front seat... you fucking bitch." "Fucking bitch" is an endearment.

English Jack is driving. The American has refused, despite it being his van, and no one else has their license with them. Jack is nineteen and the baby of a group whose age range is 19-30. Last night Jack was gyrating in the rafters in a WWF onesie liberally padded with socks. Today, he holds our lives in his hands.

1.02pm: Went the wrong way. U-turn.

1.05pm: Guy at the pinchazo did not put air in our tyres as promised. We are a little wobbly on the road. Go back and have it done.

1.20pm: A car overtakes us, gesturing. "Fuck, we have a flat," says Jack.

1.21pm: We pull over. The tyre is well and truly flat. Couldn't be flatter. Despite just having been pumped up at the pinchazo. "I don't have a spare," says the American. We debate whether to turn back or go forward to the next pinchazo. Onwards and upwards - we decide to go on, and crawl along for the next ten kilometres, trying not to damage the tyre further.

1.30pm: We pull into another pinchazo. An old guy running the small store next to it tells us that it has been closed for years, but can take someone to another place up the road to buy a tyre and bring it back. He refuses payment. Jack goes off with him to take care of it and the rest of us buy beer and sit by the side of the road to smacktalk each other.

The American occasionally plays chicken. This involves holding lit cigarettes to his own skin. A circle of five burns on his inner forearm are inflamed and pus-y. "Fuck no, I'm not going to a doctor," he says. The med student Irishman and I try to convince him to go. We appeal to the other Australian to convince him by sharing his story of hospitalisation in Guatemala. "It cost me two thousand Australian dollars," he says, and goes off to buy more beer. The American will not budge. Instead, he pours rum onto the burns. DIY medicine.

1.45pm: Jack returns with a tyre and a guy who will put it on for us for about $5. "That fucking old guy refused payment and then he saw the hundred I had in my pocket and tried to get 50Q out of me for driving one k up the road," Jack reports. Unsurprising.

2:00pm: We are on the road again. We celebrate by hooning to obnoxiously loud music. In the back everyone is half drunk already. "The brakes are barely working," Jack tells me, and demonstrates. "I have to push it all the way down and we don't even stop." Slightly alarming. The drunkards and ladies in the back don't hear this. Well... hopefully it will all be fine.

3.00pm: "Is that burning smell us?" wonders the Irishman. It is. We pull over. The brakes are smoking. "What the fuck," says the American. "I just had them replaced a month ago." The van has supposedly been sitting idly in that Guatemalan's backyard for three months. I suspect the Guatemalan of indulging in more than a few joyrides over that time.

3.05pm: The boys pop the hood of the car and a mouse dashes out and into the bushes by the side of the road. It has made a nest of banana leaves and twigs in the engine and has clearly been right at home for a while in there. Impressed that it survived two hours of driving.

3.10pm: We sit by the side of the road waiting for the brakes to cool. The Australian brings out his box of Cuban cigars. Now is as good a time as any!

3.30pm: The brakes are as good as useless. We creep along with highway half in the gutter with our hazards on. We pass four or five towns with no mechanic. "Fuck," says Jack, "I didn't realise we were in Zacapa." Why, what's wrong with Zacapa? "Let's just say that is it a dodgy fucking place to get caught in a van full of tourists with packs on the roof." Jack has been living in Guatemala for a while but refuses to elaborate on stories about Zacapa. "Let's just get the fuck out of here," he says. It just looks like a pretty green stretch of highway to me. I picture machete-wielding madmen lurking in the bushes, waiting to spring on us and relieve us of our valuables, and perhaps violate and/or murder us too.

3.40pm: Realise that between 9 people we only have about $100. Some people couldn't get money out due to the contrariness of Guatemalan ATMs, and the rest was spent on cigarettes and alcohol. We can't afford to eat at Tito's Restaurant, next door to the mechanic's, because Tito doesn't take Visa, and we don't know how much repairs will cost. We're hungry. Four of the boys are smashed anyway so they don't mind too much. The Norwegians are hungover. Swiss Companion and I are highly entertained by them all.

4.30pm: The Australian offered to pay the mechanics with women. The mechanics thought he was joking. I don't speak car but apparently there is something wrong with our brake pads, which a) don't fit correctly, b) are locking and gripping the tyre, and c) are just plain shit. We are assured that everything is fine now.

