March of the Chicken Busses ~ Day Two ~ San Pedro

I am sitting here at the dock, feet from Lake Atitlan. Finally.

I woke at about 5:30AM to catch a bus rumored to run at 5, 6, 7, and 9AM. Others suggested it didn't run at all. Most of the good, always-reliable people of the internet agreed that the one-way Chicken Bus ran from Antigua to Panajachel at 7AM.

Of course, it didn't.

Soon after waking, there came a knock at the door... I had been staying in a small complex of about 8 apartments, separated from a bar by a crumbling plaster wall... I ignored it as a I normally do, but the knock came again - louder and more insistent KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. It was far too early for visitors and too late for drunkards. I descended a steep stair-case to and through our interior courtyard's door. On the other side of the door was a professionally dressed local man with an idling van behind him. The man was there to pick up a guest at my hotel for transport to Panajachel.

The driver indicated he was willing to wait and I shouted up into the rooms that someone's transport had arrived. Hearing no answer, I returned to packing. Naturally, I realized I could just take the free private shuttle if this person was going to miss their shuttle.

If you've known me for a long time, you know I had an identity theft period on Facebook wherein I'd change my name and picture on FB to represent other people. Those days are long behind me -- but not so long lost that I couldn't be Alfredo from New York.

 

 

I finished packing and I hadn't seen the envelope containing all my money. A voice in me said to go on - if the money was gone, it was gone. I knew I shouldn't bother, but I gave in to the self-destructive human drive to re-pack. Of course it was in my hidden pocket. The delay ran too long and Alfredo and Alfredo (me) missed the shuttle.

A couple of pasta heads. In retrospect, I am glad I didn't respond to that early morning, knock knock knock at my door. You could even go so far as to call me ... lucky

 

I left the hotel on-foot at 615AM. I walked through the sleepy ancient town square, not yet buzzing with droves of tourists, past the local mercado, and onto unfinished dirt roads, lined with stacked cinderblock walls. Eventually, I arrived into an ad-hoc sort of bus depot.

This was the shipyard for Guatemala's legendary Chicken Busses. These busses are the Central American equivalent of a metro bus system; each bus is more of an indepentent craft, running it's line. It's less scheduled and more 'everybody knows Han Solo's Millenium Falcon departs Mos Espa at 11AM each Tuesday.' And they're just about as janky as the Millenium Falcon. These busses obviously hark from American operation 1985 - 2010. Some of the yellow busses still bear blacked out lettering on the side indicating which school district they once served. Now they served different masters; ones who've changed them. The busses are chromed TF out. Huge speakers are installed. Christmas lights run the inside and outside. Some sport hot paint jobs. It's all very Pimp My Ride and, across the lot, some busses lied in tatters, half-(re?)constructed. Others rumbled w Frankenstein-ien life.

The busses were picking up operation for the day.

I approached the nearest bus and I asked in my best, clearest spanish where I could find transport to the city of Panajachel. The man nodded to me and opened the emergency exit of the nearest Chicken Bus, motioning me inside. What luck! I didn't even have to look for the bus!

This was my first, and not last, experience with drivers who will just respond in the affirmative to anything you ask them.

Is this a bus?
Si

Is this a chicken bus?
Si

Is this a chicken?
Si  

 

 

**The Adelante Problem**

I don't know why these bus drivers are so keen to entrap tourists into the Chicken Bus spider's web.

I'm finna Karen: This whole situation transpired because a bus driver gave me bad information at Antigua. I once got off at a wrong stop in Japan. I consequently ran out of money, and almost had to sleep outside. That was my fault becuase I didn't speak Japanese. These Guatemalan Chicken Bus drivers dont give a shit. You could ask them how their mom grew herself a cow's ass and they would tell you "adelante" - keep moving. 

... Adeeeelannteeeeeeee?

 

 

 

And thus was set into motion my Chicken Bus Extravaganza...

 

My destiny was sealed upon alighting the resting, early morning Chicken Bus. I was the first rider (what luck - a private ride to Panajachel!). The driver cranked the Chicken Bus to life and red christmas lights popped on all around me as the speakers woke up, blaring Funky Town. 

 

 

  

We stopped off a few times and more people got on the bus. I asked a fellow passenger how long it would take to arrive into Panajachel. The passenger confusedly advised me that the bus did not go to Panajachel, it went to Los Cruces ("The Crossing")

 

  

It was that I had the That's So Raven vision back to when I'd researched the trip from Antigua to Lake Atitlan. You could take a $100 cab, a $30 private "alfredo" shuttle, the $10 direct bus or the not-recommended $2.00 'local bus' trip.
 

I laughed and mentally steeled myself for chaotic bullshit. 

The chicken busses are managed by a sort of Conductor, except he's a mangy 15 year old, hanging out of the bus door, talking shit, and stuffing his pockets with wads of cash. He's sometimes slightly more useful than the driver. 

It's been a long time since I've been on a school bus as full as that one. It filled all the way up, and I was certainly the only foreigner. I stuck out like a white thumb. A woman, mostly just happy to see such a fool as myself, introduced herself and pushed in to sit next to me. Evelia Lucinda was dressed in colorful Mayan garb and could, as I would soon find out, talk a house into falling over.

Evelia's vocal box must have run off solar energy or raw entropy, because she didn't as much as breathe for 45 minutes... I get it now... I'm Shrek and she's Donkey. Hahaha.

