The Gringo Tax

Even though we have been in Belize for over a week and are now back in Guatemala, the cost and availability of internet has kept me from writing.  So now... a bit of a flashback...

The road out of Guatemala is bumpy, dusty, full of potholes and paved with... well, it isn't paved.  Not even with good intentions.  We're leaving Flores for the English-speaking Caribbean nation of Belize, a mere 160-iah kilometers and a whole world away.  And, as always, we are attempting to do it for as little money as possible.  There are a couple things you learn very quickly about travel in Guatemala.  You can go one of two ways.  There is the Tourist Route, which is always more expensive, mariginally more comfortable, and usually quicker and more direct.  Then there is the Local Route.  This is dirt cheap, crowded, slower and may involve farm animals.  The Guatemalans assume that as "wealthy" Americans or Canadians or whatever, you will naturally be travelling "in style."  And by "in style" they mean you will get to your destination within five hours of your scheduled arrival time and you will not have to share your seat with a live turkey.    Even if you opt for the money-saving Local Route, you may find, in fact, that the Guatemalans have other plans for you.  From the moment you cross the border, the Guatemalans begin their well-honed campaign to relieve you of the heavy burden of your bank account.  Now, I'm not saying that Guatemalans are dishonest.  Many who work in the tourist trade are simply, poor, desperate, and creative with the truth.  It is survival.  But it is wildly frustrating.

Crossing the border fromMexico we are asked for 20 pesos each as an "entrance fee" - which is Spanish for "extortion."  We know full well this is illegal but when a man with a gun asks you for two dollars, you usually just go ahead and give it to him.  Lonely Planet says to ask for a "receipt" as a possible deterrent since not only do they not have receipts, they don't even have a cash register.  Our money is immediately and unabashedly stuffed into the border guard's pocket.  Again, no arguements here, but we walk away defeated, vowing to never let it happen again.

But it does.  Again and again.

See, the Guatemalans are employing an age-old capitalistic income-contingent technique known as The Gringo Tax.  It works like this:

You want to buy a couple of avocados at the market.  But there is no price listed.  There are almost never prices listed.  Anywhere.  For anything.  The Guatemalan woman in front of you buys a bag full and you notice she pays with a 10 quetzal note.  And she gets change.  Now its your turn.  The sweet-looking avocado merchant weighs your fruit.  You ask "cuanto?"  "20 quetzales," she says.  If you know enough Spanish you can always says, "but you just charged the lady before me less than 10 quetzales."  This will illicit one of two responses:

1. She will be ashamed to have been caught lying.  She might huff and puff a bit and pretend to be offended.  But the price will still be 20 quetzales.

2. She will coldly stare right at you, her steely gaze saying "oh yeah, and what are you going to do about it?"  Price?  20 quetzales.

In the end it is just quicker to pay up.

We have been cheated and swindled and nicle and dimed and gringo taxed to death.  We are fed up.  We choose the cheapest way into Belize - a local bus from Santa Elena to Melchor de Mencos, the town right before the Belizean border.  For a laugh, we hail one of Flores' noisy tuk-tuks, which is not really big enough to fit both of us and our bags, and we put-put across the bridge to Santa Elena.  I am very clear with our driver.  We are taking the public bus to the border.  Please take us to the bus terminal.  To complicate matters, though, there are actually two bus terminals in Santa Elena.  The Terminal Viejo and the Terminal Nuevo.  Lonely Planet says to go to the Old Terminal but only says that the bus stop is located "somewhere" in the chaotic marketplace.  Thanks for that.

Our driver assures me he knows where to take us and in a matter of minutes we are pulling up in front of the Terminal Nuevo.  And here is where they get you:  before I can even get my long legs extradited from that stupid buggy, two guys have already descended upon us, grabbing our bags and heading off with them.

"Wait!  Stop"  We shout.

"A donde van?"

"Bus to the border.  Melchor de Mencos!  Un momentito!"

"OK, OK, sure. Melchor de Mencos.  Si Si."  We are friendly people...relax, they seem to say.  We are just here to help.  But they have our bags and we know this for certain: when someone carries your bags, it is gonna cost you.  We have no choice but to chase them into the terminal.  We don't even have time to look around before we aredeposited into a dark little roomadvertising itself as a travel agency.  Sure, why not?  Every place else is.  Or was.  Or could be.  The Guatemalan Don Corleone is seated behind the desk.  Big and brooding.