4.35pm: We are on the road again. "It feels much better," Jack exults, and we speed on down the road, Jimi Hendrix spurring us on. The road is beautiful. Green and lush as we leave the lowlands volcanoes begin rising on the horizon. We pass village after village and they all look the same - a short main street with a higgledy-piggledy collection of wooden and corrugated-iron shacks and low concrete buildings, rusted car husks on the side of the road and the inevitable roosters scratching idly in the dirt.

7.00pm: An ATM and fast food joints loom and we pull up. We are starved. In a choice between Pollo Campero or Pizzer Burger Diner, we all unanimously vote for the latter. Who wouldn't? It lives up to its promise, being a diner, complete with booths, serving pizza AND burgers. We are thrilled. Can't make use of the diner, though, since we realise that due to the broken windows and bags on the roof there is no way we can leave the van unattended. We sit out in the gutter with takeaway and eat there all together.

7.15pm: The owner of the restaurant looks concerned. "It is already dark," he says, "and I would strongly recommend that you do not drive through Guatemala City. You are a big group of foreigners and, señorita, forgive my saying so, but you will be a target. It is not safe. Even we wouldn't do it. You are much better off sleeping in a hotel and continuing in the morning. Or you can call for a police escort which can take you from Guatemala City to Antigua gratis." I thank him and go back to the group. Hmmm.

7.20pm: Team Meeting. We decide to push on and maybe call for a police escort if we feel we need one.

7.25pm: A small street rat girl comes up to us, angling for food. The Norwegians take pity on her and give her some pizza. Next thing we know, her little brother is there too, snatching it away from her and running off down a dark alley to where some adults are waiting. "Will you be my girlfriend?" The Australian asks her. "Can I sell your organs?" She smiles and nods.

7.27pm: The little girl has gotten bold and is now demanding food from all of us. She has no problem standing with a group of nine enormous extranjeros at a truckstop at night. I ask her how old she is. "Seven," she replies, mouth full of pizza.

7.30pm: We are on the road again.

8.00pm: It is raining. Pull over. Two boys get up on the roof to bring in the bags. Where are we going to put them? They are soaked. Somehow wedge them in. The van just got infinitely more cramped.

8.30pm: The rain is really coming down and lighting is flickering on the horizon. "Fuck!" Jack bellows. The van skids off the road in a puddle of water. We all squeal. Jack has lost control of the van and the brakes aren't working and we are headed directly at three Guatemalan men standing by a truck. I look straight in their eyes and they are terrified, frozen in place. One of them is holding what looks like a shotgun in his hands. We come screeching to a stop not one metre away from them. "What the fuck," they ask through the window, seeming calm despite their near brush with death at the hands of a free candy van. We explain what happened. Thankfully the first man was not holding a shotgun but a lead pipe. "I thought he was going to start shooting at us," The Irishman says. The Guatemalans look a little shaken but tell us to take care and wave us off.

8.35pm: We pull into a service station and each take a reviving slug of the vodka and OJ. The drunks in the back are right - this IS going to need some hard liquor to get through. Jack needs a minute. "I almost killed you all," he says. Our windscreen is smeared and impossible to see through. We use three shirts off the backs of the drunks to no avail. English Jack is struggling to see. Every time a car comes towards us we are blinded.

8.40pm: A truck drives past us hooting, tooting and hollering. Huh? "Oh, it's the people we nearly killed," says English Matt.

9.00pm: The Irishman and English Jack are singing acapella Irish folk songs. Help.

9.30pm: We pull over at a dark truckstop. Semitrailers are roaring past us in the dark. Both brakes are smoking again.

9.35pm: Team Meeting. "Okay, here's the situation," says Jack. "The brakes are useless. The windscreen is covered in shit and I can't see anything, and I have to use the handbrake every time I want to slow down. I would be okay with carrying on to the next place but on these winding roads up and down the mountains in the rain it's not going to happen. We have a couple of options: one; sleep here tonight, or two; drive two ks back up the road to a hotel and a mechanic's and get them to take a look in the morning." We all digest this. We've been on the road for almost ten hours already and Antigua is at least another 3-4 hours away. "I think we can all agree that staying here is out of the fucking question," says The Irishman. We do. No one wants to sleep in the van. It's cramped, smelly, uncomfortable, and the windows don't close.

