A Dispatch from the Land of Natural Blondes

For my family, who all, god bless them, want to know some of the details of my adventures.

It has been a whirlwind so far and here's the quick and dirty. Landed in London and was by all measures jet lagged out of my mind. Slept little on the plane even with a sleeping pill...what with my large self in one of those Smurf-sized seats they put in airplanes for the non-richies....next to a Nigerian woman with a very different sense of personal space. Thirteen hours in coach is a unique kind of torture for those of us lucky enough to fly about the world yet silly enough to complain about it.

My sweet and generous friend Maria took the hour long train ride from London and met me at Heathrow and guided me back to London, to her apartment in fact where she put me up for two days. Maria is a gorgeous woman whose father is Guatemalan and whose mother is British. She grew up mostly in France but has a British accent which shocked me when I first heard it come out of her mouth in Guatemala. We chatted a bit and then I crashed and wrestled jeglag in the wee hours. Dear Maria took the next day off from work and we walked and walked all around central London. I was struck by how neat and orderly and huge the place is. The underground is immaculate, the streets are clean, the infrastructure is healthy, and the architecture gorgeous.

We spent some time in The National Gallery looking at some of my favorite paintings that I have only ever seen in books and art classes, including Van Gogh's Sunflowers and Chair. We sipped lemonade on the south bank of the Thames before heading to Camden Town to meet our favorite booze peddler (Ilegal Mezcal, of course) and Cafe No Se friend, Steve. Also met another member (Jen) of the Pamplona Pussy Posse (PPP), a self-named group of women who have been going to San Fermin for the running of the bulls for the last 20-30 years. We all met in a pub and drank. It's what you do on a Friday night in London. So I learned. And so we got pissed.

The next day I flew via Copenhagen to Aarhus, a City in northern Denmark where Astrid met me at the gate waving a small Danish flag. We drove to her father's house in the small town by the sea where she grew up, and behind her fathers's sweet little house we sat on the deck drinking Danish beer and talking till 3:30am. Back to Aarhus the next day for a fabulous time in Aros, the art museum, and some ambling through the narrow cobblestone streets. Then a dinner to rival any fancy SF restaurant. Creamed spinach with smoked salmon, beef so tender it melted in my mouth, all served in a quint old house that had been made into a restaurant.

Today we visited an 1864 Danish frigate preserved in Astrid's town. Of course a tour of a ship makes me happy. A stop at the glass museum and then we were off to the train station. I am headed to Copenhagen to catch a plane to Amsterdam where I will stay for a few days with my friend Annemiek before heading to Paris. It is Ana's birthday the 29th so I have lucked into helping her celebrate.

Now for the really down and dirty. I have been sick since I landed, nausea and severe diarrhea. Maria and Astrid say it could be jetlag but it has gone on for days now. I am just bucking up, enjoying myself despite the infirmity...and it is a relief to be staying with dear friends that I know from Guatemala, a place where everyone talks about poop as everyone gets the shits! I think it's the law.

More soon.

Quick Update from the Land of Tortillas and Quetzales - Guatemala

The Little Picture - My Accommodations
I am staying with my friends John and Christel. John is an expat from NYC, a brilliant quirky guy who landed in Antigua, Guatemala years ago with $50 in his pocket. Since then he has opened the best dive bar in the world, Cafe No Se, as well as a cafe, Pina, and a book store, Dyslexia. He has also moved from smuggling mezcal down from Oaxaca, Mexico in jerry cans in pick-up trucks dressed as a priest to being the proprietor of the ever expanding legitimate booze label, Ilegal Mezcal. And he, with my good friend Mike, edits and publishes La Cuadra, an irreverent local magazine with an international readership online. John is a kind and smart guy. Christel is also a smarty-pants, an anthropologist from Holland who came to Guatemala and in partnership with Ana built a school, in Ciudad Vieja, which serves the slum children in that modest town outside Antigua. These are kids who would have had no options if it weren't for Ninos de Guatemala and the school the organization built. Christel is a kind and smart woman.

John and Christel recently moved into what Mike called "the nicest house in Antigua." I dare say he just might be right and when Christel insisted I stay with her this year I didn't realize how lucky I was. This place is gorgeous and roomy with a rooftop terrace and a stunning view of the volcanoes Agua and Fuego. Our neighbors include a convent and a man with 17-40 (reports vary) poodles whose chorus is more amusing than annoying. It is here that we will have the big Christmas eve party (my fourth in Antigua) with all the oddball expats and Guatemalans that make up my strange little family away from home.

