Pity the common mouse.  Feeble of vision, yet keen of smell, it aspires to no more humble ambition than to eke out a meager existence in as furtive a manner as its nocturnal meanderings might provide.   Still, its unobtrusive presence seldom goes unnoticed, and a trap is set.  Betrayed therefore by the limits of it foresight and led inexorably by the compelling scent of Brie, the mortal snap of a spring punctuates the untimely conclusion of its otherwise meaningful existence. Pity now again the unwary traveler through Guatemala possessed of no more humble ambition than to acquire some needed rest, relaxation and the modest stimulation and enlightenment that only exposure to a foreign culture can accord.  As acute of vision and blessed with instincts keenly honed by experience as he might be, yet the guile of mankind has been so highly refined as to belie the apparent advantage such assets would naturally bestow.   Man or mouse, a trap may still be set.   This story finds me in  Guatemala City, backpack in tow, seeking the advice of a cab driver as to the location of a bus station from which I might depart for the town of Panajachel (pronounced Pana Ha Chel)  situated on Lake Atitlan, reputed to be the most beautiful Lake in the World.  Cab drivers, or “taxistas”  as they are know, are not in the business of giving free advice, but rather of ferrying paying passengers to and fro.  Accordingly, while a major terminal may exist walking distance down the street and around the corner, he will invariably tell you that he can take you to the “nearest” one five miles away on the outskirts of town. So, adding insult to the injury of paying a needless cab fare, I found myself, not in a modern  terminal with air conditioned Pullman buses, but rather “Paco´s Bus Barn”, a ramshackle heap of pillars whose tin roof sheltered a single “Chicken Bus”. Now, a Chicken Bus, God bless them, is nothing more than a school bus with beefed up suspension, a diesel engine modified for high altitude driving and oversized brakes.  They are a spartan affair with no air conditioning, no reclining seats,  no restore and no overhead storage for carry-on luggage.   All the baggage goes on top outside the bus including the mini coops crammed with squawking chickens from which these buses derive their name.  They are always festooned in some kind of outlandish, yet artistic,  paint job that reflects the local Indian culture and each has it own name, unpronounceable to the English speaker with their bizarre concatenation of x´s, z´s, u´s and h´s.  Make no mistake about it though, despite their jocular appearance, these Chicken Buses are the work horses of the Guatemalan outback and provide a transportation lifeline of people and products that is vital to the economy of Guatemala.  The drivers who ply the steep mountain curves and switch backs on a daily basis are true professionals with enormous responsibility, and seem to enjoy their reputation as local heroes,  of sort.   They tend to be flamboyant in dress and extroverted in their mannerisms.   Texas style western wear and the demeanor that goes along with it appear to be in vogue with them, including the custom of waving their straw cowboy hats out the window and yelling “Yee Haa” upon cresting a major mountain pass as though they were riding a mechanical bull at Gilley’s in Houston.. When the Chicken Bus, Paco at the helm, pulled out of Guate, as Guatemala City is know, I was the only passenger on board.  By the time the bus cut through the edge of town, and after four of five brief stops, it was standing room only with indigenous Guatamatecos, many of whom, particularly the women, were very colorfully dressed.  To my surprise I was the only “gringo” aboard, but I can’t say anyone looked at me twice or treated me differently on account of it.

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Now I have not tested the theory, but it is abundantly clear to me that one could travel the length and breadth of Guatemala on these Chicken Buses getting on and off wherever one fancied.  The fares are incredibly low. Were one to find himself stranded in some nothing-burger of a hamlet at nightfall, no problem.   The people are so friendly and cooperative that you would doubtless find yourself crashed in someone’s living room.   They are so fond of foreigners here that it would not be unlikely they would introduce you to one of their eligible teenage daughters with a marriage prospect in mind.

It was almost dusk when the bus crested the final peak and commenced its descent into the volcanic cauldron of a valley that has as its basin the beautiful Lake Atitlan.  My first exposure to the Lake occurred when the bus rounded a mountain curve from some two thousand feet above.  It looked, for all the World, like a place in which God Himself might chose to live.  Far below lay an expanse of perfectly serene blue for as far as the eye could see.  Beyond the horizon stood three towering volcanoes whose peaks were obscured by a billowing white cover of cloud.  Nestled between two of the volcanoes and below the ceiling of billow a glowing, red-orange ball of setting sun reflected its warmth against the far edge of the Lake and lent to it the illusion of a distant sea of flames.  And all of this exquisite beauty was framed on either side by cascading mountain slopes of lush, tropical green.  Feeble justice would be served by describing all this as “breathtaking”, for the beauty of this place is so startling that one is compelled to question if it could possibly be real.  Trust me, it is. 

