Table of Contents

Excerpt

Ch9: Guatemala, Exotic Cultures, Volcanoes and Fireworks
(November 8 - 17, 2002)

The Guatemalan border consisted of a flimsy wooden gate that a guard, with his ancient rifle, would lift after cars were searched and papers checked. I told Cindie, “Smile no matter what.” We rode up to the gate with our passports. The guard asked us if we had been checked in and our passports stamped. We answered no, and he pointed to a small shack that was falling apart.

Cindie watched the bikes while I walked past several people helplessly being searched and then into the shack. I had visions of a lonely stool and a bare light bulb dangling above my head.

A large man (rare in this part of the world) in a tattered blue uniform started asking me questions in a new accent, but still in Spanish. I handed him both of our passports. I had to work at understanding him, but I got most of it. “What is the nature of your visit to Guatemala?” “Do you have guns or drugs on your bodies or in your bike bags?” (He could see Cindie and our bikes through the window). “How long do you wish to be in Guatemala?” This last question was the one I worried about the most. Most tourists get thirty days and a few get sixty days if they ask nicely, but you had to have a good reason to request ninety days. I remembered how I had hated the necessity of a schedule in order to get out of Mexico in time. Guatemala isn’t a large country, but there is a lot to see and to do. Only sixty days would be cutting it close, so I wanted ninety days. Three months would mean the freedom to leisurely ride through without a thought to time or schedules. I immediately told him that I was a tourist and certainly didn’t have a gun or drugs in my possession.

I then pulled out our printed flyer that explains our seven-year travel plans in English and Spanish. He read it carefully and then looked out the window to see our loaded bikes and Cindie perpetually smiling and surrounded by moneychangers, con men, guards itching to search our stuff and kids begging for money.

I then moved in for the big prize. I said, “Sir, we are traveling by bicycles, and we move slowly. Your beautiful country is vast and contains the largest mountains in Central America. I would like permission to travel in Guatemala for ninety days - PLEASE.”

He read our flyer again and thought silently for what seemed like forever. He put down the worn out thirty-day rubberstamp and went to the back room. He returned with a small cardboard box with a picture of a stamp on the side of it and a large “90” written by hand in black marker. It looked brand new even though I knew it wasn’t. He happily stamped both of our passports and asked if he could keep the flyer that I had handed him.

Then, to my surprise, he told the guards that no search was necessary, and we could pass.