My time here so far has been made up of the usual and unusual shenanigans....I will share some of the sharable. Of course, the first night I stayed up too late and drank too much, amped on adrenaline from being back among my friends. I am not usually prone to being sick but I got a sore throat and the usual diarrhea that comes whenever I land in this town. I have laughed more than is probably physically advised and have had a smattering of dramas and escapades that I dare not share here...just know my life continues to be odd and filled with love and friendship.

The Bigger Picture - Guatemala
The situation in Guatemala continues to be challenging for those who call it home. Guatemala was recently ranked the most dangerous country not at war and it has the highest per capita concentration of guns outside the middle east. Guatemalan men I know carry guns even in Antigua and I understand and am sympathetic...and frankly, it is these men that I often ask to walk me home at night. One new friend, A-, is a manager at a factory near Guatemala City where they make clothes for Gap and Banana Republic. A- invited me to visit the factory with him but warned that we have to go through "the red zone," the few dangerous blocks where he lays his gun in his lap ready to respond if attacked. He assured me that once inside the factory I would be safe as it is heavily guarded. I have not decided whether or not to visit the factory. A- and I also have a date to go to the shooting range but are waiting for his practice rounds to be delivered.

Overall the violence in Guatemala continues to increase as the drug cartel turf wars spill into the country from Columbia and Mexico. It is reported that these cartels now dominate in Guatemala, even over the Guatemalan gangs. Because Guatemala has an extremely high impunity rate and has been called "a murderer's paradise" this violence has gone unchecked. The "justice" and "security" institutions are corrupt, dysfunctional, and often complicit in the crimes they are supposed to be mitigating. These conditions make Guatemala a principle place for trafficking and warehousing drugs headed north and money headed south. When Guatemalan police have made seizures (they are rare and only a pittance of the overall trafficking) the drugs and money are often not accounted for and politicians and officials have been accused of but rarely indicted for corruption. These conditions and the shitty economy world wide has resulted in a quieter Antigua this year. There are less tourists about town with fewer folks in restaurants and walking through the park.

All this also means that the poorest of the poor and the racial majority, the indigenous Maya, continue to live in poverty and in an environment of racism and terror. Approximately 60% of Guatemalans live in poverty, most of them indigenous. The tenants of the 1996 Peace Accords continue to be ignored and not implemented and the oligarchy of Guatemalans who maintain control of most of the country's resources appear to respond to the situation only by hiring private security forces and putting up more barbed wire. One of the fastest growing industries is private security businesses with a growing number of personnel that already out rank the police force more than four to one. Gangs in Guatemala City continue to recruit the young and desperate who often do the bidding of the drug cartels. The estimates of Guatemalan gangs vary from 14,000 to 165,000, so basically, no one knows. The situation is expected to continue to deteriorate as long as corruption and the resulting impunity rates (97-99%) and poverty continue to go unaddressed.

Sorry for the bummer report but Guatemala is a tough country with intractable problems. Still, life goes on and fresh tortillas are made and children smile and Antigua continues to be a bubble of relative peace and prosperity with it's nice restaurants and colonial charm. My friends continue to do the good they can and laugh and celebrate life. Meanwhile back in the states my own fellow US Americans continue to elect selfish idiots and foment racism and homophobia. So I reckon I will continue to count my blessings, eat some tacos at No Se, enjoy the incessant laughter that marks my days here, and hold a little hope for both Guatemala and my own country.

Miss my friends and family and my sweet old dog and am also glad to have a loving crew of smart funny folks down here with whom to celebrate life and get perspective.

Merskiana Jones and the Temple de la Jungla - Another Quick Blast from Costa Rica

Tortuguero, the Northern Caribbean Coast

I won't bore you with the details of the getting there, the grumpy French people on the bus who ignored me when I said "hola" or the tour guides babbling for much of the drive, speaking first in Spanish and then translating everything into French and English. There were some highlights during the getting there, driving into a tunnel bored through a volcano and the beautiful cloud forest with it's mist and huge-leafed plants, one with the common name "the poor man's umbrella." Or the long boat ride in the rain...off the bus and on a boat I was happy, even with the cranky French tourists. After we arrived at the lodge and settled into our rooms, we went to the village of Tortuguero and putzed about. There I found more aloof Europeans, lips pursed, ambling among the ever friendly Costa Ricans.

