One thing about Guatemala that I appreciate is the fact that public transportation actually exists. Ironic how a third-world country can figure out public transportation across the entire freaking country yet Birmingham, Alabama can’t seem to figure out an efficient way to get people across town. (Yes, I know I am leaving out a lot of logic here like at least in the United States most people can afford cars, and therefore do not absolutely have to have public transportation; however, I was almost killed three times today so I have no space for logic in my life at this moment.) 

Let’s get to the point – I have almost died approximately three times today and it’s not even 5:00pm. 

But before I can begin to explain the ways in which I almost died, I have to explain public transportation in Guatemala. 

Chicken Buses Are a Thing

First, there are chicken buses. Yep, you read that right. Chicken. Busses. (For real, Google it.) What is a chicken bus you ask? Well, it’s a bus that carries all the things from town to town across Guatemala – humans, vegetables, fruits, and you guessed it chickens (among other livestock). It’s a super affordable form of transportation and is frequently used throughout the country. However, where we are on the lake you don’t see them much at all. Therefore, you now know as much as I do about chicken buses, which is that they exist and I think if given an option to ride one I’d be 100% on the “no thanks” side of that offer. 

As you can probably guess at this point, I did not almost die by a chicken bus today. Thankfully, that would make this entire chapter a lot more stinky (literally). 

I Shall Not Get Ripped Off

Then, you have boats. By far the most efficient (and affordable) way to get around the villages on Lake Atitlan is via boat. You simply go to the dock and wait patiently (or somewhat impatiently if you are me and Mia) for a boat going in the direction in which you are going. Simple, right? 

We’ve had our share of experiences on these lovely boats that help us get to everything from our friends’ houses to Mia’s soccer practice and games. Put simply, I think we live on a boat ½ the time with as much as we are on one. 

During our first week at the Lake my amazing new friend, Angie (that’s not her real name, but I will call her that to keep her identity safe in case she wants no part of my writing escapades) tells me how the boat drivers try to rip people off. She goes on to explain that it’s important for me to put them in their place (more or less) and that I should demand to pay the rate for being an expat and not a tourist since we live here now. 

Clearly she is not aware of how my voice was removed from me metaphorically probably soon after exiting the womb and I’ve been working very hard to use it loud and proud but “putting my foot down” in a foreign country was a bit of a stretch. However, you only live once so YOLO as the kids say (they probably say something else nowadays but I can’t keep up with that mess). 

“Hell yeah!” I think as I hop on our next boat ride from San Marcos to San Juan. She informed me that they would try to charge me 20Q (quetzales), but I’m supposed to tell these humans that speak another language than I live here now and I’m paying 10Q. We hop on the boat and get to San Juan and as we leave the boat I confidently handed the boat driver person 10Q and said in broken Spanish “We live here.” He looked at me a little weirdly but much to my thankfulness didn’t chase me down the dock demanding another 10Q. This interaction boosted my confidence as I realized I was getting the hang of this living in another country thing and we were only 3 days into the adventure. 

Approximately 2 hours later we go back down to the dock in San Juan and prepare for our voyage home. I knew the drill and we hopped on the boat. Our cute little butts (they really are cute…and by cute I mean tiny and barely existent) hit the cold, hard seats when the kid (I say kid because they are all fucking kids driving these boats…well, mostly…except the one that almost killed me today) comes up to me and demands 20Q before the boat even leaves! How. Dare. They. (Perspective, people pay at the end of their ride. Not the beginning. So this was a clear “yeah we heard you got here cheap, we don’t trust you” move.) 

I explained confidently as Angie instructed that I lived in San Marcos, and that I was not a tourist. Let me just say that he did not care one bit. So we get off the boat and I go talk to the person who is “in charge” of the boats (another kid). I attempted as best as I could to explain the situation. He reassured me that we could pay 10Q after a bit of annoyance and pointed me back to the boat. Back on the boat, this freaking punk of a kid had the nerve to then tell me we couldn’t step foot on the boat until we paid 40Q. I said “fuck you” with my eyes (communicates well across all languages). And this part I can’t make up…this kid then pointed to his Colombia brand logo on his shirt and told me in Spanish that he’s the captain and he makes the rules. I told him in English because my patience with trying to speak to him in his language was long gone, “Dude, that’s a logo, not a captain badge,” as I rolled my eyes and walked away. 

