Sender, the Man from Monterrico

We met through the window of the tinny tourismo van as the driver skidded to a stop on the bumpy dirt road in front of the modest pink stucco hotel in Montericco. Sender is a slight man, maybe 140lbs, short, 31 years old, Guatemalan born on the Pacific coast in Monterrico (see picture). He wore loose tan pants with a tie at the waist, a white tank t-shirt, thin black flip-flops, and a small Tigo backpack (Tigo is a local cellphone company). In english he eagerly petitions me with an offer for a sunrise boat tour of the mangrove canal that runs parallel to the Pacific about a kilometer inland. His english is good and in the hotel courtyard we sit sweating in the tropical heat and talk. I agree to the tour and give him a Q10 deposit on the Q60 fee (a little over 8 dollars total). He appears particularly, in a humble-shy kind of way, appreciative of my business, thanking me again and again as though having a patron was an unusual thing. I ask him where he learned his english and he mumbles "fucking LA." Although I think he meant for me not to, I hear him. However, not trusting I hear him correctly I repeat what I thought I heard with a smile to let him know I am not offended by the cursing. He responds with, "bad things happened in LA...very bad things." I share that I grew up 20 minutes from downtown LA and ask where he lived. He references a of couple streets and I respond with a knowing, "East LA." He nods. He changes the subject and we agree on the specifics for our 5am meeting...he will knock on my door to wake me as my shitty travel alarm clock doesn´t ring loud enough. I promise him I only need 5mins to get up and ready. With the details agreed to, he lingers seemingly eager to talk more. I am receptive and so he continues again alluding to the "bad things" in LA. Knowing a bit about East LA I ask if he had been involved with gangs. He says "no" then abruptly leans back in his chair and blurts out, "they killed my mother...gangs killed my mother." He seems a bit relieved and continues on with more details explaining that he wanted to join the gangs for revenge but returned to Guatemala instead. I ask few questions and he continues with his story. Back in Monterrico he descended into severe alcoholism and drug addiction living like a bum and wasting away to an unbelievable 82 pounds (something hard to envision looking at the healthy young man sitting before me). "I had so much rage and hate inside me...I could not handle it." Then months ago he looked into the mirror and saw his wasting body and did not recognize himself. He looked into the eyes of his two young sons and realized he wanted to change for them. He wanted to be a father to them and not let them remember this pathetic man he had become. Seven months he has been sober. His eyes are bloodshot, but he is healthy and eager and seems appreciative for the audience. The reason for the latter, I suspect, is a very complex thing having to do with the broader cultural context we find ourselves in, our relative social positions, more than anything particularly special about me. But I will acknowledge than I do make good eye contact and can be an engaged and excellent listener. After about a half hour in the courtyard talking, we shake hands and part. It is late morning and I go to the rustic hotel restaurant and sit in a plastic chair and eat rice and work on my unpeeled shrimps with the heads still on them. I ask the Peruvian hotel manager/waiter if Sender is a reliable guide. He cocks his head, frowns and offers, "I don´t like to talk bad about people but he sometimes shows and sometimes doesn´t." He adds a bit about him being a drunk and a trouble-maker. He offers to give me a reference for a reliable guide. I suspect all of this is not as innocent as it sounds as there is always a network of allegences in such situations and references and favors are surely rewarded. But I take him seriously, nodding and thanking him for his candor. I reflect on this new information. This is Guatemala. It is an extremely poor country. Monterrico is a very poor place and the small towns adjacent are even poorer. People have to scrape to live. There is no excess for the locals...every quetzalas counts. I know crime is rampant and the stories I have heard through the travelers grapevine are enough to intimidate even a tough broad like me (not that tough but I try to imagine myself so). Sender and I see each other later on the beach and chat more. Then later that night as I sit in Johny´s Place, a polapa restaurant on the beach, eating my bland dorado and steamed frozen cut green beans and carrots, Sender is suddenly standing next to me and once again confirms our date. He mentions that the manager at my hotel had spoken badly about him and a couple of young women had cancelled their reservation. He offers that another German couple will be joining us in the morning. I feign ignorance and offer a little sympathy. I am cool but something tells me to trust this young man...even though I feel some reservation. He seems eager and I struggle to discern whether it is because I am a sucker or he is just appreciative for the good faith. I spend my evening in an Adirondack chair at Johny´s reading and writing, listening to the Pacific waves violently crashing in the dark yards away. I walk along the beach in the dark back to my hotel and retire to my room. I take my first malaria pill in preparation for my trip to Utila in a week but I can´t sleep. Huddled under my mosquito net I read and write and play countless games of solitaire before finally passing out after 2am (I suspect the cause of the insomnia is the malaria pill). The knock comes at 5am. "Gracias. Un momento" I say instinctively. I stumble into my clothes, brush my teeth, grab my pocket flashlight and meet sender in the dark courtyard. He is alone. "We have to go pickup the other women who are coming at the other hotel" he says. "I thought you said a German couple was coming?" I say with some suspicion. He stumbles through an explanation that things have changed and now it is a group of women that is joining us. I don´t like the changing story given that we last spoke in the evening the night before. This coupled with the hotel managers warnings leaves me a little uneasy. I am nervous as we walk along the dark road through Montericco. I am alone with this guy walking down a dirt road through in a dangerous Guatemalan town. I recall seeing men the night before riding ATVs past Johny´s Place drunk with guns blatantly strapped to their sides. I think of all the stories I have heard of rapes and robberies throughout Guatemala....old and new stories as the stories are unending. As we walk Sender suddenly says, "thanks again for agreeing to come with me." I am cool but polite wondering if he senses my discomfort and is assuaging me into a situation I will regret. But something in me says despite my nervousness I should keep walking into the night with this man named Sender. Ten minutes later we reach another hotel and several young Europeans join us. I am relieved and walk ahead with Sender and we talk with ease now. We arrive at the dock and he situates us in the long wooden boat which, like an Italian gondola, he poles along the tranquil mangrove canal (see picture). It is still dark but there is now the sense of impending dawn. Sender is an excellent and knowledgeable guide offering information on the birds, plants and animals of the canal. We see the fisherman and wave and then stall in an open area and wait for the sun. In the shadows of predawn he points to the volcano's of Antigua: Agua, Fuego, Pacaya...and to the north XX which stands at the coast of Lake Alitlan. They are more than a hundred miles away and Atilan even farther. The perspective is stunning. Moments later the sun rises up over the mangrove and begins to illuminate the volcanos to the north. It is not something I can sufficiently describe and we sit in relative silence...stunned at the beauty. A couple of hours later we are back at the dock. Sender wishes the others a good day indicating they had already paid in full. He turns to me and I discretely hand him Q100 before he asks (which he showed no signs of doing). He frowns and starts explaining a bit frantically that he has no change. I interrupt him, "no my friend, it is all for you, I need no change." He stalls then says with utter sincerity, "no, are you sure?" There are people all around at the dock and I quietly say, "I am very sure. You were an excellent guide and you know so much." A hundered quetzalez is about $13.50 US. I hug him and say something sincere and encouraging about staying on the path he is on, staying sober and doing it for himself. His eyes well up (as do mine) and he thanks me again for trusting him and says that maybe he will see me again before I leave. I go back to the hotel sweaty and dirty and covered in deet. I eat a thin omelet with ham and American cheese and drink orange juice. I sleep under the mosquito net and ceiling fan for a couple of hours before showering, packing, and waiting for the sweaty van ride back to Antigua. I do not see Sender again. My hotel in Motericco on the black sand beach. Sunrise in the mangrove canal. Sender poling us along the canal. The dock in Montericco. Young girl poling through the mangrove cananl.