The Chicken Bus Game

We are up early and off to Panajachel, on the banks of Lago Atitlan.  The tourist mini-buses are far too steep for our budget - 75Q each! - so we have begrudgingly resigned ourselves to three hours on another Chicken Bus.  As long as I can have the window seat.  And be seated towards the front, as far away from the stereo speakers at the rear incessantly blaring Latin pop.  And not too close to the front where many passengers tend to crowd the aisle near the door.  There are very specific survival rules to The Chicken Bus Game.  And we must sit with our legs spread apart to discourage a third person (or a farm animal) from sharing our seat - originally made for two.  Two children, that is.  Never forget that these are ancient school buses with just enough leg room to accommodate an eight year-old.  I'm 6'1".  One of my legs is the size of a whole second grader.  By now, I am painfully used to riding with my knees planted in my face.

We leave Hostel Umma Gumma in Antigua around 6:30 AM before anyone else has awoken.  And by "leave," I mean "sneak out."  We did not pay for our last night.  No one asked and so we didn't offer.  the people running the place are a little scattered and I'm still bitter about being promised breakfast from the in-house restaurant that promptly shut down two hours after our arrival.  Not jsut shut down.  But closed.  Completely.  In fact, it disappeared.  No more tables.  No more bar.  No menu.  Evaporated into the Guatemalan night.

So we "leave," place our key on the front desk and let ourselves out the gate.  We are giddy at having saved 120Q and I am already planning eight different ways to spend it when I hear the patter of tiny Guatemalan feet trotting over the cobblestones behind us.  It is the guy from the hostel.  He has chased us down the block.  Panting, he tells me we did not pay for our last night.  I look surprised and question him.  This is all an act, of course, one that I rehearsed while lying in bed this morning, in the event of such a confrontation.

"What do you mean we owe you for another night?  I thought we paid you for two nights already?"
"Yes, but you stayed three."
"We did?"  I am not going to win an Oscar here.
"Yes."  And he proceeds to count the days of the week.
"Oh my.  It appears that you are correct.  Lo siento, lo siento."  I pull out 120Q and hand it over, awkwardly bowing and apologizing.  I even throw in a "Yo soy estupido" to further debase myself.

Oh well.  Moving on.  You can't really be too upset when you are caught trying to cheat a poor third world hostel out of 13 dollars.

On our way to the bus we stop at a bakery and cafe which is just about the only place open at this hour.  It is an accomplishment to find a cup of coffee before 8AM in this country.  the cafe is full of gringos with mountains of luggage.  Of course, the cafe is also a travel agency and we notice a big sign for a cheap direct bus service to Panajachel at 7AM.  There is an inviting picture of a luxurious Pullman bus with plush, comfy reclining seats, TVs and other creature comforts - all for the unbelievable price of 36Q.  We wonder if it is a misprint.  Maybe they mean 36 dollars?  This must be what all the other gringos are doing here.  I ask the man behind the bakery counter.  "Yes, yes.  Direct bus to Panajachel.  Leaves in 15 minutes."

"Ooohh!  I want that!" I say.  Like it is a delicious pastry.  Only 36Q.  That is half the price quoted to us for a minivan.... and we will dodge the Chicken Bus!  Oh happy day!

"But I don't have tickets," I tell him.
"Do not worry.  Get them later."
"There are seats available?"
"Yes, yes."  He manages to be both reassuring and dismissive at the same time.

A few minutes later, our coffees drained, we are herded out of the cafe with shouts of "Panajachel!  Panajachel!"  Now, the bus is not, in fact, waiting outside in front of the cafe as one would reasonably expect.  "Down the street, one block away," we are told.

Watch how they play the game.

We load ourselves up with our backpacks and suitcases and various bags and parcels and hustle down the street, our glorious, comfortable bus awaiting.  Except it isn't.  Not exactly.  We make a left, walk a bit further and pass through a pair of iron gates into a parking lot where we see a gleaming, brightly painted... Chicken Bus.  "Panajachel" is printed above the front window shield.  This is our bus.  There is no mistaking it.  Everyone balks at the sight and a collective groan is issued from our gringo ranks.  We all look at each other, a mixture of disbelief, anger, and resignation.  For those of us who have been travelling awhile, this is only part of the game.  And they have won again.

