My truck was stolen in Antigua on a Friday night. I was forced to stay
over until Monday when the municipal office would reopen. They needed to
type up the report that would permit me to leave the country without my
truck. Now having a couple days on my hands I decided to send an email
informing you of my change in fortune. At the email station my attention
was caught by a black and white call for help. On the message board in bold
black letters was a call for help for someone with skills like mine. The
message promised an arduous journey, lots of mud, and refugee camp
conditions. What it failed to mention was the refugee camp rations. I
hadn�t had a good adventure since committing skullduggery over a month ago
despite catching 3 sharks bare handed in Belize. I felt it was time to get
mixed up with something new.
A few days later I found myself in the standing room only section of a
Guatemalan "Chicken Bus". This Blue Bird Bus had apparently lived its life
hauling around buger picking grade schoolers for the Hale County Shcools.
At least that was written on the side. After being driven to death hauling
seat jumping school kids around this bus like so many others got resurected
in bus hell; Guatemala. Now a bus that was designed to carry 60 kids along
smooth roads was careening along with 100 adults and all the smelly crap the
were hauling on a kidney splitting donkey trail. The seats were packed 3 to
a seat and I was left standing in the packed aisle with one persons head in
my armpit and anothers face in my butt. I was sure glad to be taller than
everyone down here. We rode like this for several hours on my way from
Chimaltenego to Nerbaj. When the bus stopped in Nebaj I almost introduced
myself to the person who had their face in my butt for the last several
hours. I felt like we had made some sort of connection.
In Nebaj I introduced myself to Elene. Elene was working as a volunteer
for some Canadian do-gooder organization. If you are wondering what she
looked like I�ll just say that she wouldn�t be destracting me from the task
at hand. Thats not to say she was bad looking. She just wasnt distracting.
Elene explained the plan. Tommorow we would hitch a ride to Cortez. At
Cortez a couple of villagers would meet us and guide us to their village, on
foot. It sounded simple. The following dawn we packed ourselves into the
back of a grossly overloaded Toyota pickup. A couple guys were holding on
struggling to keep their footholds on the rear bumper. I was struggling
with some Injun grandmother for my foothold. By the end of the trip she had
beat me out and I was forced to stand on one leg for the last several hours.
All this despite me kicking her in the ass to try and get the room back to
put my foot down. Yes I�m terrible. I was kicking some poor ole Mayan
grandmammy in the cabose. Hey life is tough in the 3rd world. Two
eternities later we reached three sheds that collectively were called
Cortez. After a couple minuets of untangling the bodies Elene and I were
able to climb free of the truck. As the truck rolled away I gave granny one
last dirty look and she no doubt was vexing me with some Mayan curse.
Out of the dust raised by the truck came two men on horseback. Well
actually one horse was a mule. The men were our guides. They tied our
packs on the horse and we decended the trail to the river. We made
prolonged stops at every fruit tree as our guide climbed them to collect the
fruit. That day it was annoying, but by the time we came back down the
mountain I would be hungry enough to scavenge every fruit tree also. We
traveled along and the trail became rougher. We passed the village of Chel.
Beyond Chel we entered an area that met my definition of "off the beaten
trail". Years ago while traveling in Nepal with my buddy Matt I was amazed
at the places where you could buy a coke. Places with no road, no running
water, no power would still have a coke to sell. From this experience I
defined being "off the beaten trail" as a palce where you couldnt buy a
coke. Chel was the last stop for a coke. From here on we were off the
beaten trail. An hour passed Chel we reached a place that I named Place
were Women wear Jug on Head. Yes the name is long but Im sure it translates
to on word in Mayan. We walked through this village and every woman over
the age of 12 was balancing a plastic water jug on their head. Everyone not
just some, not just most, but all the women had a jug on their head and they
were staring at us. Actually they were staring at Elene. In a world where
there is only one hair color, black, Elenes�blonde hair made her stand out
like a circus freak. The kids would jockey for position to look at her. I
kicked myself for not getting a photo of this. This was true National G.
photo material. Every woman with a multicolored jug on her head and all
staring at us.
From Place were Women wear Jug on Head we climbed a trail that managed to
get just enough use to keep the jungle from reclaiming it. We went up and
up and down a little and up some more all in the mud. It wasn�t bad at least
it wasn�t raining. It started to rain. This was the type of trail that
demanded you watch every step. Constantly up and down if you didn�t pay
absolute attention to you footsteps you quickly found yourself doing the
mudslide. I managed to a few mudslides. It was slippery and raining, but
it wasn�t so bad at least it wasn�t dark. The sun set. Now it was dark. It
was raining off and on and very dark. The horses couldn�t see, the guides
could�t see, I couldn�t see. Elene had the only light and the six of us (2
horses) managed the last hour to El Mirador in the dark. The fun of walking
or falling that trail definately ended when the lights went out.