I did make some friends, a young German couple, Mattius and Claudia, a psychiatrist and internist, respectively. They were unassuming and very friendly and we immediately hit it off. I was amazed at my own ability to be an utter smartass with limited shared language....we laughed a lot. At one point when the grounds were completely flooded and we knew not when we would leave, I made some reference to Lord of the Flies and then asserting that I would be fine because I had an Epi-Pen, a headlamp and a liter of rum. They looked at me like I was insane and then cracked up.

There was also a Dutch couple, a little older, and they warmed up after a bit. In Tortuguero the Dutchies and I sat on a porch watching the rain, waiting for the boat to arrive to taxi us back to the lodge. There was a group of Americans talking loudly complaining about TSA agents at the airport on their way out of the US. I leaned into the Dutch woman, rolling my eyes and said, "Americans." She laughed and sarcastically offered, "but her story is so fascinating." She asked where they were from and with their accents I guessed Texas, George Bush country I explained, the president for which I have spent much energy apologizing for when I have traveled out of the USA. I told her San Francisco was like a different country than Texas.

From the moment we arrived it rained...I would guess 95% of the time, much of it big-dropped tropical down pours. The humidity was intense and everything was always a little damp, if not soaked from walking through the flooded grounds. I was feeling a little claustrophobic being in a group so I arranged for a fishing guide the second day.


Cirilo with a big fat snook. 

 Cirilo picked me up the lodge and we headed into the narrow canals where the water was less turbid and the snook were running. It was pouring as Cirilo sped to our fishing spot and I was hunkered down under a giant green poncho from the lodge, getting pelted by the rain. It was awesome. As the canal narrowed Cirilo backed off the throttle and we tossed our lines and trolled large rapellas near the shore...or I should say the foliage where the shore used to be before the canals swelled and crested so that I could not find a shoreline which was surely way back in the jungle.

Cirilo was quiet, reticent even but I asked him questions and he soon relaxed a bit, answering me slowly and thoughtfully in a thick Caribbean accent. He asked me questions too and was particularly curious why I never married or had children. The history of my romantic life is a bit complicated to explain in Spanglish cross-culturally so I simply offered, "es mejor, I can fish and drink beer whenever I want...y yo sobrinas es suficiente." He agreed with a big smile and a nod and then we talked about our sobrinas with loving pride. 

Cirilo is 47, single and has always lived in the local village, Tortuguero, and has fished the canals and Caribbean since he was a boy. I asked him who is generally friendlier, the Europeans or the Americans. He quickly answered the Americans and I believe him (I think we are the most obnoxious and the most friendly). I asked if the French were the worst and he immediately said yes with an expression of disgust and then we laughed. We trolled through the canal minding our rods, enjoying the long beautiful perfectly cadenced silences that happen while fishing with men on boats. After a couple of hours Cirilo quietly said, "you are a very nice person." I half bowed towards him and said, "so are you." We grinned big at each other and then easily returned our attention to our lines and the water. His acknowledgment was worth more than a hundred fattened snook.

We caught six snook, gave one to a family who runs a modest bare-bones bar/hotel on the canal deeper inside the jungle. We had a beer with them and laughed a bit and the man complimented Cirilo's fishing skills and with a bucket full of fish I nodded enthusiastically. We continued to fish and saw butterflies and howler monkeys and a variety of beautiful birds when the rain would ease for a few moments.

When we returned with our catch I asked the Lodge manager if Cirilo could join me for dinner. She said yes but when I got to the restaurant that evening (everyone eats buffet) the lead tour guide asked me if I wanted to sit with the English speaking tourists or the tour guides and Cirilo (apparently Cirilo was not allowed to sit with the tourists). It was an easy decision and I immediately said the guides, happy to be away from the Europeans (except the sweet German couple). The restaurant fried up the snook and made a special batch of ceviche for Cirilo and I...it was some of the best I have ever had. We all ate the fish and then I took the rest to the Europeans who seemed appreciative.

I bought the guides beers and we shared stories in Spanglish. The guys shared their nicknames which included Cirilo: Caballo; Alex: Tucan; and then Monkey Belly. Of course when Monkey Belly shared his nickname I immediately forgot his real name because Monkey Belly is just too precious. Monkey Belly explained that he was a skinny little kid with a big round belly which folks said made him look like a pregnant spider monkey. "Mer" is too weird for many Spanish speakers so I added "Captain" a little something to hold onto on the way to "Mer" (they knew me as Marie because it was the name on the reservation).