Panajachel is a town of maybe 10,000 or fewer on the Southwest edge of Lake Atitlan  that bustles with tourist activity in the early evening.  Paco dropped me off on the main street of town and I was surprised to see that by the time I dismounted the bus his teenage son, who acted as a combination conductor, fare collector and baggage handler during the 5 hour trip had already unloaded my backpack from up top the bus.   So there I found myself standing in the narrow cobblestone streets of Panajachel, surrounded by the lights and sounds and smells of a truly fascinating place.

A Tuk-Tuk pulled up and asked if I needed a lift.  Now a Tuk-Tuk is to some urban areas of Guatemala what the Chicken Buses are to the rural.  A Tuk-Tuk is basically a three-wheeled, motorized rickshaw.  They are best characterized as a golf cart on steroids, and can accommodate up to three passengers in the back, and possibly a small child up front with the driver.  They are fairly well adapted to the narrow cobblestone streets of the towns that boarder Lake Atitlan although their suspension leaves something to be desired.   They are all a fire engine red and the deep abiding Catholic faith of the Guatemalan people  finds an expression on the plastic windshields of these vehicles which are usually adorned with some type of religious phrase in Spanish, such as Hijo de Deus (Son of God) or  Deus es Amor (God is Love).   I often thought it would be a big hit in Panajachel to purchase one of these vehicles in jet black, paint some horns and a pitchfork on it and label the windshield with El Diablo Su Mismo (The Devil Himself).  The Guatemalans are not without a sense of humor.

I barely had time to respond to the driver’s offer when I was approached by a, short, well dressed man with a smile that was more gold than enamel. “Need a hotel?”, he asked me in passable English.  After negotiating a price of 70 quetzals (about $10) for the night and assured the room had a private bath with hot water, I found myself following “Eduardo” down a narrow cobblestone path to the Posada de Don Pedro.  With no more humble ambition than a shower, a shave and a good night’s sleep after three days of cat napping on buses, this mouse caught his first scent of cheese.   Never could I have suspected the clever trap that was about to be sprung upon me. 

The Posada de Don Pedro itself appeared to be respectable enough.  It had an open-air,  tiled courtyard with restaurant tables and a small kitchen where one could order beer and inexpensive short-order meals prepared by Eduardo’s wife.   The rooms, about eight of them, were all on the second floor laid out geometrically above the courtyard.  Eduardo led me to Room 203, handed me the key and with a smile and assuring nod said “Enjoy your stay”. 

So fatigued was I that I nearly collapsed upon the bed after liberating myself of the burden of my overstuffed backpack.  I could not allow myself the luxury of falling directly asleep then and there for simple reason that I smelled bad and had the grizzled, unshaven look of a Bowery bum.  A good hot shower, a shave and change of clothing would go a long way toward a good nights sleep I reasoned and with a monumental effort I headed toward the bath with my nightkit.

I reached to the ceramic wash basin mounted upon the wall in the bathroom and just barely touched the valves to turn on the water and, WHAM!!, the trap was sprung.  The ceramic sink disengaged itself from the wall and fell to the tile floor in a thunderous crash, smashing into a thousand pieces!!  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men were not going to put this Humpty Dumpty back together again.  I was frozen in shock that such a small amount of pressure could have precipitated such a major mishap.

I don’t recall how many seconds passed before I could restore enough rationality to investigate this circumstance more thoroughly.  What caught my immediate attention was the fact that the sink’s drain was not the common plastic tubing that would otherwise have impeded the fall of the sink, but rather a paper-thin piece of flexible tubing that I do not believe was even capable of conducting water.  The diameter of this faux drain pipe was such that it did not even match that of the “real” drain pipe that extended from the wall so as to make any meaningful connection impossible.

In addition to this, the feed lines to the sink, which consisted of the usual flexible plastic tubing, were of unnecessarily long length to ensure that the sink would reach the floor when disengaged from the wall.  To clinch my rising suspicions regarding this not-so-elaborate setup, when I opened the valves to the now-smashed sink, there was no water pressure in them at all.  This also proved to be true of the shower.  It did not take me a scant minute to figure out the nature of this scam and to accurately predict what would occur next.

True to my worst expectations, the knock on the door proved to be Eduardo who expressed a concerned curiosity as to the origin of the thunderous crash he had heard from his room just below me.  I had a vision of Eduardo waiting in breathless anxiety for his trap to spring and breaking out in silent glee when the explosion announced his success.  For now, however, Eduardo had on his best poker face and for the moment I thought it best to play his game and see for myself what cards he actually might display.  As he pondered the shattered mess on the bathroom floor the grimmest of expressions overtook his face.  He rubbed his chin and mumbled to himself disconcertingly until he finally blurted out, “You have to pay.”