By this point I was on the verge of tears, Mia was holding my hand confused as crap, and we were pretty much stuck in San Juan until another boat arrived. Being that we had spent so much money since being on the lake and were going out of our way to support those who are native to the lake, I truly felt crushed and like I was operating in an area of mass corruption that was absent of actual human heart and kindness. It truly discouraged me. But I didn’t have time for that because I was exhausted, Mia was getting hungry, and we needed to get back home and one of these damn boats was our only way. 

So once the next boat came, we stepped on and as expected at this point we were told to pay 20Q the second we got on the boat. I sighed and handed the kid the money and silently took the boat ride back to San Marcos, all while trying not to cry. 

Later that evening once my emotions calmed down some and I could see a bit more clearly, I reached out to my friend expecting her to join with me on my protest of them being asshats and ripping people off just because they can, she said “Hahahhahaha you tried that in San Juan?? You have got some real guts, woman.” (Okay that’s obviously not what she said because she’s amazing and shared her frustration with them in solitary, but she did tell me that San Juan tends to be like that because you can’t take another way back to San Marcos that’s convenient or affordable so they can get away with anything.) 

In hindsight, we had been at the lake 3 days and there were times when I legit considered turning around and going back home soooo we probably should have given it a bit more time before claiming true expat status, but we were here and I was committed to not being ripped off. 

I will say that after that day we have thankfully had no issues at all with the boat rides or paying the rates of expats. It’s been kind of nice and we are starting to become familiar faces to many of the “captains” (even those without Colombia logos on their shirts). Therefore, I can say that we came to a place of peace with the boat transportation posse and it’s been smooth sailing since then. 

The Boat of Death

That was until today (day 10 in the new life of “what the heck have I decided to do”) when one of these boats tried to murder us on our leisurely ride to Santa Cruz for Mia’s playdate. 

On our way down to the boat I decided to stop for fresh squeezed orange juice and ginger. Let me tell you that I have no idea what the hell goes into making this juice, but it literally involves them disappearing upstairs for 10 minutes and then returning back down with a delicious cup of room-temperature juice. It’s an experience. One I may repeat? Who knows. 

So, we get down to the dock with my juice with no lid (this part becomes important) in hand. There is a boat already waiting that is headed in the direction we are going so we clearly hit the jackpot. We happily hop on board the boat. Mia’s happy because she gets to hang with her friend and I’m happy because I’m about to get a kid-free lunch by myself that involves mashed potatoes and not rice and beans. It’s a glorious day. 

On our ride, we make a quick stop at another public dock to let a man off our boat and then we continue on our way. Much to my surprise, we did not have to stop at the next public dock (winning!). Less than 60 seconds later (seconds, hours, and minutes are the same in Guatemala in case you were wondering. No translation is needed. It’s my favorite part) our boat swiftly turns and starts making a beeline to a private dock. Basically, if you are at a private dock you go out to the dock and as these boats pass by going in the direction you wish to go you wave your arms like one of those wacky wavy inflatable tube man guys and hope to God they see you. And you need to be prepared to pay a higher rate. 

Unfortunately, the driver of my boat did see the people waving their hands at the dock (at the last minute) and was headed to retrieve the group. It’s important to note here that this behavior was likely due to the fact that it’s the rainy season and therefore there are fewer tourists and therefore the boat drivers aren’t making as much money as they do during the high season. Otherwise, I’d like to assume the “captain” would have decided to let the next boat pick them up since we clearly were going too fast to make the stop. But nope, we headed toward the dock with the people waving their arms like they were flagging down a boat on the island of Survivor. 