9.45pm: Three Guatemalans from the truck stop come over. "My friend is a mechanic," says one. Oh really, he is? "Más o menos." Oh good. We let the more-or-less mechanic take a look. "Mi amigo es muy muy hueco [gay]," The Australian says. The Guatemalans laugh uproariously.

11.00pm: We finally, blissfully, arrive at Hotel Paso Texas and almost immediately conk out.

DAY TWO

6.30am: We wake up. Hideously early. Roadside hotel surprisingly nice and clean and provided a good night's sleep, perhaps because we weren't subjected to the stinking humidity or rapacious insects of the Caribbean coast.

7.30am: Breakfast of champions: 9 servings of huevos rancheros and beers all around. The van is getting checked out by mechanics for the third time.

7.40am: Jack is singing Irish folk songs again. "You know what I'm really going to miss?" says English Matt. "The fucking Irish songs. How will I ever do without those."

9.00am: Swiss Companion has a flight to catch at midday. We are at least 45 minutes from the city and have no idea how to get to the airport. But we're going to do it. She's gonna make it.

9.30am: We are on the road again. Hooning towards Guatemala City, Jack takes great delight in slamming on the brakes just because he can. The passengers in the back do not enjoy this as much as you might expect.

10.30am: We enter Guatemala City. It is busy. A man is walking down the footpath in the centre with six goats on a rope. Chicken buses are belching black clouds of exhaust that seriously minimise visibility. There are colossal billboards lining the avenidas, drive-thru ATMs, barbed wire on every available surface, and men with guns in front of any half-decent-looking store. It's chaotic but, after being told what a shithole it is, it looks fun. But we still don't know how to get to the airport, and we're on a mission.

10.35am: I lean out the window towards a man in a ute. "Excuse me señor but are we going the right way to the airport?" He takes in the Free Candy van and seems to decide against giving me directions. "Just follow my pick-up and I'll drive you there," he offers. Love Guatemalans.

10.40am: We are hot on the trail of the pick-up, doing our darndest not to lose it in traffic. Unfortunately, The Irishman has to pee. We can't stop. He REALLY needs to pee. No one else wants the van to stop because the Irishman's discomfort is hilarious.

10.45am: The Irishman pees in a bottle. English Jack takes this opportunity to hit every pothole he can, zigging and zagging down the street. "Oh, great, Jack, drive reaaaaally bumpy," The Irishman bellows. Despite this he manages not to spill. He fills the bottle right up - 600ml, and he STILL has to go. Everyone ducks as the bottle gets tossed out of the window, Guatemalan-style. It has no lid, and we're sure as hell not keeping it in the car.

10.50am: Five minutes after the emergency pee, we stop at a shopping mall so that everyone can go to the bathroom. "That's just fucking wonderful," says the Irishman. Swiss Companion makes a quick exit into a taxi to the airport. She neglects to thank the boys for trying to get her there instead of putting her in a taxi two hours ago. She takes her bags and tells the American, "next time I'm taking the bus." No one is impressed.

12.00pm: After an ice cream break we are back on the road, the final stretch to Antigua. No one can wait to get there. We are ten kilometres away when the brakes start steaming one last time and we find ourselves sitting on an emergency ramp by the highway, in muddy gravel, waiting for them to calm down.

12.30pm: We are on the road. Again. Coasting down the hill to Antigua with only the handbrake, the Free Candy van trailing the scent of burning rubber in the breeze.

POSTSCRIPT: THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF THE VAN [FB wall post from the Free Candy van's latest occupant to The Australian:]

"dude we got raped last night. We tried to go to Monterrico but made a wrong turn so decided to head to el sal. we arrived at Playa el tunco today and will probably fuck off tomorrow of the next day. If I had to guess we'll go to Nicaragua within the next few days. When I say raped I mean this: Our permit expired and they wouldnt let us pass. They held cory's passport until we paid them 286 dollars. After we did that we could leave on Monday without the van. We would then come back for the van in 15 days when the guatemalan license plates would arrive. Also we would have to pay 100 Q a day for 15 days to park it. They raped us. Yada yada yada we ended up selling the van for 200 dollars, got cory's passport back and slept in a shitty hotel on the border before coming here today.
Rape"