Before anyone has a chance to seriously object, our luggage is loaded onto the roof and we are prodded into our seats, brumbling to ourselves about our promised fancy bus.  A brave Spaniard attempts to confront the conductor.  It is an exercise in futility.

"Excuse me, señor.  We bought tickets for a Pullman bus."
"This is the bus to Panajachel."
"Yes, OK, but this is not the bus we paid for."
"This bus is directo."
"Fine.  But the travel agency advertised a Pullman bus."
"This is the only direct bus to Panajachel."
"But we did not want a local bus.  We bought tickets for..."
"This is the direct bus to Panajachel."
And on and on.

There is no arguing with him.  No apologies for the disappointment, no acknowledgement of the obvious scam.  Pay your money and sit down.  We are better at this game than you are.

Perhaps this really is a direct bus to Panajachel.  No stops.  No three hundred extra Guatemalans packed in along the way.  But we know better.  The Book says the direct Chicken Bus to Panajachel leaves at 7AM from the market.  And as soon as everyone is settled, our pulls pulls out of its secret location and drives directly to, you guessed it, the market.  Where we begin the all too familiar ritual of stopping for every Guatemalan on the side of the road.  Directo, my ass.

We still have a chance to win this game, though.  Unlike the other gringos, we did not pay for our tickets in advance from a dishonest travel agency.  This is, in fact, the exact bus we would have caught from the market had we not stumbled upon the cafe scam.  "We are not paying 36Q for this bus," William says.  "No we are not.  Watch the locals and see what they pay.  And spread your legs."  We assume the position, knees spread wide so as to leave no illusion of extra space in our mini-seat.  I quickly teach William the Spanish for "sorry, there is no room here."  Lo siento, no hay espacio aqui.  I realize this is evil and very American of us, but if we are going to be duped and pay extra, then we should at least have the tiny seat to ourselves.  This is Justice.  American or not.

When the conductor comes down the aisle collecting fares, we try to see how much the locals in front of us are paying.  It most certianly isn't 35Q, but you can never be sure.  It is entirely possible they are not riding to the final destination, in which case they would pay less than full fare.  The conductor approaches us.  William hands him a 20Q note.  The conductor looks at it like it were a dirty kleenex.  "How much?" I ask.  "76 for two," he says, bored.  We have been over this already.

"But we did not buy tickets from the agency.  And the other people..."
"76."  He cuts me off.
"But why?  The other people...
"Because 76 is the price."  And that is the end of that.  And honestly, how can you argue with that?  It is like having a discussion with a two year old:
"Where are you going?"
"To work."
"Why?"
"Because I have to make money."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat."
"Why?"
"Because we need to eat to stay alive."
"Why?"
"Because that is the way it is."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"Why?"

And the bus rolls on through the Guatemalan countryside, stopping every few feet to pile on more passengers.

"You can play the game, but you will never win," observes William.  It's like a carnival ring toss.  You know deep down that te damn rings are too small to fit over the bottles, but you keep playing anyway, throwing your dollars away with every flick of the wrist.

Congratulations, Chicken Bus.  You have won again.

You Betta BELIZE It!

The pushy Third World-ness of Guatemala follows us all the way to the border.  Just as we approach the Belizean officials, William is attacked by Guatemala's youngest hustler.  "Por favor meester!" he says in his saddest voice, gesturing with a basket of pumpkin seeds and nuts.  "You buy.  I hungry."

"No, gracias."  They are the two must spoken words in the Spanish language.

"Meester!  Meester!  You buy!"  He is mean.

"No, GRACIAS."  This means please go away now.  But he is relentless, nipping at William's heels like a scrappy puppy.

"Hongree!"

"Then eat some of your damn peanuts."  We have become hardened.

"Well, no one's gonna mistake us for Angelina Jolie," I say.

