As we drove through Arizona for the first time in our microbus we flagged in the port, I noticed the sleepy town atmosphere, the cross streets little more than a footpath. I was surprised that the several people we flagged on the street for directions did not know where our contact lived, a member of the local Cocode (small-town communal leadership). It turned out that this seemingly small, sleepy town had over 3000 people.

As we drove the streets, we drove block after block asking for directions, and after ten blocks or so Doña Isabela finally called us to tell us where to meet her. The driver dropped us off at the local gristmill and sped off up the coast to drop passengers at the next several towns along his route.

As we waited for Doña Isabel outside the gristmill, I began to notice that everyone who passed by did so on bicycles. When Doña Isabel showed up several minutes later atop her six speed, she apologized that we would have to walk a ways because we didn’t have bikes, explaining that everyone in Arizona grows up riding bikes from the age of about three.

As we walked, we passed and were passed by every size and shape of bicycle, and more notably every condition of repair. The bike Doña Isabela rode was a beachbuggy style with the tall handlebars and the cushy seat, reading Roadmaster across the side. As she walked her bike beside us on our way to meet the other members of the Cocodo at the school, we passed a building with a yard full of hundreds upon hundreds of child-side bikes, with a motorcycle or two strewn periodically throughout. Doña Isabel explained that this was where the students parked their bike while they were at school. It was, a parking lot for bikes.

As we walked and walked the streets of this small town, I began to realize just how huge the impact these bikes had had on the small town of Arizona was. Unlike the rest of the overly congested cities and towns in Guatemala, Arizona had only a handful of houses on each block, with lengthy distances between each house and to get anywhere in hurry, you effectively had to use a bike. The introduction of bikes into this community had actually shifted the concentration and layout of the town, and had effectively cemented them into an essential element of this small town’s culture.

Walking past the school, we were suddenly swarmed by a small army of children riding bicycles home. In this crowd, I saw more ways of riding bikes than I’ve ever seen in my life. There were boys riding bikes with their sisters on the handlebars, older boys with their brothers on their backs, girls with other gilrs riding sidesaddle. One girl on the handlebars even had her younger brother in her lap. There were children in baskets, mothers riding one-handed holding onto their babies riding on the crossbar. There were motorcycles puling half a dozen bikes behind them. There were bikes with horns and bikes with headlights. There was even an ice-cream bike peddling its wears to customers.

This experience prompted me to think about how our societies are shaped and formed by the transportation systems we embrace. Many times have I explained to curious Guatemalans that in America, if you don’t live in New York or Washington DC, or whichever metropolis that particular Guatemalan uses to define America, be it Miami or Greensboro North Carolina, you must drive a car, or get a ride from a friend, because there just aren’t busses, or if there are they don’t go where you want to go.

In Santo Tomas, there is a bus that takes you to Santa Lucia, a town which is in fact closer than the nearest bus stop to my house in the states. Santo Tomas is a town which until ten years ago had no busses, and most families still own no cars. The town is literally built on top of itself, with many families forced into building more costly second floors because their land is in the valuable heart of town and they no longer have land to share with their children. Every day my host father walks up the street to buy the bread, and my host mother later walks Helen to the local elementary school. Every day at 12:30 the students in the Institute (the private, communal middle school) are dismissed and flood down my street on their five minute walk home.

In Arizona, the town was build around bicycles, with bicycles becoming the required means of transport. In America, its cars, in Guatemala City its rundown dangerous urban buses, and in my hometown of Santo Tomas it’s a pair of shoes. Never did I realize how our lifestyles are so dependent on our means of transportation.

On the way to Santiago Zamora, we traveled through San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a small town which serves as a transportation hub.  I soon learned that the only way to Santiago is by tuc-tuc, a small motorized rickshaw. There are no busses to Santigo because the community is too small. After pulling out  in our tuc-tuc, we entered the most enchanting drive on a stone-paved winding road through coffee plantations and pastures until we reached Santiago Zamora twenty five minutes later.  Yoli and Clara had told me that we were traveling to one of the most beautiful places they had ever seen.  I believed them, but could not have imagined how beautiful it would be without seeing it with my own eyes!

