A Guardian Angel?
15 Oct 2011 Leave a Comment
We waved goodbye to our friends in Punta Gorda and began walking toward the boat to Guatemala. While standing at the immigration counter, I took a moment to enjoy the friendly nature of the not-so-serious female officers that smiled as they stamped our passports and collected the departure fee for leaving their country. Furrowing my brow, I checked out the peanut of a boat (and its five rows of seats) that was apparently going to haul us across the sea to Guatemala. With a shrug of the shoulders, I tossed my bags to a young Belizean guy and hopped in. While settling into my seat, it dawned on me that we were leaving the only English colonized/English speaking nation in Central America and that Spanish would be the name of the game for the next several weeks.
As we trudged along, I sat happily studying my yoga postures and enjoying the waves, occasionally glancing up to breathe in the salty air and enjoy the sunshine. While indulging in one of those goofy, blissful smiles, a thought came floating in: “We are not going to get to the city until almost 10p.m”’ This was a result of our missing the morning boat. Puerto Barrios was the boat’s destination; from there a six-hour bus ride would take us to Guatemala City, which is not exactly the safest place in Central America, and even less so when one speaks little fluent Spanish, hasn’t booked a place to stay, and doesn’t have a cell phone. The wheels of strategy began to spin as my eyeballs scanned the minimal surroundings. “Ah-hah,” I thought, looking at a seemingly sweet-looking soul two rows back whose presence said,”‘I might speak Spanish.” Gingerly, I hopped over the bench-like seats and plopped down next to the little woman. “Hello, where are you from?” I asked. With a smile she looked up and answered, “Spain. My name is Maria.”
Maria and Simon (her male companion) also happened to be heading to Guatemala City, and were happy to allow us to tag along. They had traveled this path many times before and were nothing short of protective. “Hold your things close or you will lose them, this way to customs, over here to the taxi, ah… yes, lets drop our bags and get some lunch.” While enjoying two rather massive meals for less than $5, Chris and I did our best to chat with Simon in broken Spanish while Maria engaged in a serious phone call. While she was digging through her bag she slapped a stack of brochures on the table; their headings read Human Trafficking. My surprise at the seren’dipitous nature of this meeting continued as she explained her position running an anti-trafficking organization in Guatemala.
Hours later our bus rolled into the dark city. Maria, with her simultaneously caring and bossy presence, gave more instructions. “Go get your bags and follow me straight to the taxi. Be aware of your surroundings but not nervous,” she said, demonstrating how to walk. When we expressed our desire to stay at a cheaper hotel she left no room for discussion. “No, not possible, it is too late and not safe.” The taxi ride quickly brought on a better understanding of the city’s danger in the night. Razor wire lined the 10-foot steel walls that appeared to surround almost every establishment. The gates were not even marked. No sign, only an address number, let us know where the hotel was. As the cab rolled up, an armed guard peeked out of a cracked gate. Maria booked our hotel room, set up our taxi ride to the bus terminal for next day, and upon arrival she instructed the man at the front desk to escort us to the ATM the next morning before he finished his shift.
Seven o’clock came quickly, and as we parted ways I pondered the idea that Maria was perhaps some sort of disguised guardian angel. This woman who was a stranger 15 hours ago hugged me tight and gave me a kiss on the cheek just the way my mom or grandma might. “It is too bad you have to go so soon and can’t come stay with us at our home. Be safe now.”
We made it to our next bus that morning safe and sound, ready to begin our journey to El Salvador.