We cross the border into Belize and immediately the people are nicer, English is spoken, lights shine down from the heavens, moods lift.  Actually, it looks just like Guatemala.  Except people really are nicer.  I can't tell if it is the abolition of the language barrier but everyone, from the immigration officials to our cab driver greets us with smiles and "have a nice days."  The official cab fares are even posted on an official government sign right next to the taxi stand.  This is a very welcome sight indeed.  We splurge on a taxi - mostly because the guy is nice and honest - and also because we have no vague clue how to find a bus - and travel about fifteen minutes to the town of San Ignacio, the largest in Western Belize, something of a jungle outpost on the banks of the Macal River.  It is bustling, rough around the endges, ramshackle.  The word "ramshackle" was invented for Belize.  Every clapboard building and faded shack is its very definition.  The two main streets are packed with guest houses, bars, travel agents and a disproportionate number of Chinese restaurants.  It is a great amount of commerce for the middle of nowhere - and everything in English.  We trudge the dusty streets looking for an affordable place to stay.  Prices are significantly higher here.  We decide on the comically named "Hi-Et" Hotel for 50 Belize dollars a night.  Except this is not a multi-national hotel chain high-rise with turndown service.  This is a wooden Caribbean-looking two story home painted maroon and yellow.  To get to our room we must first enter the living area of the owner's house, pass through their kitchen and dining room and up a back staircase.  It is an odd arrangement and feels intrusive.  We are interrupting Grandpa's TV time.  But hey, its Belize, and I guess no one really seems to mind.

Much like Guatemala, everyone is trying to sell you something here - whether it be a caving expedition, a guided jungle tour, a bushel of bananas, or ganja (especially ganja.)  We are literally offered ganja from every single Bob Marley devotee standing on the street.  They appear from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  It is the unofficial cash crop of Belize.  I wonder if this whole tourist industry is a just a drug front.  Sure, we'll sell you a tour, mon, but what you're really buying is a big ol' bag of weed.  Possibly because of the prevelance of the ganja, the selling tactics aren't nearly as severe as in Guatemala and its all done with a very laid-back "ohwell maybeyawill, maybeyawon´t" attitude that is beyond refreshing.  And it is all wrapped up in that lilting, melodic Creole that instantly evokes reggae and white sand beaches and, well, weed.

"Hey mon, we got stew chicken and rice n beans for ya."

"No thanks.  Maybe later."

"Ok mon.  Ya have a nice day then."

What?!  Where is the used car salesman sleaze?  We love Belize.

After our arduous journey, we decide we deserve to splurge on a meal and a few beers which, truthfully, is what we always feel we deserve after a difficult day of travel, which is at least three or four times a week.  Which is why we cannot stay on budget.  Which is why I will never be a responsible adult.  Which is why I take insane trips like this in the first place.  We have discovered that we are not people who can restrict ourselves.  We cannot resist beer.  So we end up in a Chinese restaurant.  There are plenty to choose from.  This one looks like a vacant wooden barn that should have bloodstains on the wall.  There are a few plastic tables arranged around a bar that is being tended by a twelve year old boy.  We are promptly brought two Belikins - the national beer of Belize - delicious, cool, and refreshing.  William orders a fish burger and I go for broke on the shrimp curry, a massive pile of stir fried prawns and mixed veggies, some of them actually greenm all swimming in a rich, yellowy curry sauce.  It is divine.  A revelation.  I lick the plate. 

We are now over four weeks into our journey.  I wonder if William is getting tired of me.  Curry dripping from my bottom lip, I ask him. 

"Yes."

We decide to celabrate our new good moods.  We stumble upon happy hour at Mr. Greedy´s, a bar with a sand floor populated entirely by tourists - Australians, English, Canadians - and us.  All here for what is surely the country´s best drink special: local Belizean rum and Coke for 2 Belize Dollars ($1 USD).  We have six.  Each.

We love Belize.  We love everything and everybody.  We meet two vacationing Americans from California who gladly hop on our happy hour train and ride it into the wee hours of the morning.  We talk about what every backpacker talks about: Where are you from?  Where have you been?  Where are you going?  Rarely are you asked what you do.  Everyone assumes if you had something to do you would be back home doing it.  We are lost children, all of us.  Trying to find ourselves on the dusty roads of some crazy banana republic.

The night is a blur.  I vaguely remember being at a reggae bar with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and huge thumping speakers.  And at another Chinese restaurant sitting in front of mountains of conch and fried rice.  And at a glistening new casino, wildly out of place in the middle of Belize where we drunkenly played roulette and tried our luck at the slots.  We lose, horribly.  I try to get a cash advance on my credit card.  Which is hilarious for many reasons.  Thankfully neither I nor the casino banker can manage the transaction.  And by the way, what is a slick Vegas-y casino doing in the middle of the jungle?!

But the night is a success.  Our moods have elevated and we feel welcomed into a new country.  We go off to sleep, full, satisfied, and very happy to be here.

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.