When we began our publicity for the campaign, I began to stretch my definition of “rural”.  Yoli and Clara had described Santiago Zamora as a rural town and I had expected to find a town festering in squalor. Instead, I found a small, quaint town with only about a thousand people, with nicely paved roads and lots of cement homes with doorbells. Nobody owned cars, but they seemed to live pretty well in Santiago. Doña Yoli attributed this to the creation of several weaving co-ops a dozen years or so ago, which have significantly boosted the mothers’ incomes and increased their abilities to provide for their families.

For me, the weaving co-ops in Santiago provided a great example of the positive impact of sustainable development work. I found it very encouraging to see how a small town such as Santiago Zamora has created a new life for itself, while maintaining its rural charm.

Recently, out of curiosity, I headed off with Don Omar in his water truck. Don Omar is a pretty successful businessman in Santo Tomas; he owns a small farm and also owns a water delivery service called Transportes Rodriguez. Starting work at 6:20 a.m., we headed to a farm nearby to use its deep well to fill up the 55 barrel truck for the first run of the morning. We then headed to a small colonia (the romanticized word for a small neighborhood on the outskirts of a small town) where “not much water falls”. We drove through the Municipalidad de Magdelana Milpas Altas, heading out one of the only roads leading toward the mountain, across a small bridge and through fields and fields of corn before we finally reached the colonia. Somehow, Don Omar’s Tigo clad water truck made it up the steep hill at the entrance and through a narrow gap between the trees before we began delivering water house by house

As we went along, I learned about the fascinating history of this small colonia of about 700 people. The neighborhood, creatively named “El Once de Augusto” was founded on the eleventh of August. Positioned on the side of a mountain, it is a very impoverished place, with dirt floors and muddy, rut covered streets. This undesirable land was formerly owned by the municipality until, on the eleventh of August following Hurricane Mitch, the government of Santa Lucia Milpas Altas purchased land from neighboring Magdelena for its constituents whose homes were destroyed in a landslide caused by deforestation. Now, the area faces problems because its position is such that no water falls into the local cisterns and the residents must purchase water from Don Omar in order to eat and bathe. Although the mayor of Santa Lucia built a public pila for washing clothes, it is void of water and the residents of the Eleventh of August wash their clothes in a nearby river.

Following our adventure in The Eleventh of August, Don Omar and I headed to San Lucas where we delivered water to a local machine shop business that uses three trucks of water a week to cool its machinery. We then refilled the truck again and headed off to the Escuela Official Rural Mixta de Santa Lucia, where the mayor is constructing a new wing of the school. Because little water falls there, too, the foreman of the project called Transportes Rodriguez to bring the water for the site. This was Don Omar’s third trip to the site in two days. It’s pretty hard to construct concrete buildings when there’s a short water supply. It turns out this was the trip where the truck was needed to wet the base layer of concrete before they laid the flooring layer so it would form a tighter bond. Little did I know that Don Omar kept a fire hose behind the driver’s seat for occasions like that. What I had thought was a residential water truck quickly transformed into construction equipment.

Don Omar makes a pretty good profit on his water truck business and is very close to paying off his “low interest rate” loan of 20%, in just 8 years. Don Omar’s water transportation service turns out to be one of the best cases of entrepreneurship I’ve seen in Guatemala so far. He took out a loan for his first truck and started a water service some fifteen years ago. Following an accident five years ago, he is very close to paying off his second bank loan. He eventually hopes to purchase a second truck so that he can hire a driver to run a similar service in nearby San Lucas.

Don Omar seems to be the perfect example of small scale entrepreneurship. He saw that communities desperately needed water and were willing to pay substantial amounts for it. He found a reliable water source and took out a loan to pay for the truck. He created a business based on his network in Santo Tomas, Santa Lucia, and Magdalena delivering an essential service for a reasonable price. He even diversified his customer base to include construction sites and commercial facilities to provide a more constant and consistent customer base. He has even been developing plans for expanding his business in order to reach more customers and provide more income for his family, while employing more members of his community. Never did I think I would learn so much from riding a water truck all day!