So here we are sitting in this boat on the hard-ass seats. I have my yummy room temperature (I’m still getting used to that part) juice in my right hand and my arm snuggly around my kiddo with my left arm. (Note it’s very hard to see in these boats because you are sitting down inside them.) When I realized this wasn’t good for us – the people on the boat. 

You know how when you are about to die things go in slow motion? Yeah well, that didn’t happen. It was normal motion, which is what made it all a bit more surreal. So in live-action motion (I guess that’s a thing?), I realized that the people at the dock were starting to talk rather loudly in an “oh fuck that’s not supposed to happen” kind of way, but of course, I couldn’t understand a damn thing they were saying so I decided to check out the scenario myself. I looked forward and realized that the dock was already to the left of us and we were heading straight for a massive stone wall at a not-slow speed. This is when I’d like to tell you that I consciously realized we were about to hit a wall and I said “fuck it” to the juice and tossed it so I could grab onto my child, but quite honestly it was very hard to tell how fast we were going and my arm was already around her so I just kind of sat there and watched as the wall approached us. (Ah yes, this does sound like my trauma experiences after all. Just a bit of a “freeze” response to go with my lukewarm orange juice.) 

I sat there staring at the approaching wall. No fear. No panic. Just a “Well, this is about to happen” and then we hit the wall. My orange juice flew up out of my cup, I grabbed my kid as she fell onto the floor and bumped her chin a bit on the seat in front of us, and then I looked around as other people started to get out of the floor and back into the seats. After making sure Mia was okay, I looked around and exchanged glances with some others on the boat (I have no idea how the hell to say “what the fuck” in Spanish so I just use my eyes to do the talking), and then people loaded the boat and we just continued on down the lake like nothing ever happened. (Fucking A! Also weirdly like my childhood. Amazing.) 

So we make it to the dock in Santa Cruz and when we get off I hand the guy the “I live here” 10Q. He somehow after trying to murder us to get an extra few dollars looked at me like I was trying to rip him off. It was then that I channeled my friend Angie and made it very clear that I lived here and wouldn’t be negotiating further with my almost assassin. 

That was the first time I almost got murdered today. 

I managed to get my kid to her friend’s house and made my way up a massive hill via a tuc tuc. I still have no idea how to explain to people what a tuc tuc is. My best explanation is a tuc tuc is what you would get if a four-wheeler and a golf cart had a baby. Yeah even that doesn’t sound right, but Google is your friend here. 

The Speeding Tuc Tuc

Tuc tucs are amazing. We love them. They save us from having to walk up similar steep as freaking crap hills daily when we come home from Mia’s school and I’ve found the drivers in San Marcos are mostly very kind and super cute (they are all very young). 

Mia has made it very well known to me that when she becomes 12 or 13 she wants to be a tuc tuc driver and that she will decorate it with Disney Princesses. (It is actually kind of cool and unique. Each tuc tuc driver tends to theme and decorate their tuc tucs. The same weirdly enough is true for the chicken buses. And kind of the boats? But we aren’t talking about them right now because I’m still a bit salty.) 

Anyway, I take the tuc tuc up this hill to a new-to-me restaurant in Santa Cruz that has yummy mashed potatoes and an amazing view. Let me tell you I was so excited about these mashed potatoes that I legit took a picture of them. After my meal and some work, I decided to head back down the really steep hill. After looking for a tuc tuc, I decided to just make the 15-minute walk and not pay for the ride. All was going well until one of these things flew past me going what had to of been 450 miles per hour (slight exaggeration) and the damn thing was so close to me that I felt it brush my side. How freaking rude. That was near-death #2. 

Hello Scorpions

The third way I almost died today was by a scorpion. And by almost died I mean my housemates left it for us to see in a jar on the dining room table. It was already dead. I don’t know the story and therefore I am convincing myself they are just weirdos who like to collect dead scorpions and that it was definitely not found inside of this house and therefore we do not have to learn today how to call the San Marcos fire department for a house fire because I’m  99.9% sure a fire department here doesn’t even actually exist. 

End scene.