 

Mer with a big fat snook.

The rain kept coming big and hard and while I was fishing the others did very little as the guides didn't want to take the boats into the jungle in the pouring rain and rising canals. I was so glad to have spent the day with Cirilo in those very canals, trolling , drenched and smiling. The rain was relentless and the canals continued to rise and sheets of water rushed off the jungle inundating most of the lodge grounds. All the structures are built on stilts but many of the cement walk ways are only a couple inches off the dirt so to get anywhere one slogged through water, sometimes knee deep.

There were two reports of poisonous snakes falling from trees onto the walkway near the pool. I asked Monkey Belly if this is common and he said, "oh not just snakes, poisonous insects and scorpions also fall, but don't worry, lodge guests have natural immunity." Monkey Belly is quite the animated character and we had a great time BS-ing. He explained that when the grounds are inundated the creatures seek refuge in the trees and as it continues to rain hard and the winds blow the creatures sometimes fall out of the trees.

The morning we were set to leave the grounds were a mess, the canals had completely crested and were raging a swift current and the rain was still coming big and hard. Alex informed us we would be staying at least another night as bridges on the canals had been washed out or collapsed, roads were flooded, and there was a landslide near the volcano tunnel. We weren't going anywhere. He said we would possibly leave the next day by a charter plane or boat. I pulled aside Gabriel, a sweet 23 year old man who worked at the lodge and was very friendly with me, and I asked him to give me the real 411 on when we would get out. He explained that we had to wait for the rain to stop for the canals to be safe and the roads to be cleared and the forecast said it would stop raining the next day. Then he added that for much of the country the forecasts mean something, but in the Caribbean jungle they are usually worthless as the weather is almost totally unpredictable. He said it could be tomorrow or it could be days. Apparently this kind of flooding happens about once a year....this was the second time in 2010. I felt so very special.

We spent the extra night and did end up leaving the next day, slogging through the water to get to the boat, taking an alternate route through the canals and lowlands and banana farms. We hit horrendous traffic in the mountains where the landslide had narrowed the road. But I gotta say, it was all worth it to fish those canals with Cirilo, bullshit with Monkey Belly and the gang, and laugh with the German doctors in la jungla. And I did not listen to my iPod once as the jungle sounds and pouring rain were so beautiful that to ignore them seemed criminal.

More soon. Gonna try to get to the Pacific Coast before heading back up to Guate.

Quick Update from Costa Rica

Somehow my original seat assignment was changed to a middle seat which I did not discover until boarding my red-eye flight from LAX to Guate. I was seated next to a morbidly obese Guatemalan woman who did NOT share my own sense of personal space. On the other side of me sat a thin Guatemalan woman who slept spralled. The huge woman actually had her foot in front of my seat until I looked at it and her in disbelief....she moved. Three times, in bad Spanish, I explained that it's no bueno for her to have her elbow in my ribs. Suffice it to say for this not small cloustrophobic gringa, the flight was hellacious and I slept not one wink. Once in Guate I had to go through customs and then right back into the airport and wait for my flight to Costa Rica (one does not casually amble through Guatemala City unless one is craving crime victomhood). I slept on the floor of the airport in some corner, head on my backpack, and I probably got a total of two hours of real sleep. The flight to San Jose was quick, easy, and very comfortable sitting next to a normal sized man who occupied none of my seat. Mary picked me up and we ran a few errands before heading home where I met her two sweet sons and Mario her husband. Mary cooked dinner and then she and I stayed up late talking. I finally crashed and slept over 12 hours and just hung around the house with Mary today, talking and talking. I head to Tortuguero tomorrow and the trip there includes a long boat ride on a canal into the jungle. I will be there 3 days and 2 nights....jungle and canal tours and I also hope to do some fishing. Booked in a cute little lodge. Mary helped me figure it all out and I am still startled by her brilliant Spanish spoken with a seemingly perfect accent. Guess that will happen when you live in Costa Rica for 15 years. More soon. Note: spell check not working so please forgive me for my spelling disorder.