Recently, out of curiosity, I headed off with Don Omar in his water truck. Don Omar is a pretty successful businessman in Santo Tomas; he owns a small farm and also owns a water delivery service called Transportes Rodriguez. Starting work at 6:20 a.m., we headed to a farm nearby to use its deep well to fill up the 55 barrel truck for the first run of the morning. We then headed to a small colonia (the romanticized word for a small neighborhood on the outskirts of a small town) where “not much water falls”. We drove through the Municipalidad de Magdelana Milpas Altas, heading out one of the only roads leading toward the mountain, across a small bridge and through fields and fields of corn before we finally reached the colonia. Somehow, Don Omar’s Tigo clad water truck made it up the steep hill at the entrance and through a narrow gap between the trees before we began delivering water house by house

As we went along, I learned about the fascinating history of this small colonia of about 700 people. The neighborhood, creatively named “El Once de Augusto” was founded on the eleventh of August. Positioned on the side of a mountain, it is a very impoverished place, with dirt floors and muddy, rut covered streets. This undesirable land was formerly owned by the municipality until, on the eleventh of August following Hurricane Mitch, the government of Santa Lucia Milpas Altas purchased land from neighboring Magdelena for its constituents whose homes were destroyed in a landslide caused by deforestation. Now, the area faces problems because its position is such that no water falls into the local cisterns and the residents must purchase water from Don Omar in order to eat and bathe. Although the mayor of Santa Lucia built a public pila for washing clothes, it is void of water and the residents of the Eleventh of August wash their clothes in a nearby river.

Following our adventure in The Eleventh of August, Don Omar and I headed to San Lucas where we delivered water to a local machine shop business that uses three trucks of water a week to cool its machinery. We then refilled the truck again and headed off to the Escuela Official Rural Mixta de Santa Lucia, where the mayor is constructing a new wing of the school. Because little water falls there, too, the foreman of the project called Transportes Rodriguez to bring the water for the site. This was Don Omar’s third trip to the site in two days. It’s pretty hard to construct concrete buildings when there’s a short water supply. It turns out this was the trip where the truck was needed to wet the base layer of concrete before they laid the flooring layer so it would form a tighter bond. Little did I know that Don Omar kept a fire hose behind the driver’s seat for occasions like that. What I had thought was a residential water truck quickly transformed into construction equipment.

Don Omar makes a pretty good profit on his water truck business and is very close to paying off his “low interest rate” loan of 20%, in just 8 years. Don Omar’s water transportation service turns out to be one of the best cases of entrepreneurship I’ve seen in Guatemala so far. He took out a loan for his first truck and started a water service some fifteen years ago. Following an accident five years ago, he is very close to paying off his second bank loan. He eventually hopes to purchase a second truck so that he can hire a driver to run a similar service in nearby San Lucas.

Don Omar seems to be the perfect example of small scale entrepreneurship. He saw that communities desperately needed water and were willing to pay substantial amounts for it. He found a reliable water source and took out a loan to pay for the truck. He created a business based on his network in Santo Tomas, Santa Lucia, and Magdalena delivering an essential service for a reasonable price. He even diversified his customer base to include construction sites and commercial facilities to provide a more constant and consistent customer base.  He has even been developing plans for expanding his business in order to reach more customers and provide more income for his family, while employing more members of his community. Never did I think I would learn so much from riding a water truck all day!

So anyway, I’m in a kind of frantic state, to say the least, and I’m walking briskly down the street to Zuleika’s house consciously thinking about how cold it was and how its not supposed to be cold in Guatemala, and unconsciously thinking about how I could have possibly lost my phone.

As I got near her house, this dog about the size of a small lab came running at me growling fiercely as though it was protecting its house. Of course, Zuleika’s host family doesn’t have a dog, they only have about 30 chickens and 10 turkeys in their front yard. This dog was vicious too, all growling and baring its teeth and all.

This scared the daylights after me because I actually thought it was about to jump and bite me, and it was acting ridiculous, so I wasn’t sure if it was rabid or not. I wasn’t sure if it was better to run and try to make it to jump on the large cherry picker that Zuleika’s host father keeps in his front yard (don’t ask me why, I don’t know the word for cherry picker in Spanish, or I would ask…) or if it was better to take a good solid kick at it’s side.

Well instead of deciding one or the other, I just kind of stood there hoping the dog would like stop running at me or something. Cause you know that’s what all mad wild chuchos do when they’re about to attack someone.

Well. At the last minute I remembered back to our training when Luis was giving us an overview of Guatemalan greetings and we somehow got to talking about wild dogs. He actually warned us that wild dog would be everywhere. At the last minute I remembered an offhand comment he had made about the dogs then.

So I did something I honestly never thought I would do, I raised my hand up to my ear, like I’m about to throw a huge rock at the chucho. I felt like a cruel person to throw a rock at a dog (so, I didn’t really have a rock but whatever).

