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Welcome To Guatemala City by matthew david deschaine - Guatemala |
| Vomit pillows, street freaks, decrepit not-fit-enough-to-be-called-a-room rooms: the better side of Guatemala City. |
THE BLOCK
Once on the street, we headed for the only well lit block in sight. Turning the corner, we found ourselves on a street swarming with people. The scene ignited every nerve in my body. We had stumbled across a circus of the absurd.
Spread out before us was a cast of characters dredged from the darkest corners of the imagination. There were pimps in oily shirts, ragged kids racing about, a cadre of prostitutes, an old man with one leg, a guy with no legs and a pack of skinny dogs. I could have sworn I saw a dwarf dressed as a streetwalker, but my mind– already over overheating – expediently rejected the idea. Instantly, the entire block froze. A hundred pairs of eyes turned towards us; time crawled; the air curdled in my lungs. I felt like I’d been thrust onto a stage in the midst of a play without a script. A high-pitched buzz filled my ears. Danger was all around us.
I don’t know how long I was lost in my reverie. It may have been seconds, perhaps minutes. Heather’s presence brought me back. It was clear that we had to get off the street, but to do so we would have to push on. From the corner of my eye I saw the neon lights of a hotel. It was about ten yards away. I silently communicated our escape route to Heather. Keeping my head down, I navigated the sidewalk like a linebacker. Seconds later, we hit the front door and fell into a darkened lobby.
THE HOTEL
We had reached safety, or so I thought. The hotel was an utter dump. It stank. The carpet and wallpaper were worn beyond recognition, the pieces of furniture so broken they were laughable props. Pornographic images and outdated turista posters covered the walls near the front desk, which itself was encased in bars. The guy seated behind the bars grumbled something unintelligible in Spanish. He had an enormous belly and reminded me of a caged bear. Without taking his eyes from a small, black-and-white television, he announced the rates, collected our cash and handed us the key to room #200.
The corridor leading to the room was eerily quiet. Where were the sounds of prostitutes playing their trade? Where was the drunken laughter, the muffled voices, the chaos of the block? The silence was broken only by the drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet. I should have welcomed the quiet as a balm to my frayed nerves. Instead, it gave me the feeling I was traveling underground. Heather’s face was a mask of tension. I started to say something reassuring, but she cut me off. “This is it.”
We stood for a moment, silent, bags in hand. The “2” was missing from the door and the double zeros stared back at us with wide eyes. Heather dropped her pack, plunged the key into the lock and broke the seal. There was a slight hiss, and a waft of humid, fetid air rushed out. It hit Heather directly. She staggered back. Not knowing what to do, I reached inside and blindly searched for a switch. Nothing. I heard the flick of a lighter behind me, and the room instantly came into view.
What we found was little more than a cell. The grey walls were stained with cigarette smoke and cracked in several places. A concaved double-bed and a small wooden table took up most of the room. From the ceiling descended a long piece of string which was attached to the elusive light. There were no windows, only a shutter that opened to the hallway. The entire ensemble was a sick joke.
We dragged our packs inside, closed the door and locked it behind us. Heather stared fearfully at the bed, imagining the hundreds of sex acts performed there. The room’s sordid history clung to everything. Worse still, the air was saturated with a cloying smell. It reminded me of rotting candy. Heather had the idea of fighting poison with poison. She lit a mosquito-coil and let the heavy, blue smoke fill the room.
With the smell masked, the only thing standing between us and sleep was the bed. We pulled our tent from its case and spread it over the ratty blanket. To the tent we added a second protective layer – towels and dirty clothing. For pillows we used rolled up t-shirts. There was nothing left to do. I glanced at Heather, she nodded and, with a tug of the string, darkness.
MORNING
A column of grey light cut through the crack in the door. Morning had arrived in a flash. I opened my eyes but didn’t sit up. Seeing that Heather was still asleep, I lay there for several long moments letting the unsavory memories of the night congeal. Guatemala City had thrown its best punch but couldn’t knock us out. A wave of emotion washed over me. I couldn’t tell if it was relief or pride. It didn’t matter. We were still in one piece. In fact, lying atop the grimy bed in that god-forsaken room, I felt incredibly calm. I was drained of adrenaline, my neurons discharged. There would be no highs or lows for days to come. I had walked through a strange fire, and there was nothing more to do or say.
Just before 7 a.m., Heather came to life. She still looked spooked and suggested we gather our stuff and go. I shared nothing of my meditations. We re-packed the tent, made our way past the front desk and out the door. Once outside, we were greeted by an empty sidewalk and an already glaring sun. The muted rumble of a bus engine caught our attention and quickened our step.
Weaving our way through a column of idling vehicles, we found the bus labeled “Antigua,” paid the driver and minutes later were zooming west. As “Guat’s” concrete environs melted into green countryside, we felt liberated from the city’s sordid embrace. The hum of rubber on asphalt was soporific. I struggled to stay awake, wanting to see the landscape change, to hold onto that feeling of incredible calm. Exhaustion won out, but not before I wished Guatemala City a less-than-fond farewell and solemnly vowed to never see it again.
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