Getting robbed in Guatemala

My brother Will, sister Sue, and I recently take a mini backpacking trip to Central America. We start in the Yucatán peninsula and explore Belize and El Salvador as well as Guatemala, a country I had been excited about ever since third grade when I had found in my possession — a small wooden box containing tiny Guatemalan worry dolls.

It is our third day in Guatemala. We are on a second-class “chicken” bus departing the cobble-stoned town of Antigua back to gritty Guatemala City. These buses are crowded but cheap, of course. We each covet a whole seat. I worry about the bus filling up, but for now I decide that I don’t care. I stack my backpacks on the dirty floor and place my wooden drum on the seat. Stop and go, stop and go. Locals climb aboard. From the corner of my eye, I stare at the indigenous women and the intricacy of their simple clothing — the puffy sleeves on hand-embroidered blouses, the colorful patterned faldas (long skirts), and lacy aprons. They look like my muñecas (dolls).

The next stop is inordinately long — about 10 minutes. The bus driver paces around while on his cell phone. I check to see if cargo is being loaded or something, but there is little activity. The bus finally leaves.

At one stop, a small crowd enters. A man sits next to me while across the row, a Guatemalan woman sits next to Sue. Will reluctantly shares his seat with a nondescript local man. I wait for Will to turn around, and he does and grimaces as expected. He hates sitting with strangers. I am curious perhaps a tad concerned with this scenario. Locals in just about every country I have visited generally avoid sitting with tourists. All three of us have seatmates, but the bus isn’t full yet. My guy feels suspicious to me. People out here may be poor, but they are generally well groomed. He is ragged and has an infected lip. His eyes are shifty and his leg unusually sweaty. I move over. I notice a water bag in his pocket (In these parts, you can purchase water as such.) What idiot puts water in his pocket? Could a punctured bag be a distraction method? I grow anxious and put my arm around my fanny pack. Why would a man sit next me, a female and a tourist? He scoots over a little. I inch away further. Again, he moves. Most locals would rather sit uncomfortably than to touch you.

Oy vey, I cannot take anymore of this. “Con permiso, usted. Puedes asiento esta? Es mi hermano y quiero asiento para him.” (Eh, still working on my Spanish.) He gets my drift and so switch places with my brother. I am relieved and smiling as Will scolds me for sitting apart. He also discreetly hands me his iPhone. Soon after, the bus is in full capacity. Mr. Usted is sitting behind us, but decides to give up his seat to a woman. Will questions this. “Maybe it’s part of the culture.” Mr. Usted is now standing next to us. I can’t explain why, but this frustrates me. And Will and I are both unhappy at the fact that we cannot see Sue who is in the same row.
The money collector squeezes through the crowd and is now in front of me. “Tres personas” I say and hand him the exact fare amount. He tells me in Spanish that my drum is taking up one seat. I need to move it or pay for that space. I cannot understand immediately, so he repeats himself. Finally, Mr. Usted explains to me in English. It is a laborious near impossible endeavor to relocate my backpacks and drum, shove my packs into the overhead storage, figure out that my drum cannot fit in the tiny space, and so must reside in my lap. Even in communist countries the locals would acknowledge that this requirement was more trouble than it’s worth, concede, and let it be. Mr. Usted is sitting next to us — again.

The bus begins to sway from side to side more like a boat on waves. Will lays his head on my drum which weighs about 15 pounds and is cutting my left thigh in half. I think about his fanny pack, the awesome old-school Nintendo Game Boy case I let him borrow — whether it’s secured or not, about Sue and her safety, about the water bag, and the busted lip. My leg is both numb and hurting badly. Why did I buy this drum? Why are Guatemalan buses so insanely crowded? Oh well, as long as I find a Guatemalan apron. How do I say apron in Spanish? I exhaust myself. Suddenly, Will springs up and looks at Mr. Usted. The man holds up his hands, “Perdon, perdon!” Will scrutinizes but eventually falls back on my drum. The bus halts abruptly, and a group rushes out including Mr. Usted. Will looks at his fanny pack and then to me, “I’ve been robbed!”

“Wha—t?” “Jeannie, that guy! He cut into my fanny pack!” My heart races. My shaky hands grab hold of the fanny. I touch the perfect slits on each compartment. I see how easy it is to slip out his drivers license and all his U.S. money. I am thankful the passport is too big. Sue notices her leather belt bag is halfway open. I am pissed. Why did this have to happen to my siblings? Will this incident taint their perception of Guatemala, of backpacking? Geez, 80 dollars is roughly two weeks of accommodations. And repairing the fanny pack is out of the question. I’ll never find another one as legit as that one.

People on the bus are stirring now. “Will, say it in Spanish so people know. Me roberon!” (Ok, I recognize saying robbery is misleading; pickpocket may be more accurate.) Will says it aloud. A woman in the seat in front of us turns around. We tell her what has happened. The money collector, a skinny youngster no more than 18 years old, ambles back to us. She tells him our story in Spanish. He offers only a sheepish look. The woman is empathetic and tries to give us tips on being safe.

It’s time to exit the bus. As always, we are the last ones off. We thank the driver and money collector, more or less hoping for acknowledgment, but they say nothing. We alight and stand there with our bags, shuffling some, looking at each other, looking at them. At the foot of the bus entrance, the driver has his arm around the money collector’s shoulders. They are giddy, smiling and hugging about something, jostling in a celebratory way.