"Where are you going?  He slowly mumbles.  He is going to make us an offer we don't understand.

"Melchor de Mencos.  Then on to Belize."  He starts to write out a bus ticket.  "No, no, no!  We just want the public bus.  The cheapest way.  Mas barato."  Our motto.

"This is the public bus.  Private transport is more expensive."

I know this isn't right and that he isn't playing fair.

"Ok.  How much?"

"50 quetzales each."  ($7 USD)

That's a bit expensive.  For a three hour bus ride.  It doesn't sound it, but it is all relative here.  I don't know what to do.  the guidebook has given no indication as to the expected cost of the ticket.

"The bus leaves in twelve minutes."  Don Corleone is impatient.  He is already planning how he is going to spend our mone.  Seeing no other alternative and anxious to get out of this situation, we pay up.  The bus is one of the familiar white mini vans with three short rows of seats.  There are a few other well-dressed Guatemalans aboard.  We wonder if maybe they paid 50Q as well.  Perhaps this is the "first class" bus.  Not what we asked for, but at least the ride won't be so bad.

Ha, ha.  Stupid gringos.

We depart the terminal and bee-line directly for the Terminal Viejo which is, in fact, "somewhere" in the middle of the market.  This is tres Third World.  This is the movie version of a Third World marketplace.  Dirt.  Poor people.  Livestock.  Coca-Cola.  The bus parks and instantly the door slides open, exposing us to the teeming masses.  Peole begin pushing and shoving their way onto the tiny bus, old ladies are stepping on children, men are elbowing women, suitcases and garbage bags full of clothes are stuffed into every available space.  This is the last airlift out of Saigon.

We are in the back row of seats.  Horrified.  And snapping photos.  Vendors are shoving their bootleg wares into the open windows and women are shouting "aguas, aguas, aguas!" There is no space to move, to escape.  I would have had a full-blown panic attack, but there was no room.  The bus has filled up.  William counts 24 people.  There are seats for 12.  We are laughing because we do not want to cry.  "Now I know for a fact that none of these people paid 50Q for a bus ticket," I say, gesturing to shoeless old woman with no teeth.

The bus pulls away and stops soon afterwards at a gas station on the outskirts of town.  The driver gets out, opens the sliding door and collects fares from the new passengers.  No one hands over more than 15Q  ($2USD).  We've been cheated out of 70Q to ride in a cattlecar.

The other thing about Guatemala is that personal space is an entirely foreign concept.  People will sit in your lap if you let them.  And not even 70Q can buy you an extra inch of space.  Everyone is treated like cargo and no one really seems to mind.  As we sweat and cramp and look at each other in disbelief, the Guatemalans smile and throw another kid on the pile.  One woman is forced to stand up, hunkered over in the low ceilinged van for the entire three hour trip.  I would have given my seat up, but then where would the live chicken sit?

Mercifully, we finally arrive at the border town of Melchor de Mencos.  We are unceremoniously shoved off the bus only to be bombarded by a batallion of sleazy guys all shouting "taxi!" and "cambio!"  We are both completely over it. 

"Uno momento, por favor!" 

They are grabbing at our bags, waving wads of Belizean dollars in our faces.  We repeat our pleas, each time more annoyed and insistant.

"Amigo!  Taxi? Taxi?! Taxi?!?!?"

We've just ridden for three hours in a sardine can, back the fuck up for a minute!

And they do back up.

"Why don't you go back to your own country with your backpack," one of them says, insulted.  As if "backpack" is a four-letter word.  They all retreat across the road, pouting.  Literally pouting.  And now the taxi driver is refusing to drive us anywhere.

Look, buddy, I want to say.  I like your country.  But I don't like being cheated.  Or pushed around.  I am a valuable contributor to your local economy.  And I did not vote for Bush and I never eat at McDonald's!!

But instead I stay silent and take matters into our own hands.  We'll show them.  We get our stuff together and march off up the street.  In the total wrong direction, as it turns out.  They are laughing at us.  We find another taxi and ask him to take us to the border.  He is happy to oblige but fails to tell us that the border is only a few hundred feet away.  There's another 10Q gone.

Damn you, you tricky little bastards!  They are formidible opponents.  We cannot win at this game.  

We suffer our final indignity when the Guatemalan border guard asks us for 40 quetzales for the pleasure of leaving his country.  Try though you might, you cannot fight The Gringo Tax.  We pay up and happily cross over into Belize.