“Like hell I do”, I silently thought to myself rejoindering his grim expression with one of equal solemnity.  The advantage I enjoyed was in knowing that I was being played and in my ability to conceal that knowledge from Eduardo.  My poker face was one of dumbfounded confusion.  “How much to replace the sink?”, I asked him, compelled more by curiosity than sincerity.

“Five-hundred-fifty quetzals.”, came the quick reply.  Interesting, I thought, that he should have that figure right at the top of his head and I wondered how many times he had pulled off this scam before and what his rate of success might have been.   I bounced that figure around my sleep-deprived brain and came up with a conversion of about $75.00.  My $10.00 room had just become an $85 dollar room and I balked at the prospect.   For that kind of dough I could have rented a swanky hotel room on the lake front replete with hot and cold running maids and had enough change left over for second round of abject debauchery the next night.   By now I was vacillating between knocking Eduardo to Chicago or awarding him an Oscar for his Academy performance. 

Reluctant as I was to call Eduardo the thief, liar and fraud that I knew him to be, I was nonetheless adamant in my insistence that the responsibility for the sink lie with whomever had effected such a faulty installation.  I made it abundantly clear to him that I had no intention whatsoever to accede to his demand for payment and countermanded that he provide me with a serviceable room.  He, of course, refused to do so unless I paid the requested sum and thus we found ourselves in the proverbial Mexican standoff.

The only option left to me at this point was to simply leave.  I grabbed my backpack and slung it to my shoulders snapping the waist and chest harnesses with a definitive snap.  “Adios, Eduardo!!”,  I taunted him with a dismissing wave of the hand.

“I call the police.”  Eduardo threatened his poker face now replaced with one of panic that his scam might fail after all.  Now I conjured up an image of being arrested by an armed gang of Guatemalan cops, all of whom would be Eduardo’s cousins and appearing in the morning before a judge who would doubtless be his uncle.  I hear the gavel drop with a judgment that demands I pay Eduardo his extortion plus a couple of hundred in court costs.  With this image in mind, my plan then became to beat such a hasty retreat that I would be long gone before the cops could show up.

Out the door and down the steps I fled.  Eduardo stuck to me like white on rice.  When we hit the cobblestone path leading to the main drag I was appalled to overhear that Eduardo was on his cell phone, talking to the local gendarmes. 

The brief illusion of salvation came in the form of a Tuk-Tuk which pulled up and asked me if I needed a lift.  “Great”, I thought. “Now I can leave Eduardo and his cousins in the dust”. Eduardo, however,  stood in front of the Tuk-Tuk and talked the driver out of transporting me.  My hopes were dashed.  When we reached the cobble stoned main drag I spied a hotel right across the street.  I walked in and started to negotiate for a room.   Just my luck, the hotel was full!

My frustration with all of this then multiplied tenfold as I turned from the desk to leave the hotel lobby only to discover two frowning, armed Guatemalan cops, Eduardo in tow, standing there to block my passage.  I realized then and there that I would have to talk my way out of this one.  So, I planted myself on the sofa in the hotel lobby next to my backpack and, as bone weary and mentally fatigued as I was, dusted off my best Spanish and proceeded to make my case. 

By now Eduardo had been busy on his cell enlisting more of his compadres to join the fray.  Before I had finished my rendition of events to the police the lobby was now jam packed with a dozen or more Guatemalans with their arms folded staring me down with disapproving scowls. The only certainty I had at this point was that I would resist to the bitter end. 

By now the verbal melee had assumed the proportions of a gaggle of startled geese strutting and squawking incomprehensibly.  Everyone had something to say and all at the same time.  But all the cacophony, vituperative language and finger pointing came to an abrupt conclusion with the arrival of “The General”.   Now I don’t truly know what rank The General actually held in the Panajachel police force.  He was at least a Sergeant and most likely a Captain, but his mere presence dramatically altered the circumstances.

The instant he set foot in the hotel lobby the two cops at the scene snapped to attention to saluted him. The noisy crowd fell immediately into a deft silence. The man exuded dignity and unquestioned authority.  His uniform was impeccably starched and creased.  His hat was different, square with a glossy leather brim rather than the simple beret of his subordinate officers, and was embellished with the insignia of high rank, the traditional gold braiding often referred to as “scrambled eggs”.  The semi automatic, pearl-handled,  nickel-plated Colt .45 strapped to his thigh spoke for itself. 

