The Bus Ride From Hell

Plans to travel to Caribbean coast of Guatemala and Belize were late in forming. I waited until the Monday before I wanted to go to talk to Patrick, the travel agent who had succesfully arranged my travel in January. He was really busy and didn´t get an agenda to me until Friday morning, for travel beginning the next day. The first stop was Rio Dulce, at the eastern end of Lake Izbal, a haven for tourists and yachties from all over the world. It is reputed to be one of the most beautiful places in Guatemala, and the trip down the river to the coast is famous, passing through an ecological preserve, manatee territory and some gorgeous tropical scenery. The plan was that I would take the agency´s own bus 3/4 of the way,and then pick up a luxury tour bus at the El Rancho junction. Patrick´s bus would turn north to Coban, and I would wait to pick up an east-bound bus to Rio Dulce. Patrick assured me that there would be ¨no problem¨ flagging a tour bus, as they go through there more than hourly. He assured me that Lucas, his driver would wait with me and see to it that I made a secure connection from El Rancho to Rio Dulce. I was skeptical because I have learned that buses run often early in the day, but are ususally not available after 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon. My nightmare was that I would end up on some local bus, unable to understand the driver or where we were going and facing all those stony Guatemalan faces that seemed to resent my presence as much as I hated being there. I knew Lucas to be conciencious and careful, and so with serious reservations I agreed to making the trip in one day instead of waiting in Guatemala City overnight and catching a first-class tour bus the following morning.

We set out at 8:00 am, twenty of us headed for Antigua, Guatemala City, Coban, and me, leaving at El Rancho for a Rio Dulce connection. Half of the passengers were French Canadians headed for Coban. They never shut up, telling stories and even singing songs from what turned out to be the children´s TV they watched. I think it would have been annoying in English, but it was really annoying in Canadian French. I realized that I was not feeling well, and that the intestinal distress that had been bothering me for the last few days was not going to just clear up, but might actually become a real problem on this extended day of bus travel. Of course. We were two hours outside of Xela, less than 1/4 of the way when Lucas pulled into a restaurant and announced that there was a demonstration up the road that had blocked the highway, and we were going to have breakfast and wait for half and hour for the road to clear. It started to rain.

After a breakfast of pancakes that helped to settle my stomach and an hour wait, we were off again, but the rain began to be a serious downpour. Traffic was already backed up because of the demonstration, the rain made it worst. We did not arrive in Antigua to drop off our first passengers until almost 2:00 pm. It normally takes about 4 hours to get there. The people in the back seat with the 4:00 flight out of Guatemala City were beginning to panic, as Antigua was filled with tourists for a big festival, and what should have been a quick drop-off took 45 minutes. Lucas managed to get the air passengers to the international airport by 3:00, plenty of time, but then there were several stops in Guatemala City for drop-offs, too. It was nearly 5:00 by the time we waited through the huge traffic jam headed east out of the city (construction and rain). and stopped at a Burger King for dinner. I was sure I would never find a tour bus by now, but Lucas assured me that they travel that road all the time and that it would be ¨no problema.¨ My stomach hurt.

It was nearly 6:30 by the time we got to El Rancho and it was still pouring rain. The road down the mountains from Guatemala City had been slow and running with mud. Lucas connected me with a micro-bus in pretty good repair whose driver said that he could take me to Rio Hondo where there was an ¨oficina¨ and that I could make a connection there to Rio Dulce. It would cost 30 Queztales. Where is Rio Hondo? Lucas began to draw me a map on the muddy ground, but I was impatient. I didn´t really care as long as it would get me where I was going. Lucas advised that going with the local micro-bus was the most secure way to get there, the other option being to stand at the corner next to the fruit stand in the rain and hope that a luxury bus would still come by. I took the micro-bus.

At about 7:30 we arrived at a series of food stands at a fork in the road. The driver hopped out and ran across the road to a stand and waved for me to follow. It was the öficina¨and a bored young man said that it would be another 40 Quetzales to Rio Dulce. The bus was due at 8:00, and would take 3 hours to reach Rio Dulce. I asked if he had a phone I could use to call my hotel and tell them I was on the way. No. I asked if there was a bathroom I could use. No. It was still pouring. I ran across the road to the big Texaco station down the highway and a woman generously let me use the inside bathroom. I noticed that the dark-skinned woman from Belize who also came over to use the bathroom had been directed to the one outside. The privileges of white skin are everywhere.

An hour passed with no bus. It was raining hard, the bored young man explained and the traffic was bad. Just as I discovered the pay phone that took coins next to the oficina, invisible in dark, and not offered by the official, the bus arrived. I was a huge Greyhound-sized vehicle, and was already filled with sleeping people. The lady from Belize, with baby in arms, and her daughter, who had promised to point out the proper bus to me, climed aboard with me. I thought that I might be on the overnight bus to Flores, because it was clear that everyone on board with a seat had been there for awhile,and were there for a long ride. Could it be that those standing would be required to stand through the night? Apparently so.
Suddenly, after more than an hour rushing throught the night, the bus stopped. 10 minutes to pee and get snacks from a roadside grill that was still open at nearly 11:00.

When we all got back on board, the generosity of the Guatemalan people began to emerge. One woman offered her seat to the lady from Belize with the sleeping baby in her arms, who gratefully accepted it. A woman next to me offered to let me sit in her seat for an hour. I was praying that Rio Dulce was less than an hour away, and turned down her offer, explaining that I would be getting off soon. The bus started up and we sped off into the night. I had learned that the bus was on it´s way to the Belizean border, and was expected to arrive at around 5:30 am.

Suddenly the lights went on and Rio Dulce was announced. Patrick had made it very clear that I was to take the bridge over the river to the far shore and ¨just stop into any tienda and call the hotel.¨ I had been panicked that the bus would leave me at some wide spot and that I would have to call the hotel in the middle of the night in tears telling them that I didn´t know where I was and to come find me. But the bus sped over the bridge as I was gathering my bags from the overhead and dropped me right where I needed to be. It was midnight and all that was open were roadside bars, no friendly tienda with a phone to call the hotel. A skinny young man and a scruffy looking older guy walked up to ask if I needed a hotel. No,I expallined, what I needed was to make a call to Tortugal, the hotel where I already had a reservation. Oh, Tortugal. OK. Since I didn´t have a phone card, the young man pulled out his cell phone (everyone in Guatemala has one on their person) and called the hotel, asking for the launch to pick me up. The men smiled and the younger one said he´d take me to the dock. He walked toward a dark, pebbled alley and motioned me to follow. Ok, I thought, here it comes, the final twist to this endless day will be being beaten and robbed in an alley. But, no, it was indeed the dock, just not lighted. The young man explained that the public launch down the river to Livingston, the collectivo, left the dock at 9:00 am, and that he was a driver and guide. He waited with me for the launch, telling me all about the services that were available in town, most of which I never understood. When I offered to pay him for the use of his phone, he said No, he was in the tourist business and it was his job to be helpful. The launch came, and in 10 minutes had me at the Tortugal dock and then into a lovely rustic room with a huge fan overhead.

Perhaps this trip from hell has finally freed me from my fear of being caught alone on local buses and not knowing where I´m going. After all, I have survived my nightmare, and woke the next day to sunrise over the river and breakfast in a beautiful place. No problem.

If you want to see pictures of this trip, please go to my albums at photobucket.com. The link is http://s85.photobucket.com/albums/k80/barbarapunch/ Enjoy.