A Cautionary Tale for Jumping Vaginas

I had a few hours to kill before heading back to my jungle lodge for a night of ceviche and reading. Two years ago when I was first in Fronteras, Guatemala, I stumbled into Bruno's, the place where Rio Dulce yachties from the west eat and drink to excess. I drank screwdrivers with a gang of drunken sailors and listened to their stories and watched them get stupid. So I figured, even though it was three in the afternoon, I'd stroll over and see who was kickin' at Brunos. I walked to the bar and ordered a mineral water with lime and turned to look for a place to sit. No sailors yet. A young couple, backpackers from the US, were quietly reading at a table. As I walked by the man said to me, "Utila? Honduras?" pointing at the Captain Morgan Dive Shop t-shirt I was wearing. "Yes" I said with a smile. We started chatting and they, Chris and Beth, asked me to join them. We talked about the islands and diving the reef, Guatemala, the jungles, their plans for trying to hitch a ride on a sailboat somewhere. They were traveling for a year and were three months in and had spent most of their time in Guate. I liked them. They were open and super friendly, asked me questions, spoke of their families and what they left behind for the year. Somehow the conversation turned to, and I am not sure how, the topic of jumping off high places into bodies of water. I think they were considering heading to some falls and Beth mentioned she was ready to make the jump. Chris looked at her and mumbled something about it not being safe. Beth balked and said with a smile, "you don't make my decisions for me." Chris cocked his head, a look of deep concern on his face...almost pleading. She grinned and said to me, "I had an accident, back in Colorado, jumping off a 30 foot high ledge into a swimming hole." I nodded, not thinking too much of the disclosure. Then Chris said,"why don't you tell her the whole story." Beth looked at me smiling and said, "I jumped off the ledge and when I hit the water it tore a three inch gash in my vaginal wall." I grunted and grabbed myself, crossed my legs and blurted out, "Oh my god!" Beth was grinning, she was enjoying the telling of the shocking tale. She said the pain was excruciating and she was gushing blood out of her vagina. She stripped her bikini bottoms off and someone put a towel between her legs and it was quickly saturated with her bright red vaginal blood. People, whom she did not know, grabbed her and put her in the back of their truck with a clean towel between her legs....Beth matter-of-factly explained that she was too bloody to be in the cab of the truck. The hospital was a two hour drive and she had soaked three thick beach towels before getting to the ER. She was quickly rushed into surgery, and I am happy to report, the surgery was a success. Beth's vagina is doing just fine...she enjoyed a full recovery. Beth explaned that when she jumped off the ledge she held her legs close together with an inch or two gap. When she hit the surface, this positioning streamlined the water and rocketed it into her vagina causing the damage. The doctors said it was a freak thing, and had her legs been slightly farther apart or crossed, the injury would not have occurred. Beth cautioned that women should always tightly cross their legs when jumping off ledges into bodies of water. Noted. Firmly noted. This is advice, I will never forget. After hours of chatting we parted ways, sharing emails and facebook info. I asked Beth if I could write her story, promising to change her name in the narrative. Beth grinned generously and said, "of course." I offered that I see it as a cautionary tale, one that women need to hear, for the protection of jumping vaginas everywhere. We laughed. One of the reasons I love traveling alone is this kind of shit happens (truth be told, even in the states strangers often tell me things, tell me their secrets). People get real and engaged quickly. It's not "let's do lunch sometime" and then three months pass before you're sharing a table. On the road, there is the here and the now. You're away from the familiar, open, receptive, and it gets more real more quickly. Just the way I like it. Thanks Chris and Beth, for sharing an afternoon with me. Thank you Beth for sharing your horrific and amazing vagina story. Chris, thanks for being so concerned about the safety of Beth's vagina. Who knows how many women may be helped by your cautionary tale. Fair winds to you both! Sisters, cross your legs!

