Midnight Express

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Tikal is a national preserve in the northeast jungle, the largest Mayan ruins with the tallest temples, and so a major tourist destination. Nothing there except the ruins, so everyone stays in Flores and makes a day roundtrip to Tikal. Maureen still wanted to see it and we had to get to Belize so the only solution was nine hours on an overnight bus from Guat City to Flores, never an item on my bucket list, but at least feasible. Taking a Midnight Express sounded good until I remembered the movie. First we took a mini-van from Antigua to Guat City. Uneventful, great. In two hours we at the station with only a half hour wait for the overnighter. If it had left on time. It was only an hour late, so no es importanta. In Latin America "it happens if it happens when it happens."

Overnight to Flores

On boarding, we each received a bag lunch consisting of a small Cheetos, a wafer filled with white material, and, to wash it down, a vial of orange substance. And how convenient when done to be already holding a brown paper barf bag. At least our seats

had AC and overhead reading lights. Well, actually, we only had the controls for AC and lights. They probably did work thirty years ago when the bus was young pup working the Gallup to Raton route, five engines back. After no longer making minimum US safety standards, even with the bribes, it was farmed out to Guatemalan jackals. Shuddering in first gear, I wondered if we would make it to the end of the block, but we did. In third gear. By the time we were cruising into fifth there was no stopping us.

Except speed bumps. All three countries find them cheaper than our speed limits and highway patrol, and plenty effective when vehicles have no shocks or suspension. Every vehicle slows to a complete stop, often with brakes shrieking in delight, considers the bump carefully, then crawls up and over as if testing for land mines.
Our driver knew the road to Flores well, as evidenced by swerving before every pothole and taking curves just slow enough to keep four wheels on the ground. After all, he still needed to steer. And he knew this route particularly well because he had just done it three times in the past 27 hours.

Nothing to do but sleep.

Or so I thought. The Latino ahead of me tried to sleep first. Fussing with the curtains, turning, reclining his seat all the way, turning, putting his jacket over his head, and turning…for five whole minutes to no avail. Then he phoned someone. I did overhear the conversation. His head being in my lap. “Conversation” is perhaps too generous because his replies were single words. And, except for the initial “Hola” and final “Buenas” (Noches) all his words were interrogatives.

My translation was easy enough. “Hola…What?...Who?...No, really?... Where?... When?...Oy, how? …But why? …What?...Who?...No, really?...” and, finally, “Buenas.” Was he talking with his teenage motormouth sister or reviewing week two of Spanish I? Why was his second conversation was the same as the first? Did he call her again? And what had happened? Yikes, now I was doing it myself. Blessedly, we drove out of range or his batteries died, and he turned in, as had everyone else.

I, however, was now overtired and wide awake. The red LED bus clock was large enough to read from my seat, and perhaps even from Guat City now 30 miles behind us. The time was 11:21. I drew the curtains, closed my eyes, turned over, reviewed the events of the day, took a deep breath, waited through the speed bump, turned over, told myself the penguin joke two more times, took a deep breath, and, after checking, concluded I was wide awake. I checked the time. It was 11:26. Note to self: do not look at the clock.

I explored my new world. Maureen had graciously granted me the window seat. I could watch oncoming headlights through gauze curtains. Turns out the bus did have A/C. It was the freezing drafts leaking through old window seals. At least the cushions were soft. Very soft. Saggy. Except for the spring poking through the middle. The headrest was good… if you were Mayan sized. I found I could support my neck pretty well with an old bag of cashews from the bottom of my daypack. I would have stuffed it in my sock for real luxury but my legs were pinned by Senor Loquacious who was now happily snoring his questions. I wiggle my toes but that is actually boring after awhile. I fell into a deep sleep.

For twenty minutes. The driver stopped for a bathroom break. Not for us, just for him. I could see clearly that everyone else was asleep. My windowed companions had reasonably brought heavy blankets. The thought of asking the driver for an extra blanket helped until I stopped laughing and then I felt cold again. For a moment, I imagined waking everyone else up so that then I could sleep. Unfortunately, this was irrational. I leaned over to Maureenland, pressing my right triceps on the fleece Giants jersey which I had lent her, warmth and envy radiating though my right upper arm. My left side bravely pressed into cold drafts and oncoming headlights, sullen, monitoring downshifts and upshifts, stoically enduring the Midnight Express.

We arrived in Flores right on time, 5 am. This would be the end of the trip. If only. Other passengers trotted off apparently to hostel reservations, and, I imagined, hot showers, cold drinks, and massage by local maidens dressed in flowers. Maureen and I blinked at each other in the darkness, standing in the street, surrounded by our baggage and swirling trash, wondering who was that insane couple who planned for us to “sleep on the bus” and then take the 7 am shuttle to Tikal. Humidity squatted on the street like the belly of a hot toad. And, in that moment, I knew my inner truth.

I had contracted turista. My own personal Midnight Express. I felt an odd and threatening ambivalence, physical cramping and certainty that cramping was futile. We found a tiny bus terminal room with one grizzled attendant. “Tiene un bano?” I asked politely. His startled expression suggested I must have been screaming. He gestured to an open door in the corner of the room, two miles away.

“But senor,” I heard him over my shoulder, “there ess no paper !” I think I sprained my sphincter. I was never so glad to see La Prensa on the floor. Business section, how appropriate.

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Comments

[Sammy]

travel agents!
Who was your travel planner and how can I avoid them? Obviously they had never traveled on one of those buses and attempted to sleep. Sorry about the Montezuma's revenge. I'm traveling with those "Cottonelle" wipes from now on. No business sections of the paper for me! Keep on having fun. Memories are made of that. Sammy

[Marcia Billings]

Again, The Penguin Joke? Reading this one,I feel like I was there, and it was awful, useful only for the story material later.

[Kristen Miller]

Dios Mio Roycito...
Dear Roy, Si algun dia you decide to write that travel book, it will be thoroughly enjoyed by many. Thank you...como siempre. Kristen