Preface: This is an adventure from three years ago. Although I majored in Latin American Studies and wrote my honors thesis about Guatemala, I had never been there. To right that wrong, 13 years later, I visited the Central American country. I coupled it with an overland trip as a part of my quest to cover the entire Western Hemisphere by public land transportation.
I land in San Diego. I neglected to do any research about the nascent drug war in Mexico. When I ask the nice old lady at the airport information desk about buses to the Mexican border, she informs me that 40 to 50 people are shot everyday in Tijuana, the town on the other side of the border from San Diego. I later learn that while I was in Tijuana, the undertakers had run out of coffins.
Already committed, I press forward. From Terminal 1, I take the 992 bus to Broadway and Kettner, where I then catch a trolley to the border at the San Ysidro stop. Along with dozens of others, I walk across the border. I notice that very few are coming to America. This was the first evidence of the recession and the flood of Hispanics returning home due to unemployment in the United States. I forget to have my passport stamped at the border.
A cab takes me to the central bus station in Tijuana. I learn that from now on, I have to pay three pesos if I want to use a public restroom in Mexico. A Mexican immigration officer stops me and asks for my papers. He points out that my passport was not stamped at the border. I experience a fraction of the fear and anxiety Latinos here feel whenever they are stopped by a cop or INS. He stamps my passport and I’m on my merry way.
I take an Elite bus for 42 hours to Mexico City’s North Terminal. Highlights of the trip include seeing an overturned tractor trailer, the town of Los Mochis (for its cool sounding name), and the serene Sonoran Desert. I chat with a Guatemalan and a Honduran on the bus. They are unemployed construction workers, returning home for a few years to ride out the recession. The Honduran, who is fluent in English, simply walked away from his home in Colorado and his brand new Nissan pickup truck.
Once at the North Terminal bus station, I take a 75 peso taxi to the TAPO bus station. It is the nicest bus station I have ever visited. While I surf the web at the internet cafe in the station, a security guard armed with a shotgun stands three feet away from me.
I then take a 16 hour ADO GL bus to Tapachula, Chiapas. I spend the day there, walking around the plaza, visiting a museum, and dining at a Chinese restaurant. The first Chinese immigrants who came to the Americas settled here, of all places. There are tons of Chinese eateries and if you look carefully, many of the locals have Chinese features.
The next day, I take a TICA bus to Guatemala. The company operates buses for gringos throughout Central America. In order to cross between Mexico and Guatemala, all the passengers have to physically get off the bus, go to the Mexican border post, cross the bridge, and go to the Guatemalan border post. The area is swarming with ne’er-do-wells. I clutch my backpack like a vice grip. The only thing I lose is the 200 pesos I had to pay at the Mexican post for a fine that I am still unclear about.
About an hour before we reach Guatemala City, the bus driver commands everyone who wants to go to Antigua (a popular tourist town and my final destination) to get off. I get off and immediately realize I have no idea where I am or what I am supposed to do. I follow four Swedes who are enjoying their state-sanctioned eight months of paid vacation. We cross six lanes of traffic on foot, and then cross the same six lanes back to where we started. We end up at a shack next to the road, and hope someone will pick us up.
Suddenly, a chicken bus shows up. It is nearly full and I sit next to a kind student. I proceed to have an in-depth discussion with her in my broken Spanish about how I should have brought a sweater.
I arrive in Antigua. FIN.
Source of photograph of Chichicastenango: Maxichamp
