When the bus driver pulled into a rural driveway and let a few people off before turning back in the direction from which we had come, we should have trusted our instincts that something was amiss. Instead, Kate and I rationalized that, perhaps, it was just another slightly weird occurrence. Perhaps it was even a regular stop on the route - maybe it was even normal for the bus to backtrack. After all, this country seems chockfull of slightly weird occurrences.
But other curious things had happened, too. Several times, the driver had pulled over to talk for a few minutes to groups of locals who had gathered by the roadside. Other passengers had become involved in the conversations, and they shared with each other what the locals had said. There was keen interest in these discussions, but it was all lost on us, the only gringos on the bus (and hopeless ones at that, with our subpar Español).
Soon enough, it became undeniably apparent that something was wrong when the driver pulled off the Interamerican Highway onto a steep and bumpy, dirt jeep trail headed straight up into the mountains. The rickety bus shook so badly that our insides were rattled, and the transmission sounded like it would drop out at any moment. And when the terrain became hilly instead of just ascending, it got even worse. The brakes squealed loudly on descents, like animals at slaughter.
In this house of horrors, all Kate and I could do was hope for a better outcome.
We had boarded the "chicken bus" (a gringo term for the crowded local buses in Central America that often pack in chickens and other livestock with the human cargo) in Quetzaltenango (aka Xela) at 2:00 p.m. Our destination was Panajachel , Guatemala 's laidback, touristy hub on the shores of the exalted Lago de Atitlán. The trip to Pana, as it is affectionately called, normally takes two hours.
But at 4:00 p.m. , the bus was obviously not where it should have been, and some passengers had begun crossing themselves and yelling at the driver. The trail had become not only steep, but also narrower and winding, and there were no guard rails separating us from the enormous drop over the cliff edge. A few times, the bus hit a hole and tilted so badly we thought it might flip. And once, at the top of a pass, it even squeezed through a tunnel so tight the sides scraped the walls.
From Bad to Worse
Eventually, we stopped. But while this ended the hellish ride, the crazy trip was far from over. We were in a remote part of the Guatemalan highlands - and a roadblock had forced the bus to a halt.
Everyone started exiting the bus, so we followed suit. The driver walked down the road and disappeared. For several minutes, there seemed to be general confusion, which meant we gringos were completely clueless. Then, a group of passengers began unloading their luggage that had been strapped on the roof. Some people gathered their things and started walking down the road. Others lingered to assess the situation.
I joined a group of men on the roof to try to gain a better vantage (and because there was nothing else to do). A few cars were stopped in front of the bus. The road quickly disappeared around a bend, but a town was barely visible in the distance far below.
Then, someone called Kate's name. It seemed impossible that we would know someone in this distant part of the world, but we did. It was Enrique, our English-speaking driver from a volcano tour two days before and hundreds of kilometers away. He was in one of several vehicles that had queued up behind the bus. Like us, he didn't know what was going on. He couldn't even explain his thought process in choosing that road to transport two Swiss tourists to Antigua; when other drivers had pulled off the highway onto the jeep trail, he had blindly followed.
We waited several minutes for him to go speak with some locals and find out what was happening. When he returned, it was with surreal news. Mayan rebels had blocked the roads, and cars could not pass. We had stumbled into a bona fide Central American insurgency!
Another Gut Check
We were faced with two options: turn around and backtrack to Xela, or continue on foot. The former was impossible for the bus. For a car, it would have required about a 12-point turn on a cliff side. This was the option Enrique opted for, and he said we could join them.
The problem with that choice was we would have lost a day of travel from our already-tight schedule, forcing us to choose between planned activities in Panajachel or Antigua . We asked about the walking option. By that point, about half the passengers from the bus had gathered their belongings and walked away. But what - or who - was down the road? Would it be safe for us? How long would it take?
Enrique spoke for a few minutes with some Mayan farmers who had walked up the road from below. They told him we would be fine on foot. The insurgents would have no problem with us as tourists. The people were mad at the government, which had sold some sacred Mayan land to a foreign company. The blockade was meant to prevent government and company trucks, not tourists, from passing.
Kate and I huddled for a moment. We had Enrique's assurance that safety would not be an issue. He had also identified the town I had seen from the roof of the bus as Sololá, and said we would reach it in 30-45 minutes. But were his assurances enough?
