Our Man in Guatemala November 10, 2021
The immigration crisis heightens at the border, with both Haitians and Central Americans making a mad dash for the American border. In Tapachula, rumors fly that this is the last good chance to make it, as United States border restrictions are thought to have somehow loosened momentarily. This was before footage came to light of Texas Rangers with whips attacking young black and brown families on the Rio Grande.
Like up north, tent communities spring up all around Tapachula, while thousands wait either for papers to be processed or an illicit train to become available. Human traffickers, Los Coyotes, run the show, extorting and frightening refugees who are too desperate not to act. Most of the Haitians have been homeless in Central America for years, escaping earthquakes and fallen governments. They landed in the wrong place when they chose Guatemala, however. The corn is dying of thirst. Half of the children are not getting enough to eat.
Altogether the people sleeping in the parks of Tapachula are environmental refugees. Hundreds have been arrested in recent weeks and placed in government detention camps. There is no video from the Chiapas-Guatemala border to show whether the stormtroopers are on horseback or carrying whips, but I suspect not. Regardless, we choose to avoid Tapachula and head instead for an interior crossing at a town called Mesilla.
We cross the border by foot into Mesilla after a four-hour bus ride from San Cristobal. For some of the travelers, this is the end of end of the trip, as there is apparently a guy who, for 600 pesos, will issue a new Mexican tourist visa without the required 72-hour stay out of country. For most of us, however, the final destination today is Lake Atitlan, which means another 8-hour bus ride.
The Maya venders assault the tourists with their overpriced products, clogging the narrow street that climbs through the town along the San Juan River. We push through the throng toward immigration when Manuel finds us and indicates the van that will take us the rest of the way. Young backpackers from Europe throw their gear into the truck and scramble to find Guatemalan Quetzales, the only money in the world named after a bird. The venders assure us, however, that Mexican Pesos are certainly acceptable here.
The currency exchange rate is a head-banger: 7.7 Quetzal to one USD, or 2.3 Pesos to 1 Quetzal. None of it makes for easy mental calculations, and clearly the sellers are aware of the difficulties. One woman at a quick mart smiles and accepts my 500-pesos bill for 200-pesos worth of junk food and drinks and hands me one shiny coin with a bird. One Quetzal. “Tu Cambio,” she brightly says, pointing to the pretty metal as if this is the ticket to the magic kingdom.
I hold the bronze coin up to the light incredulously. “This is worth 300 pesos? This is a 15-dollar coin?” I want to bite it to show that it is not made of gold, but pandemic protocols preclude me from making a scene.
Her smile fades and she disappears into a back room to find the manager, who sends her back to me with some Quetzal bills, still not the proper change according to my rough calculation, but this is all I am getting. The exchange rate is apparently whatever one can get away with. At least the thieves smile in Guatemala.
On the van, I find myself in the front next to Manuel the driver. Perhaps he senses that I have a listening ear for his problems, which are many. Manuel’s wife left him last month and took her two young sons away. Then he lost his job. Now he freelances as a driver, with a huge chip on his shoulder. He tells me about women and how dishonest they are. My story of the Quetzal fiasco only confirms this for him.
In the backseat, a German woman is vomiting and asking to pull over. She is asking the wrong guy, as Manual drives like a maniac on the twisting rutted road, ignoring all requests from the youngsters in the back. This is his umpteenth hour on the road, and the poor man is close to the end of his rope. He honks at slow vehicles, children and old women by the roadside, countless rambling dogs—anything that stands in his way. He plays chicken with approaching trucks as if he knows who will surrender first. It is undoubtedly me.
My impression of Guatemala from the road is an utter disregard for garbage disposal. There is trash everywhere, people regularly throw bags from their windows as they drive. The vehicles range from 3-wheeled taxis to tractor-trailers hauling massive logs of old growth. This is perhaps the best road from the border to Ciudad Antigua, and yet it clings to existence at the end of the rainy season. The remains of landslides, flash floods, and road collapse are everywhere. Manuel does not slow down for any of it. We twist, we bounce, and at least one of us vomits. A young German backpacker complains that her doctor requires her to have more leg room—Manuel offers to put her on the roof of the van. I would gladly pay one shiny Quetzal to make it all stop.