¡A Huevos!: Part One

Overlooking Xela

Most days waking up it’s nearly impossible to believe this is the life I am living. I haven’t been the best at updating this blog because I’ve had a bit of writer’s block and have really grown comfortable in my routine here in Xela. So much of what we’ve been doing here feels not like a vacation, but as if we are just living our lives in our own form of paradise. We aren’t running around visiting the tourist hotspots like so many other travelers, and as a result of that, I feel as though sharing my life here on the internet would only bore those that are reading this.

But alas, I will do my best to sum up this past week in this amazing city of Quetzaltenango.

After spending too much time in Antigua, Nosotros, Los Trés Gringos left the tourist trap for our natural environment—the Western Highlands of Guatemala. Our journey began with the three of us walking through the open air market of Antigua toward the bus terminal with our large packs on, towering over what seems to be an entire subcontinent of people, and surely sticking out like a trio of confused, sore thumbs. It didn’t take long for us to be approached by various men asking us where we wanted to go.

The Gringo Trail is pretty well worn here in Guatemala, and there have been numerous times that we’ve felt that those around us knew exactly where we were going—even if we didn’t.

After being directed to one of the infamous chicken buses to Quetzaltenango (or Xela, it’s Mayan name), a man (the ayudante) on the roof of the bus climbed down, effortlessly grabbed our heavy packs and swung them on the luggage carriage bolted to the top of the decommissioned school bus. 

The chicken buses are one of my absolute favorite things about life here in Guatemala. Walking through the bus terminal in any city here is like taking a step into chaos. Everywhere you look there are numerous people trying to direct you to a bus or sell you something to eat, and if you are not careful, you can easily get run over by a bus, micro (shuttle van) or taxi trying to race out of the terminal (aka, glorified parking lot).

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the chicken buses here in Guatemala are decommissioned school buses from the United States that have hit the 150,000-mile mark, are shipped down to Central America and go through a process of Frankensteination that transform them from the quaint, recognizable symbols of an American childhood to psychedelic, supercharged, bass-thumping modes of mass transit. While I haven’t spent a lifetime researching the “party buses” that we have in the States, I firmly believe not a single one can hold a candle to the buses down here.

Antigua Terminal

When the buses get down here, the original engine is ripped out of the body of the bus and refitted with an engine that has been strewn together with the ability to allow the bus to travel as many miles in a day down here in Guatemala as it did in an entire week back in the States. Above the windshield on the buses are the painted destinations to where the bus will be traveling, and because there is a large amount of illiterate individuals here in Guatemala, each route has a specific color scheme that accompanies the text. In addition to a lot (and I mean a lot) of chrome, those same colors completely cover the familiar yellow on the exterior of the buses in a large array of patterns.  

Even though there are typically three adults to a seat (with many more packed in and standing on the bus,), when walking on the buses the first thing you notice is not how crowded it is, but the deafeningly loud music. Blasting anything from the bass heavy rhythms of reggaeton to Spanish-language covers of 80’s pop songs, many of the sound systems that we’ve experienced on these janky buses are some of the best I have heard in any automotive. Hannah, a friend down here, has a theory that you can tell how the ride on a bus is going to be based on the music that is blasting from its speakers. If the music is mellow, she claims, you’re in for a relatively relaxing ride, but if the music pulsates with the sounds of the sweaty clubs, then you better hold on for your life.

And finding a firm hold is a skill that is never underestimated.

While coming back from a backpacking trip earlier this week, our group had trouble finding seats on the bus, so we were forced to stand, crushed against each other directly behind the cab of the bus. While we were barreling down the curvy mountain highway, whipping around every turn, holding on to metal bars fixated on the ceiling of the bus for dear life, and trying not to fall into each other, Harvey turned to me and poked my shoulder.

“Hey, did you see the speedometer?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Because there isn’t one.”

Speedometers don’t exist on chicken buses, because speed limits don’t exist in Guatemala. The drivers use their best judgment in gauging how fast they should take each turn, and most of them don’t have the same conscientious judgment that we are accustomed to in the States.

What is most impressive about these buses is that while they are barreling down the mountain roads at 70 mph, the ayudante is not only calling out the various stops, but also climbing on the exterior of the bus like a monkey, pulling luggage off the roof and climbing back into the open door of the bus without even breaking a sweat.

Often the drivers are in such a hurry that they feel there is little time to come to a complete stop to let people on an off the bus. As a result, it is not uncommon to see people literally running and jumping on to the bus, while the poor ayudante grabs their bags or baskets and swings them on the roof.

Xela tagging

After a four-hour ride that felt nothing short of four years, we finally arrived in Xela, and my first impressions of the city were that of a joyous shock. Having done zero research before coming to Guatemala, I had assumed that Antigua (a city of which I had actually heard) would be the larger of the two, but I was way off. Being the second most populous city in Guatemala with 160,000 people, Xela bustles with the vibrancy of any large city, and unlike Antigua, gringos are—thankfully—few and far between.

I was pleasantly surprised to have a rich and diverse Guatemalan culture thrusted in my face, and despite being in a large, smoggy, metropolitan area, the micro culture shock that I experienced was a breath of fresh air. As when experiencing any large city for the first time, Xela’s winding streets, lock of English speaker, and dense, fast moving traffic is very intimidating at first, but has been a pleasant challenge to try to fully know and understand. I think each of us have really taken to the chaotic, loud nature of this city.

Upon arriving in Xela’s Parque Central, we were greeted by a beaming Jamil and friends and treated to nearly a dozen litros of the locally brewed cerveza Cabro and one of the best burgers I have ever eaten.  After dropping off our bags in Jamil’s huge apartment, we headed to his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar, where we were told that the nightlife would be a little different in here than in Antigua.

In an effort to try and enforce a curfew in Antigua, the city pretty much shuts down at 11 pm, as the bars lock their doors and refuse to allow any more entrance. Being from cities whose last call is around 4 am, the three of us were really taken aback by this early schedule, because if you didn’t know where you were going for the night by 10pm, you probably were not going to be able to make it out to any place that was hopping.

Parque Central

Xela on the other hand does not operate like this. After going to a party at the bar by Jamil’s place, we went to an after party at the club down the street. After the after party at the club, we found ourselves at an after after party at another bar before stumbling home to the after after after party in the apartment, where we collapsed on the couches and floor in exhaust. Xela has been a nice return to balance in that regards.

But while each of us enjoy a few drinks of indistinguishable clear liquor mixed with apple juice now and then; we didn’t come down here to only party—that would be too American of us. Nestled at 8,000 feet in the Guatemalan mountains, Xela poses as a perfect jumping point for many of the larger volcanoes in the region. Since we have an informal goal to trying to climb the three highest volcanoes in Central America, we resolved to tackle the highest point in the subcontinent early in our trip: the 13,845-foot Vulcán Tajumulco.

The highest point in Central America

To be continued...