But it didn’t matter because instantly the dog melted. Like slicing through butter with a hot knife. Or some expression like that. You have to bear with me cause my English is getting worse as my Spanish improves.

Seriously though it was like some super large intimidating person was standing behind me with a huge cleaver.

I guess its not too scary given all the new experiences I’ve been through recently, but it was pretty scary at the time. To tell you the truth I spent the first day scared of the chuchos, but then I realized they were harmless (or most of them were harmless I guess) and that they just wanted food.

Let me tell you something about chuchos. Chucho is the Guatemalan slang word for street Mutt. They are all over Guatemala, and they all look EXACTLY the same. They are all slightly smaller than a lab, have pointy ears that stick out to the side, and are all a slightly more yellow color than the typical golden retriever. But with short dry fur.

And they are absolutely everywhere. For example. When we stopped to eat lunch on our way down an 8000 foot volcano, 1000 feet or so of which was barren volcanic rock, 3 chuchos came up to us to beg for food. 3 On top of a volcano. I tell you they are everywhere. And they are very persuasive. They do their whole cute dog thing, and lay up against you trying to be nice and cute but in reality giving you a whole host of fleas.

So anyway, I’m in a kind of frantic state, to say the least, and I’m walking briskly down the street to Zuleika’s house consciously thinking about how cold it was and how its not supposed to be cold in Guatemala, and unconsciously thinking about how I could have possibly lost my phone.

As I got near her house, this dog about the size of a small lab came running at me growling fiercely as though it was protecting its house. Of course, Zuleika’s host family doesn’t have a dog, they only have about 30 chickens and 10 turkeys in their front yard. This dog was vicious too, all growling and baring its teeth and all.

This scared the daylights after me because I actually thought it was about to jump and bite me, and it was acting ridiculous, so I wasn’t sure if it was rabid or not. I wasn’t sure if it was better to run and try to make it to jump on the large cherry picker that Zuleika’s host father keeps in his front yard (don’t ask me why, I don’t know the word for cherry picker in Spanish, or I would ask…) or if it was better to take a good solid kick at it’s side.

Well instead of deciding one or the other, I just kind of stood there hoping the dog would like stop running at me or something. Cause you know that’s what all mad wild chuchos do when they’re about to attack someone.

Well. At the last minute I remembered back to our training when Luis was giving us an overview of Guatemalan greetings and we somehow got to talking about wild dogs. He actually warned us that wild dog would be everywhere. At the last minute I remembered an offhand comment he had made about the dogs then.

So I did something I honestly never thought I would do, I raised my hand up to my ear, like I’m about to throw a huge rock at the chucho. I felt like a cruel person to throw a rock at a dog (so, I didn’t really have a rock but whatever).

But it didn’t matter because instantly the dog melted. Like slicing through butter with a hot knife. Or some expression like that. You have to bear with me cause my English is getting worse as my Spanish improves.

Seriously though it was like some super large intimidating person was standing behind me with a huge cleaver.

I guess its not too scary given all the new experiences I’ve been through recently, but it was pretty scary at the time. To tell you the truth I spent the first day scared of the chuchos, but then I realized they were harmless (or most of them were harmless I guess) and that they just wanted food.

Let me tell you something about chuchos. Chucho is the Guatemalan slang word for street Mutt. They are all over Guatemala, and they all look EXACTLY the same. They are all slightly smaller than a lab, have pointy ears that stick out to the side, and are all a slightly more yellow color than the typical golden retriever. But with short dry fur.

And they are absolutely everywhere. For example. When we stopped to eat lunch on our way down an 8000 foot volcano, 1000 feet or so of which was barren volcanic rock, 3 chuchos came up to us to beg for food. 3 On top of a volcano. I tell you they are everywhere. And they are very persuasive. They do their whole cute dog thing, and lay up against you trying to be nice and cute but in reality giving you a whole host of fleas.

Today Zuleika and I left the house twenty minutes late, knocked on Ian’s door to make sure he had left, and got to the bus stop at exactly 7:50. We got lucky and got on the micro bus that was waiting near the stop. If you’ve ever been to the Air and Space museum in Washington DC and seen the miniature van that the McDonald’s stand out front uses to move food around (come on, I know you have), this is what a microbus is. Its like a mini-van version of a golf-cart, and today there were 9 people inside, with 4 on the back row and one standing up bent over near the sliding door.