Evelia was telling me about everything, from the danger of being a gringo in Los Cruces to how proud she was of her grand-daughter, who works with two of her nieces at an Antigua restaurant... I needed to return to Antigua and find her grand-daughter, Sylvia, and ask about the Guatemalan cooking book grandma, Evelia, had contributed to 40 years ago. I got car sick and Evelia either did not understand me or did not care, as the stories continued to the rhytym of the Chicken Bus lurching.

Las Cruces felt like the wild west. It was a New York city block sold second-hand to Guatemala. There was a pervading sense of disarray as throngs pushed against eachother on narrow sidewalks.

 
Busses flew through a crossing with no traffic light. Vendors shook bells and hollered out about their tostadas and smoothies for sale. Evelia tided us through the madness to another block, where I boarded the first bus to pull up. I looked over my shoulder to see Evelia waving goodbye, yelling out "I am not going there! Have fun in Pana!"

I sat down and asked a slight, older Mayan woman if this bus was going to Panajachel. She said "sort of. It's going to El Encuentro (The Finding); Great. I recognized this name from my research. I had performed only enough research to know I was not doing this trip (lol), but I recognized that name.

I want to take a break to say that the only thing keeping these transit centers operating is oral legacy. By that, I refer to that issue antiquated, dying cultures from my college textbooks have: where they have nothing written down, and so their existence is carried forward in spoken stories, transferred from person to person. There are no printed schedules, transit information centers, or online apps. There isnt even a bus stop! People just know which busses do and dont go where - most of the time. It's amazing to an American who even uses an app to schedule his shits. I was in Los Cruces and El Encuentro for about 60 seconds - total. A sunned-drenched, dusty whirlwind.

The Bus to El Encuentro was a bat out of hell. It clearly had the most powerful motor. Speakers blaired Guatemala's traditional music as the Chicken Bus plummeted down winding mountain highways. The driver often took up both lanes and took turns like slalom skiiers. 

 The chicken busses are managed by a sort of Conductor, except he's a mangy 15 year old, hanging out of the bus door, talking shit, and stuffing his pockets with wads of cash. He's sometimes slightly more useful than the driver.

 
I saw roadkill that looked like an empty coat and pool of blood. That's not how roadkill appears in the USA. I later learned this is becuse there's not a practice of removing roadkill from roads. Drivers just keep pulverizing the carcas until it's nothing... Oooookay.

I enjoyed the ride on that chromed out, 8000 pound missle from Culpepper County Schools. It was actually quite exhilirating. The driver was extremely skilled and in control. 10/10. Probably would not do again.

We arrived into El Embarcadero. This place was very busy with road-side stores and little mini-marts called tiendas. It was lively. Whereas Las Cruces felt like an unsafe city block, El Embarcadero felt like a busy mountain outpost.

At this point in the trip, I'd adapted and started talking to literally everyone, trying to get my information. A mayan woman helped me find my way to the next bus. Again, I prayed it was for Panajachel, but it was not. It was for Soloa, which is very close to Panajachel.

**The Adelante Problem**

I don't know why these bus drivers are so keen to entrap tourists into the Chicken Bus spider's web.

I'm finna Karen: This whole situation transpired because a bus driver gave me bad information at Antigua. I once got off at a wrong stop in Japan. I consequently ran out of money, and almost had to sleep outside. That was my fault because I didn't speak Japanese. These Guatemalan Chicken Bus drivers dont give a chicken shit. You could ask them how their mom grew herself a cow's ass and they would tell you "adelante" - keep moving.

... Adeeeelannteeeeeeee?

 

 

The Arrival

I arrived into Panajachel quite exhausted. I walked 30 minutes down to the dock and needed to wait another 30 before a boat was leaving.  I sat down for a cheap breakfast and bought a water.

The small motor boat filled with about 12 passangers and set off onto placcid Lake Atitlan. The water taxis run the perimiter of the lake, picking up and dropping passengers off each of the local villages. You listen out for your stop and ask people if you're confused.

We arrived to my village, the "Party" village, San Pedro. stacked my backpacks, one to the front and one to the back, and hiked about 20 confused minutes to my hotel, Shanti Shanti, which is run by the lovely young, Angelica, who appears to be in her early 30's and runs the place with the occasional help of younger employees and her adorable 6-year old daughter.

PICTURE OF ME

The town of San Pedro strikes me as a bohemian slew of drinking and cultural establshments. There are people living here, relocated from Europe, Japan, and Middle East. It seems like, over the years, those who have fallen in love with San Pedro have set up establishments (mostly food) to share their cultural offerings.

The reputation I had heard regarding San Pedro was that it was the center for party-life. As of today, I haven't seen that. I havent gone out to the drinking center of town but I certianly dont see the unbalanced life I expected in the town. Its way more of a paradise than a party town. As in, there's no bunch slumped over, raving mad, half-naked people, stumbling around, looking for their lost bag of ketamine from last night. (update: I did go to a party where people were super fucked up and naked except for boxes over their P & V - so I was wrong) There are children playing in the streets and sunrise yoga sessions. The town starts to buzz around 7AM (update: people start shooting fireworks off at 5AM on an almost daily basis). I expected this place to be the University of Maryland with more access to drugs, but what I've found is far more mature and spiritual. I was worried I'd revert into a more base, lawless thing. Those concerns have been allayed, and I look forward to the next month that I have booked here.

My apartment is fantastic. I've been advised that I'm overpaying, but it's not a big deal. (update: I am definitely overpaying and Angelica pulled some shady shit, taking the reservation off booking.com, upgrading me, offering a 'discount' on the secretly-elevated rate.)