A thought occured to me sometime between the rain starting and the light
ending. Many years ago a group of doctors created and organization called
Doctors with out Borders. In their truely humanatarian efforts they would
trudge the trails of the 3rd world to bring medical care to people who have
no access to it. Their work has received deserved recognition. Of course
everyone wants to be part of a good thing so in the years since the
formation of Doctors with out Borders many other copy-cat groups have
formed. Today there are Nurses with out Borders, Dentists with out Borders,
Optomertist with out Borders, I�ve even seen Veteranarians with out Borders.
As I labored up the trail to El Mirador I thought I should start my own
group Mechanics with out Borders. For the reason I was brought to this
remote locale was to fix a motor. A motor they would use to grind corn.
The next morning I got their Indian (as in India) made diesel motor
running. I even set up the grinder for them. It was a scene when it first
started up. Picture a wooden shack filled with men trying to help, & kids
trying to get in the way. Through the theshold peer two dozen women each
with a bowl of corn balanced on their head. I stood there in the smokey
glory of blue diesel fumes as the motor came to life and the first bowl of
mechanically ground corn in El Mirador poured from the grinder. For all the
work I had just saved the women of El Mirador I was a hero. I just hope
they remember how to prime the fuel pump like I showed them.
Hero or not we were being fed like refugees. Two-thirds of a bowl of rice
(one bowl not two) and some tortillas (I hate tortillas) was all they had
for the two of us. Oh! don�t forget the sugar water with the slightest
tinge of color. I was told this was coffee.
With our work done Elene and I set off with our guide Feliciano, but with
out horses, for Santa Clara the mext village with a broken motor. The trail
to Santa Clara passed through some extremely jungle looking jungle. Tall
vine covered trees, massive ferns and palms flourised here. Exotic calls
came from birds hidden in the green fog of vegetation. I stopped for a
moment to marvel at the massive buttresses forming the base of a Cieba tree.
Feliciano noticed me looking at the tree and commented that the buttresses
had been a good place to hide from helicopters. Feliciano like most men his
age had been a guerrilla fighter. Feliciano (33 y.o.) joined the guerrillas
when he was 12. He said he had no where to go after watching his village
being destroyed and parents taken away while he hid in the forest. He
joined not because he was sympathetic to Marxist Ideology but because he was
hungry. The army moved his parents to Nebaj. He wouldn�t see them for the
next 12 years. His mom didn�t recognize him the next time she saw him. A
lot of changes occur from 12 to 24 years old. Three of her sons she would
never see again. This area around Nebaj is known as the Ixil Triangle. It
was the epicenter of guerrilla fighting in the 80�s. Virtually every man I
met had fought with the guerrillas since they were young. I thought about
what I was doing when I was 12. I couldn�t imagine running around those
mountains carrying an AK-47. You didn�t need to spend much time talking
with these guys to realize that there was a lot of fighting around here.
The stories and the scars proved it. This also explained the posters on the
school house doors admonishing kids not to touch anything that lookes like a
land mine, hand gernade, or unexploded ordance. I suppose this is part of
the explanation for all the maimed people decorating the streets of
Guatemalas Cities.
We made it to Santa Clara with 30 minuets of daylight left. They brought
us some tamales for supper. These tamales aren�t what you are thinking of.
They were just oblong pieces of tortilla meal wrapped in a corn husk. These
were tamales au natural. They had nothing in them, not even salt. I ate as
many as I could stand and went to sleep. The next morning I looked at two
motors. One motor was missing critical parts and couldn�t be fixed. The
other motor needed the valves adjusted, but when adjusted properly the
exhaust valve hit the piston. I messed with it for most of the day. I
pulled the head off trying to find the reason for the interference. I
couldn�t find anything wrong. The motor was new and I thought something
might have been assembled wrong. I never found the answer. I had to leave
Santa Clara without a working motor. As Hurricane Iris blew thru that
night we ate another meal of half starvation rations. I was starting to
spend a lot of time thinking about food. It was still a two day trip back
to Nebaj where I knew I could get something to eat. Despite my perception
of impending death from starvation I was able to make the day long hike back
to Chel. We overnighted in Chel and caught a UN Land Cruiser back to Nebaj.
The trip back was much more comfortable than the ride in with that mean
old Myan Grandmammy. However; we were forced to wait while the road was
repaired. Iris had washed it out.
Once in Nebaj I ate like a pig. When I finished ordering everyone in the
resturaunt was staring at me. The waitress had me repeat the order. I
wasn�t sure if my Spanish was that bad or I had just ordered that much food.
It didn�t matter I ate it all.
I laid down that night feeling fat as a tick. On the floor next to me was
Feliciano. We were both catching the 4:30 am bus tommorow. Tommorow would
be another full day on the chicken bus with my butt in someones face or
worse my face in someones butt. I just didn�t want to think about it now.
I slipped into sleep and dreamed of chicken.....fried chicken.
Warren
P.S. Hey Mom how are Webster and Sammy? I hope you�re giving them lots of
attention. Do they say they miss me?
