We spent the night in Cobán not to see Cobán (although there's a rather famous orchid garden a few miles outside of the city). We spent the night in Cobán to break up the gigantic journey between Chichicastenango and Flores.
Our shuttle from Panajachel to Chichicastenango was scheduled to leave the lakeside city at eight a.m. In order to get first dibs on shuttle seats, we clamored into a tuk-tuk in front of our hotel, and it laboriously lugged us and our luggage to the tourist office. Where John peacefully napped on the ground, Cathy imperturbably read her book, and I nervously kept an eye out for our shuttle.
Traveling like this is always tough -- moving so quickly, dealing with language barriers, navigating the difficulties presented by third world countries. But doing this while feeling sort of responsible for the well-being and safety of my travel buddies has been a new kind of challenge. A good challenge, a healthy challenge, but definitely a challenge.
The shuttle picked us up at eight fifteen and dropped us off in Chichicastenango at nine thirty.
What a gentle bus ride. Comparatively.
We then caught a tuk-tuk to our Airbnb with all the cows.
"Quieres un cafe? Té? un cóctel?"
"Do you want coffee? Tea? A cocktail?" I translated for our host.
"No, gracias," Cathy replied.
"Un cóctelito?" our host persisted.
"Okay, si," Cathy relented to the little cocktail.
So we sat on the back patio, tried to avoid the slobbery affections of a very large, energetic puppy, and sipped our cóctelitos.
We prepared our daybags for our market excursion, and I crammed four hundred Q into my wallet, just in case I should happen upon the backpack I'd somewhat fallen in love with last time I was in Chichi. But had told myself it was too expensive and that I should wait. And that if it was still around next time I visited, I'd definitely purchase it.
Cathy, John, and I stepped into the main road, waved down a tuk-tuk, and asked to be dropped off at Hotel Santo Tomas, where we were told we could find a tour agency.
It is kind of unsettling just trusting that everywhere will have tickets to the places we need to go. And that there will be space for us. And that it will all work out. So here's to hoping we can buy tickets from Chichicastenango to Cobán.
After quite a bit of confusion, we were able to procure three tickets. Which I gratefully shoved into my wallet, heaving a sigh of relief.
Everything will work out, Bourget.
Then I gleefully led my friends into the beautiful chaos of Central America's largest textile market.
"Hello, you want to buy? Buy this. Buy something," we were immediately accosted by locals selling their wares.
"No, no thank-you," Cathy politely waved them off. But they were nearly impossible to wave off.
"All is handmade. By me, my work. Buy this? For your husband? You no pay. Your husband pays. Buy something?" the women thrust their colorful fabrics at Cathy.
"No, no, thank-you," Cathy's smile seemed to waver a bit. "I don't want to buy yet."
"No queremos comprar nada ahora," (we don't want to buy anything now) I firmly told the swarming ladies. "Necesitamos más tiempo para decidir." (we need more time to decide)
"My name is Maria," one woman called to Cathy.
"And my name is Magda," another yelled out. "Come back later. What's my name?"
We managed to escape into an actual stand, where my beleaguered, slightly overwhelmed friend bought a couple of gifts for her family.
Then we wove our way through throngs of buyers and sellers, making our way to Chichi's two churches.
Cathy bought a quilt from a woman who was so delighted to make a sale that she gave Cathy an extra pillowcase. And while Cathy was busy with her quilt, I sat on the church steps and laughed with the women who were putting their wares on my arm, convincing me why I should buy each one.
"Este es mi trabajo. Todo a mano," (this is my work. All by hand) an elderly Guatemalan woman sat next to me and began to drape her handiwork over my shoulders.
"Sí, todo es muy bonito. Pero soy un vagabundo, y no tengo espacio para nada en mi mochila," (yes, it's all very pretty. But I'm a vagabond, and I don't have space for anything in my backpack) I grinned cheekily at the lady who was still piling her fabrics on top of me.
"Esto es muy pequeño," (This is very small) she persisted, presenting me with a colorful piece of something or other.
"Sí, pero no necesito esto." (yes, but I don't need this)
"Pero para tus padres?" (but for your parents?) the dogged woman motioned to John and Cathy.
