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Published: March 12th 2007
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Walking in Xela is an art. I step from my doorstep on a sunny afternoon into ankle-buckling cobblestone streets lined with multitiered sidewalks some three or four feet from the ground. To be a sidewalk in Xela is to lead a fickle existence. Like quantum particles they are prone to spring in and out of being without prior warning, as well as inexplicably change in shape, purpose and generally baffle anyone who has the lofty and misguided hope of understanding them. On the rare occasion that they do follow Newtonian laws of physics they are equally as liable to be barricaded by sleeping locals, smoldering piles of trash, an impromptu market display or any number of other treacherous obstacles.
To negotiate the streets by foot is not to take a stroll, but to develop a system, plot a course and be willing to stray from it when unseen factors necessitate immediate improvisation. While dodging and weaving through the multitude of pedestrian roadblocks, drivers whiz by with little regard for human life. Constant use of the car horn is required and regulated by strict quotas while turn signals must be disconnected at the border under penalty of death. The frequent frenzied
outbursts of honking punish offenses such as turning, stopping at an intersection or driving in a generally cautious and considerate manner. There are not so much traffic laws as traffic suggestions, and these are loosely interpreted. The driver's only true limitation is that he is driving an '83 Yugo with three wheels.
It is a little known fact elsewhere in the world that driving here is not merely a means of travelling from point A to B, but the medium for a favorite national game called "Clip the Gringo." This local pastime was decidedly unfair until '97 when, in an effort to even the playing field, it was required that all Guatemalan automobiles partially sever their muffler from the remainder of the vehicle to give the gringos a sporting chance.
This particular day I am leaving Zona 1 where I live and attend Spanish classes and headed towards Zona 3 and the Decorabanos. This, as you have probably guessed, is the decorative bathroom fixture outlet where I change currency. Immediately upon arriving in Xela I learned a few dismaying facts about finding money:
*First, there is a major currency shortage. Although you would never know
Cattle Cruiser
Notice the cargo it because the currency here is typically in the form of a tattered and greasy brownish-pink spitball which appears to have been plucked fresh from a steaming pile of excrement, the Guatemalan government recently removed most of the old currency before printing replacements. Because of the shortage, the local ATMs are just about as likely to be empty as they are to steal your card number (I am intimately familiar with this statistic as I have used an ATM once since arriving and my card number was stolen 100% of the time). The other unfortunate side effect is that it is impossible to get change for any purchase. If you should ever try to pay for something with a hundred Quetzal bill, roughly twelve dollars US, the store clerk will inevitably look at you as if you had just killed a kitten, or worse, used a turn signal.
*Second, my Visa travelers checks are about as likely to be accepted in the local banks as a fist full of post-dated confetti. I asked a local if there were any alternatives and he shook his head pensively for about thirty seconds before his eyes lit up. "The Decorabanos!" Not
Bucket of Wings
A basket of live chickens yet aware that I was receiving the name and location of the local toilet vendor, I had him write the address down on a post-it note.
En route I trek up and down hills and parry oncoming traffic amidst tiendas and small markets selling an ungodly amount of useless shit. There are a multitude of pharmacies, internet cafes, liquor stores, laundries, butchers, bakers, barbers and unconventional combinations thereof. I pass a pet store that sells flatware and look up to see a man in a business suit on a motorcycle swerve to avoid a Mayan woman walking her goats. It's a near miss and he almost collides with a flat bed truck full of cows before recovering from the maneuver.
This is a colorful city. Each block contains one large distracted edifice consisting of stacks upon stacks of sunnily painted concrete quadrants. Odd angles and impulsive additions recall the Lego city of a child with an attention deficit. There are aluminum doors and bars in every window and if not for the abrupt and seemingly arbitrary color changes along the concrete walls it would be impossible to discern where one house or business ends and
Street Cobbler
This cobbler is resoling shoes with used tire tread. the next begins. The Mayan women flooding the space between the buildings wear brightly colored indigenous dresses called "huipiles" and often carry large parcels deftly atop their heads. They sell fruits and vegetables, and just about everything else beneath a rainbow of umbrellas.
The only quality more varied than the physical and visual landscapes is the olfactory topography of the city. A rich tapestry of odors from pungent to rancid assault the senses with alarming variety and speed. The comforting smell of fresh baked bread or newly washed laundry gives way without warning to traces of bodily functions passed. The entire tableau of scent is forever permeated by a nauseating blend of exhaust and burning garbage.
I cross past the bustling Democracia Market with the Decorabanos looming on the horizon. Just one more chaotic intersection to traverse and I find myself climbing through the tile stairway of this comparatively sterile structure. Atop the stairs five plexiglass windows, akin to those found in any American bus station, line the right hand wall. On the left by the large wall of windows is a solitary desk with a western union sign hanging crooked just above. I wait patiently beside a congregation of chatting employees and when acknowledged at long last I declare my intentions. This is no problem, I'm told, but I'll have to return later. I glance around at the nearly empty room. A short Guatemalan man in a tall cowboy hat has sidled up uncomfortably close and stares at me as he pensively scratches his ass. I'm told it is possible to changes traveller's checks at eight, one, three and five. A glance at the clock reveals it to be ten past one, but I know better than to argue. I'll just come back later.
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Nate
non-member comment
Yo
Hey man, This is pretty funny. Glad to hear that you're still alive. Do me a favor? While you're there, if you happen to find the world's ugliest cowboy belt buckle, buy it for me. It seems to me that Guatemala would have a surplus of ugly cowboy belt buckles.