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wall. But our troubles really
began when we ran afoul of the border officials. "Buenas tardes,
paisano," greeted a friendly-seeming guard, who then demanded an
usurious sum for us to pass. After hearing this and seeing the lean-to
shanties, brothels and massage parlors that composed the village of La
Mesilla, we were ready to turn around and head right back into Mexico.
But on seeing our reaction, the guard dropped his "fee" to a
sum that nevertheless amounted to extortion. Then the Don pulled out a
metal-colored piece of plastic I had never seen before — a move which
turned out to be extremely stupid. Not only was he at one of the most
dangerous border crossings in Guatemala… not only was he considered,
as an American, to be one of the most disreputable travelers in the
world… not only was he dealing with some of the most corrupt border
officials in Central America, but he attempted to offer a bribe in the
form of a misappropriated CNN Corporate Titanium MasterCard, 
a
form of payment not accepted anywhere in the Western Hemisphere and
which, in any event, had long ago reached its $50,000 credit limit
thanks to charges by former holders Peter Arnett and Don Pardo [Interim
Editor’s note: see LRP Issue No. 1.3: "Peace Plan Approved;
Arnett’s a Wuss" by Don Pardo 5/93].
The guards became greatly offended by this offer, and one or two even started honing their machetes. Quickly, between the two of us, we scraped up enough cash to satisfy the guards and make them forget the incident with Arnett’s card. We didn’t make it that far into Guatemala by nightfall. After hiking past the squalid huts that were La Mesilla, we hitched as far as the so-called Hotel Primavera in some nameless god-forsaken Guatemalan frontier town. This so-called hotel was little more than a large family’s house that had a guest room, but it was cheap and the mosquitos weren’t too bad.
ay
Fifteen. You may have
heard bad things about Mexican buses, but let me tell you, those are
luxury compared to Guatemalan buses. Guatemalan buses are generally old
American schoolbuses usually lacking paint, seats, and sometimes even
brakes. I’d had enough of these, travelling through the Guatemalan
cities of Huehuetenango, Quetzaltenango, and Gringotenango (officially
known as Panajachel or "Pana") on beautiful Lago de Atitlán,
surrounded by mist covered volcanoes. Although Pana was plagued by
hordes of hippies and tourists (largely Americans, surprise!), a boat
cruise across the Lago was a refreshing change after riding cramped
schoolbuses. After getting lost in the outback surrounding San Pedro La
Laguna on the Lago’s southern shore, we haggled with some fisherman
and returned to Panajachel by speedboat.
Day
Seventeen. Yesterday
some young punks tried to poach the Don’s camera at a ruin in Antigua.
But he dispersed them with some Spanish threats and gestures. I didn’t
even have time to go for the snub-nosed by the time they had
disappeared. A cab picked us up at five this morning to take us from
Antigua to Guatemala City, where we caught a flight to northern
Guatemala. This
airline’s flying circus consisted of planes that must have been
American bombers at some point in World War I. "Do Not Open
While in Flight" was printed on the windows and they overbooked so
we had to sit on fold-out panels instead of seats. But we 
touched
down in Flores and haggled over cab fare to Tikal where we booked at the
"Jungle Lodge." The national park surrounding the ruins was
filled with howler monkeys, macaws and, once again, herds of
camera-toting French and Germans.
"Guatemalan
buses are generally old American school buses lacking paint, seats, and
sometimes even brakes."
—Charley Hod
Left: Sunset east of La Mesilla, the border crossing in Guatemala, where the Don was hassled by the border patrol.