The Coffin

I am not dead. I am not a vampire nor do I have some goth or twisted fascination with death. That said, I just spent a week sleeping in a coffin. A coffin for the living, the sailing....a coffin in the belly of a 43 foot Polynesian catamaran named Las Sirenas (LS). I slept in a coffin despite the fact that I have claustrophobic tendencies and a profound affinity for fresh air. I sleep with my window open, at least cracked, 365 days a year. With past lovers and sleep-mates I have forcefully explained that this is nonnegotiable. I don't like to be locked in stuffy small places. We boarded the LS a couple hundred yards off the deck of the Rio Bravo, a cafe on the Rio Dulce in the jungle of eastern Guatemala. Our bags were dropped on deck and we puttered around looking at our new home. I finally turned to one of the crew and asked where my berth was. He pointed to a hatch on the stern and I nodded and started to hoist my red backpack. He stopped me and said, "there is no room for that" and directed me to put my pack in the salon, which I did. "No room for my medium sized backpack?" I thought as I walked to the hatch he pointed to and pulled it open. Oh, now I understand. I looked in and couldn't believe this was where I would be sleeping for a week. I lowered myself down through the hatch, which left me standing where my head would be when I got supine. I crouched and worked myself into the space. The berth was tapered in the shape of a coffin. I looked up at the open hatch and imagined it closed and a mild panic started in my chest. I sat up, breathed deeply, and thought, "Mer, you can do this, just keep the hatch open....you love sleeping on your boat under an open hatch." The hatch was the only entrance/egress, and when shut, one is literally entombed, with not enough room to sit up straight. Inside the coffin there was a four inch West Marine fan and a small light. On the opposite side a small gear hammock hung for tucking away a few personal items. I got in and out of the coffin several times before night fell, acclimating, self-soothing, telling myself I would be fine. Alas, the night came and so did a mild tropical shower. Shit, it's gonna be raining on me! But the crew put up a rain Bimini and I noted that it covered my hatch...phew. I exhaled. That night, after an excellent meal and a couple glasses of red wine, I retired to my tomb. We were anchored in the jungle and the air was hot and heavy with moisture...it felt like more rain would come before dawn. In my tomb I turned on the fan and light and stripped to my underwear and t-shirt, draped the sheet over the top of my legs, and grabbed my book. Sweating, I read for a couple of hours and finally fell asleep. In the middle of the night I was awakened by the sound of a sudden heavy shower. Just as I become slightly conscious a big splash of rainwater hit me in the face. I quickly realized the wind was whipping the Bimini and chucking water at me. In the next moment one of the crew was standing over the hatch in the dark working to release the catch and close it to protect me from the rain. Just as it came down I instinctively held my arm straight up under the hatch and said "no!" The man understood, and without saying a word, he grabbed a plastic bottle to keep the hatch wedged open a few inches. The rain still whipped in a bit, hitting me in the face, but it was very tolerable, much more so than being sealed in the coffin. This situation repeated itself many times throughout the week...the rain would come and wake me through the open hatch, I would grab a stiff plastic cup, which I kept handily in the little hammock, and wedge it under the partially closed hatched. I would open and close the hatch many times during the nights, but it worked. The fresh water splashes were a bit of a relief from the intense tropical heat, and I got used to, and even a little comfortable with, sleeping in my coffin.

The Pullman Bus and the Gun

When you board a Pullman bus at a Litegua bus station in Guatemala, a man in a kacky uniform, with a .38 holstered on his hip, pats down each male passenger and checks every bag and purse, looking and feeling for weapons. Although there is the security check at the Litegua stations, the bus makes many stops along the highway during the six hour drive from the coast to Guatemala City. When people board at these interim stops, there is no armed guard frisking the men and checking bags. On my return trip from Fronteras on the Rio Dulce, I sat in the second row next to the window opposite a young Guatemalan man who also sat alone across the isle. At one stop about midway back to the City, in what seemed to me like the middle of nowhere, a stocky middle aged man wearing wrangler jeans, a yellow plaid shirt and a thick belt boarded the bus. He sat in the front row and as he turned to sit down I saw the shiny butt of a .45 caliber semiautomatic handgun which the man had shoved under his belt above his right ass cheek. It had a chrome finish with a black grip. It was big and looked new. The young man sitting across the isle from me saw the gun too and we looked at each other, eyebrows raised in a non-verbal and comical "what the fuck?" We shrugged at the same time and smiled. The man made no attempt to conceal the weapon and the driver's assistant, who checks the baggage and collects tickets, surely saw the weapon as the man boarded. The man was on the bus for about 45 minutes and spent most of the time talking loudly on a fancy cell phone. And then he got off the bus in another nondescript scrappy little town somewhere between here and there. I pondered this situation, quietly contemplated what might have been going on. He did not look like a cop, had no badge (the police here are nothing if not neatly uniformed and well groomed). He moved with total confidence and seemed completely unconcerned about anyone seeing his big shiny gun. Drug trafficker? Narco boss or henchman? We were far from Guate City and he did not look like the typical gang member, no tattoos, his dress was banal. But his confidence was unmistakable. He gruffly and distractedly said thank you to the driver as he exited and the driver casually acknowledged him. This guy, whomever he is, was allowed on the bus with a gun sticking out of his pants, apparently, without causing the driver and assistant any concern. Life in Guatemala.