David
Walford
Missives
from Guatemala
Episode
2 Episode 3 Episode
4
Episode 1
Sun. January
30, 2005
Border crossing Mexico/Guatemala: La Messilla
At last we are
set to leave
Off we run to
collect our stuff. Say goodbye & meet 2 other Canadians to take a collectiva
in two jaunts to the border. We don’t really know what to expect. What we
end up with are two fancy smancy van rides, Mexican
middle class style, which at this point aims at maximum comfort and minimum
character. The buses even have curtains. A little negotiation from a planter
friend who speaks fluent Spanish and we are on our first collectivo/van
for about 1 and ½ hours to a small college town some distance from the border.
Prosperous and orderly. One more
collectivo. Our last ride
to La Messilla and
When one enters a very new environment, and it is busy with human activity, the process of interpreting and understanding it is to say the least difficult. Sometimes that difficulty means that it is very hard to even make sense of what one sees. The full emotional impact is only released when one’s anxieties about whatever are attended to. This can be anything from taking a much needed pee (the situation of our tree-planter friend) to making sure the border procedures go as smoothly as possible. (My concern.)
It seems we are
to get out and get a Taxi ride to the border, about a kilometre
on down the road. This is the Interamericana. A
two lane paved highway often busy with truck traffic on its way to and from
Ahead the curvy road is lined with stalls, neatly arranged. No real breaks. Dusty on the side, poor compared to the college town we just left, but orderly. Children playing, riding bikes. Men and women looking after the stalls selling fruit, vegetables and many other things. Not by any means overcrowded. A sleepy border town. Somehow I have this image in my mind of sleepy border towns.
We arrive. I am not really sure how to do this. But for certain, make sure the packs and us are out of the taxi, and everything is grouped. In front of us is the border. And my god there is so much in front I am not able to sort it out. And packs need to be tended to and shoulder bags, where’s my passport pouch. All is well. My god it’s crowded all of a sudden.
It is as though
there is an invisible wall that allows us to see across the border, but not
to see, so utterly different it is. Pay for the taxi. Heave packs onto shoulders.
It’s crowded here. Borders. They have their own
dynamic. They certainly do. We walk forward. It looks crowded. It is crowded.
Are we across? Ahhh there’s the Mexican border
post. Cement brick building. In we go. We are all concerned to get our
exit stamp and keep our tourist sheets so we can re-enter without paying another
$20
It is not until we come out that we see what is really in front of us. We are indeed right at the border. Everything is compact. Mexican building. Guatemalan building. But it all hits us. The Guatemalan reality hits us. Riots of colour. People everywhere. Suddenly the highway seems sooooo much narrower. We catch sight of Mayan women selling everything from oranges to toothpaste. In stalls; on rugs placed on the ground. On the ground. Children playing. Dogs, chickens, old pickups, bicycles motor scooters, tuk tuks, (a kind of motorized rickshaw, red of course and bright)- racing everywhere. People everywhere. So many people. So much going on. How trucks ever got through I do not know. I am sure there were homes and buildings here, because there was a background to all this chaos, but so much was going on in the foreground it was hard to tell. It would have been easier if everyone was dressed in drab clothing, but wherever colour could be displayed, it seemed it just was not the thing to do to hide it. It was as though there was nothing on the Mexican side of the border.
We engaged the
money changers. Hard not to. They are right there.
Right in their element. Wads of
bills. Ahh yes Pesos for Quetzals. We change
money. A happy energetic exchange. The rate is
good. Everything seems bursting with a chaotic energy. Seems.
Hell no. It’s just exploding. A swirling easy chaos.
And have I forgotten the noise? Dust and noise.
People noise. Shouts, laughter,
children, amidst the motor scooters, dogs. Dogs everywhere. Skinny dogs. Scrounging dogs. And roosters. No matter the middle of the day. Join in the
confusion. Crow away. And conversation.
These people were alive and I felt alive. Into the Guatemalan
customs booth. Smiling border official. Bienvenudos a
Out front the buses command attention. Not neat tidy antiseptic Mexican busses, but the famous Guatemalan chicken buses. Colourful. Paint and noise everywhere. Old school buses. Many Canadian originally. Diesel fumes, colour, loud low sonorous blasts from horns. And crowded by fruit stalls and piles everywhere. Within six inches of the tires of the famous buses. Women with their fruit and veg for sale. Livelihoods in the midst. Buy Sandia (watermelon) orange juice. Fresh squeezed. Bus. A donde vas? “Where are you going?” someone asks. My God look at what the women are wearing. The colours are so beautiful. “Huehuetenango” we say. Boy its hot. Makes sense. It’s noon-ish or a bit past. “Aqui. Aqui.” he calls. Packs swiftly taken. Carried up the ladders on the back of the bus onto the roof where all self respecting luggage needs to go. Tied to rails on the side. Another pack. Another. In nothing flat our luggage is taken care of. The attendant beckons us to get on the bus. Apparently we are going right away. I would later become convinced that there is no more efficient bus service than the Guatemalan variety. Pick our way to the front. Look around. My god. Chaos. Joyous chaos. Smiles. Energy. More oranges. Green Vegetables. Fried chicken, cooking in oil by the road side. Children playing and selling. Guiding to wherever to earn a quetzal. Small café-comedoras. Buildings behind. I to this day have no idea how buses ever turned around to take people back south. Room seems measured in centimeters, and everything is in motion. I am charged with excitement tumbling chaos swirling colours and sky. Diesel and a landscape somewhere beyond. However, I am embraced. The land has me in its grip and I can only follow. I climb on to the bus. I feel so alive.
Welcome to
love David
(elfnomad)
elfnomad@yahoo.ca
editor's note:
David Walford is from Smithers - a town in Northern British Columbia, Canada. He is an ordained Anglican priest currently on leave.
This is the first in a series of "missives" that follow David's recent journey into the heart of Guatamala's mountain region, where he travelled with his daughter Shoala. Together they steeped themselves in the wonders of the culture.
These ongoing accounts are the first stages of what will be David's first book. David is presently on a second excursion, sponsoring artist Jose Fernando Pinzon to the World Development Forum in Caracas, Venuzuala.