He consulted briefly with both his men at the scene in subdued and inaudible tones.  Having concluded his briefing with his men he stepped toward the silenced crowd who parted like the waves in “Exodus” to allow his passage.  He approached Eduardo and,with one hand folded across his chest, the other stroking his chin, listened patiently as he rendered his version of events.  All the time he stared Eduardo directly in his eyes.

He then turned to me, seated on the sofa, and approached.  I thought it best to rise and greeted him with a handshake and my most formal Spanish introduction.  I gave The General my side of the story and he listened with the same apparent unbiased objectivity that he had rendered to Eduardo.   Having concluded my dissertation,  he paced the floor back and forth between myself and the brooding crowd of locals deep into his own meditations.

At this point one of Eduardo’s compadres proposed something on the order of a compromise. “Cenquenta, cenquenta.”, he suggested (Fifty, fifty) proposing that I split the cost with Eduardo.

“Tengo un idea mas major.”, (I have a better idea) , I countered.  I pointed to myself and said “zero” then pointed to Eduardo and said “toto”.  This act of defiance touched of a chorus of boo’s and howling accompanied by more finger pointing and hand waving.  I could not decipher the majority of their invective onslaught, but I did pick up on a few “batardo´s” and a few “gringo succio’s”  .

“Silencio”, The General boomed with a voice that had all the authority of firing off his Colt .45.  Once again the brooding crowd fell to an uneasy silence.  The General then approached Eduardo and asked him a simple question.
“The man paid you for the room?”, he inquired.
“Si, senor”, Eduardo humbly concede.
“Then it is settled," The General ruled.
He took three steps back from the crowd, raised both arms above his shoulders and with both index fingers pointed directly to the front door of the hotel.
“Todos afuera (everybody out)” ,  he ordered in a voice that would broach no disobedience.

For the briefest of moments the crowd stood dumbfounded as they looked askance at each other exchanging furtive glances, but eventually they turned and started milling toward the door not unlike a herd of bovines their subdued mumbling bearing an uncanny resemblance to the mooing of cattle. 

When the lobby had emptied I stood there alone with The General.  He turned to me from his position at the door.  With his hands clasped behind his back he bowed to me and said in perfect English, “You are free to leave.”

I acknowledged his courtesy with a bow of my own and raised the ante by bringing a two-fingered salute to the brim of my hat. “Gracias, senor”, I told him. 
He acknowledged my gesture with a slight nod and the briefest of smiles.  He then turned to the door, and with same authority and indomitable dignity with which he entered, disappeared into the night. 

I threw my tired bones to the comfort of the sofa and rewarded myself with a great sigh of relief.   I had beaten the Guatemalan busted sink mouse trap scam.   A great wave of self-satisfaction came over me that was not the least  bit mitigated by the fact that I was still out $10.00 for a room I never used and still needed to find one.

I slung my backpack to my shoulders once again and hit the cobblestone street.  Looking up and down there was no hint of the police or the angry crowd that had accosted me.  The passions of the Guatemalans are apparantly not unlike boiling milk whose ebullience might be quelled by the addition of a few drops of cold water.  All I could see was the normal bustle of darting Tuk-Tuks, happy, wide-eyed tourists strolling arm-in-arm and the lights, sounds and smells of a thoroughly fascinating place.  Somehow, I felt more entitled than ever to enjoy it all.

A Tuk-Tuk pulled up and asked if I needed a lift.  “Sure,” I told him.  “Take me to a hotel on the other side of town.”
A mile down the road and sixty cents later he dropped me off at the Hotel Rosita.  “My sister take good care of you.”, he assured me. 
Sure enough Elaina unlocked the door to show me the room and the first thing I did was look under the sink to make sure it was properly mounted.  I clasped it with both hands and shook it.  It would not budge.

“I’ll take it.” I said with a smile.
 

The author would wecome feedback to this article: email:bricorc@yahoo.com

Nieto – Fostercaring my grandson in Antigua, Guatemala  - Working away the days we often lose touch with the truly meaningful things in life – the contributions we can make that are of lasting value to ourselves and our loved ones and others whom our lives touch. And even after we find our piece of heaven on earth, after years of searching and sacrifice, we are surprised and sometimes even blindsided but what great accomplishments remain within us. To those of you have found it all and still dream of more, we heartily recommend this story, available right now as an eBook loaded with pictures and filled with lots of first hand details of journeying to Antigua, Guatemala.This is enjoyable and worthwhile reading for anyone interested in traveling or moving to Guatemala and essential for those planning on exploring this amazing land.