"Ellos no son mis padres. Ellos son los padres de mi mejor amiga," (They aren't my parents. They are the parents of my best friend) I replied, just to be argumentative.
"Para los padres de tu amiga," (for the parents of your friend) the woman replied without missing a beat.
"Ellos tampoco lo necesitan," (they don't need it either) I shook my head. "Oh, necesito ir con mis amigos, gracias amiga," (I need to go with my friends, thanks friend), I dumped the mountain of fabric back onto the lady's lap and hurried to catch up with mis amigos.
Cathy and John were feeling a bit flustered and tired from the market's pandemonium, so I led them to a restaurant with a wrap-around patio, where they could view the bedlam below from a safe distance. And with a margarita.
After lunch, I bought the expensive, longed for, unabashedly purple backpack. Without regrets. Then we loaded into a tuk-tuk and drove back to our cow-cluttered Airbnb. Where I drank loads of water and then tried to nap in my warm room. And I must have succeeded, because I woke myself from a nightmare about an hour later.
I don't feel pain, I thought in my sleep, as a dream-car crashed into my dream-self. So I must be asleep. WAKE UP.
But I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a car. I was developing a headache, a fever, and the tickling sensation in my throat had blown up into pain.
Well, now I'm suffering. And that's okay, too.
I popped an Aleve and drank some more water before we headed back into town to explore Chichi's colorful cemetery.
"It's interesting, isn't it?" I offered that meaningless, vague comment. "It's interesting how the houses that people live in are grey and cold looking, but that they make sure their dead families have color and flowers."
 |
| The line between the dead and the living is where the color stops and the grey begins. |
"Compras algo?" (you buy something?) she displayed her bookmarks.
"Lo siento, pero no," (I'm sorry, but no) I replied, trying to dismiss the young lady with a smile.
"Lo siento, pero SI!" (I'm sorry, but YES!) she responded with admirable sass.
"Pero no necesito esto," I pointed to the bookmark.
"Sí, necesitas!" (yes, you need it) she insisted.
"Pero no tengo libros," (but I don't have books) I explained.
"Yo se que tienes libros," (I know you have books) she refused to be thrown off.
"Es verdad! Tengo un libro electronico," (It's true! I have an electronic book) I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. As the nearby man with a wheelbarrow full of zapotes laughed with me.
"Estos?" (these?) the girl held out a bag of pens.
"No los necesito. Ya tengo muchas plumas," (I don't need those. I already have a lot of pens) I told her.
"Esto?" she pulled out a colorful cloth turtle from her Mary Poppins bag.
"Una tortuga! Es muy linda. Pero no necesito una tortuga," (A turtle! It's very pretty, but I don't need a turtle) I apologized.
"Si, necesitas!" (yes, you need!) she yelled at me.
"TU NO SABES MI VIDA!" (YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!) I yelled right back.
The poor little girl didn't quite know what to do with this foreigner who didn't need anything. So she followed John, Cathy, and me, continuing to harass me into buying something.
"Compras algo para tu esposo!" (Buy something for your husband!)
"No tengo un esposo." (I don't have a husband)
"Compras algo para tus padres!" (buy something for your parents!) she gestured to Cathy and John.
"Ellos no son mis padres," (They aren't my parents) I said to the girl, then turned to my non-parents, "That place looks good to get a smoothie at," I motioned towards another restaurant with a table in an upstairs window. "I wonder how to get in..."
The little girl saw exactly what we needed though, and led us to the somewhat hidden restaurant door.
"No necesito nada, pero quiero darte una propina. Porque tu eres muy divertido y me ayudaste con mi español," (I don't need anything, but I want to give you a tip. Because you are very funny and you helped me with my Spanish) I gave the girl five Q.
I went to sleep early that night, tossing and turning with fever and waking up every so often to hydrate.
It's okay, Bourget. This is just part of your life at the moment. It doesn't need to be something you resent. It's just something you work with. For now. And at some point in (hopefully) the near future, you will be able to live in a place that's healthy for you long enough to finally be healthy.
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