This time we trusted our instincts and each other and decided to go for it. Our gut reaction was that together we would be okay - although if either of us had been alone, we would have turned back.
Just before leaving, Enrique gave some last advice. He said if we encountered groups of men blocking the road, it was important to say "¿Puedo pasar?" ("May I pass?"), and there would be no problem.
Not Your Average Hike
We set off with our backpacks for a hiking adventure that promised to be, at the very least, unique. Along the way, we passed by or climbed over several obstacles in the road, including felled trees, boulders, trucks and burning piles of refuse.
Occasionally, we passed groups of people and I asked, "¿Puedo pasar?" Despite the fact that no one gave us problems, it was very apparent that the situation was tenuous and we were completely out of place. Locals were everywhere, and we received a ton of stares. We felt like walking targets as we strolled through the uprising, trying to be inconspicuous as we alternately hid our expensive cameras and snapped quick photos.
The surreal experience was matched by an amazingly beautiful valley, with terraced hills for agriculture. I could see why the people would be upset by the land being sold to the highest bidder. The lush, green scenery was some of the most gorgeous we saw in the country.
At one point, we passed three young, teenage boys sitting by the roadside. To our dismay, they began to tail us. At first, there was a lot of distance between us and them, but they gradually narrowed it and moved close. I kept hoping they would pass, but they never did - which turned out to be a blessing.
We neared a group of trucks with three elderly men standing in front. Dutifully, I asked, "¿Puedo pasar?" and one graciously motioned us through, saying, "Por favor, gracias." But once we stepped through to the other side of the staggered trucks, we saw about 20 older boys in their late teens or 20s. With machetes .
They began laughing when they saw us, and I heard one tauntingly say, "de los Estados Unidos." I sheepishly asked, "¿Puedo pasar?" and one of them stepped forward and said, "No, no puedes." Then, they began to circle us, laughing and repeating, "No, no puedes," when I asked again.
Though it seemed like they were just trying to intimidate us for fun, we had no way of knowing for sure if they were serious. Not wanting to provoke a reaction, I began slowing to a stop. That was when one of the younger boys who was following us grabbed my arm and said "¡Caminamos!" ("We walk!"). He pulled me through the older boys and out of a situation that could easily have taken a quick turn for the worse. Especially if we had been alone.
A Brief Sigh of Relief
After that close call, we breathed a collective sigh of relief with our newfound guardian angels. But our emotional victory was short-lived, as it had turned to dusk, and we didn't know how much road lay ahead. When we encountered the machete gang, we had already been walking for 45 minutes.
We were then joined by two other men from the bus, and our marching troop became seven-strong. We forged ahead up the road, which was climbing switchbacks. At one point, the men decided to take a short-cut, following a trail through a dense forest. It was dark, wet, slow-going and tough, and our big packs did not help the situation.
Kate and I had no idea if the men knew where they were going but, again, we had to trust the process. We shared a humorous moment of realization that our mothers would have killed us if they had known what we were up to. . . .
Eventually, we got back on the road and past the roadblocks. We had been walking for an hour and a half when we reached a turnoff where carloads of people from Sololá had gathered for news about the insurgency.
Kate managed to hitch a free ride for us from a man in a Volkswagen van who turned out to be another guardian angel. Night fell as we drove the 15 minutes into town, and the blackness was interrupted only by headlights. I hate to think of the panic and despair we would have faced walking in that dark.
The man dropped us at the Sololá bus stop, and we caught the last bus into Panajachel. We quickly check into a hotel, dropped our things off and went out on the town to celebrate life!
Into the Light
While enjoying our meals and drinks at a tourist café, we overheard some European travelers at a neighboring table discussing the nearby rebellion at Sololá (about a half-hour drive from Panajachel). We spoke up and shared our story to their shock and disbelief. "Did you know two people were killed there today?" a Swiss girl asked!
During the three-day uprising, five men and one woman - all protesting campesinos - were killed during clashes with state riot police at kilometer 119 on the Interamerican Highway . For three days, their deaths and the insurgency were front-page news of the national papers, replete with all the morbid details and photos.
It turned out our hellish route had been a sideshow to the main event. The jeep trail had been shut down because it was the only alternative to the Interamerican Highway .
It turned out to be our shining path.
For more articles by Rob Hodges, visit his blog