We got dropped of at the Antigua stop, not needing to walk across the highway this time, what a luxury. Soon the Antigua-Guate bus pulls up, with literally people standing in the stairwell. The ayudante motioned for us to come to the back because there was space (he spoke too but he said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand).

Well, if Doña Yoli had been there she would have known to tell us to wait for a different bus. We should have probably known better. We got on anyway.

Whatever space the Ayudante motioned about was almost non-existant. I found myself standing on the rear ladder clamoring inside while the bus drove off.

When we got to Antigua, we missed our stop, and got off down the street when we thought the bus had stopped. Turns out it was just waiting to make a left hand turn and started driving off just as Ian was about to jump out the back door. Some kind Guatemaltecos silva’d (silvar being Guatemalan slang for cat call) to the driver that the stupid gringos didn’t know what they were doing, and we pretty much made a scene out of things as we got off the bus in the middle of the street, the bus at a 30 degree angle stopping all traffic.

This afternoon, after enjoying nice umbrella shaped chocolate icecream pops with Luis at la parada de busses, we got on another extremely crowded bus. There were 3-4 people to every seat and another dozen or so in the aisle. I found myself literally standing back to back with another person in the aisle between a row of 3 people and a row of 4 people. The whole bus was like this. Ridiculous right?

Well when we got off this bus, we stood for awhile waiting for the bus to Santo Tomas. Two elderly women and a granddaughter walked up carrying large bales of cabbage (Repollo) on their heads, getting in line for the chicken bus.

When the bus pulled up, it was an old American Short bus. Like the ones my school has that have a legal limit (in the USA) of 20 people… Well there were at least half that many at the stop waiting to get on an already full bus. Okay, so maybe THIS was the most crowded I’ve ever seen a chicken bus.

Well every block we stopped to pick up another two or three people, and by the time we got to Santo Tomas, there were literally 9 people standing forward of the yellow line which represents yet another completely disregarded American safety “suggestion”. There were quite literally two or three people hanging out the door being held in by the Ayudante’s arms. We pulled up to my stop, and the other fellows got off, but I couldn’t because the other ayudante hadn’t been able to scramble to the front yet to take my money and I was afraid I would get beat up or something if I got off the bus without paying. As they were crawling out, the other ayudante yelled “andele” from his precarious perch out the front door.

I panicked and started yelling in Spanish because my friends were climbing out the back door, and the bus was starting to take off. I have absolutely no idea what I yelled but it was some combination of the words no, parrada (bus stop), alta (stop), atras(rear), and various incorrectly conjugated verbs and strings of words generally meaning what the heck are you doing there’s people climbing out the back of the bus you crazy fool.

It seemed to work. The bus stopped. But everyone else on board looked at me like the completely out of place gringo I am who really has no idea what he’s doing riding a yellow sardine can in the developing world.

All this after I walked out of the house and left the wonderful lunch my host mom had painstakingly prepared for me on the kitchen counter.

P.S. I wrote this blog last night, and this morning I was one of the people standing in the wheel well of a chicken bus holding on very tight. (Its actually safer than it sounds).

Today Zuleika and I left the house twenty minutes late, knocked on Ian’s door to make sure he had left, and got to the bus stop at exactly 7:50. We got lucky and got on the micro bus that was waiting near the stop. If you’ve ever been to the Air and Space museum in Washington DC and seen the miniature van that the McDonald’s stand out front uses to move food around (come on, I know you have), this is what a microbus is. Its like a mini-van version of a golf-cart, and today there were 9 people inside, with 4 on the back row and one standing up bent over near the sliding door.

We got dropped of at the Antigua stop, not needing to walk across the highway this time, what a luxury. Soon the Antigua-Guate bus pulls up, with literally people standing in the stairwell. The ayudante motioned for us to come to the back because there was space (he spoke too but he said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand).

Well, if Doña Yoli had been there she would have known to tell us to wait for a different bus. We should have probably known better. We got on anyway.

Whatever space the Ayudante motioned about was almost non-existant. I found myself standing on the rear ladder clamoring inside while the bus drove off.

When we got to Antigua, we missed our stop, and got off down the street when we thought the bus had stopped. Turns out it was just waiting to make a left hand turn and started driving off just as Ian was about to jump out the back door. Some kind Guatemaltecos silva’d (silvar being Guatemalan slang for cat call) to the driver that the stupid gringos didn’t know what they were doing, and we pretty much made a scene out of things as we got off the bus in the middle of the street, the bus at a 30 degree angle stopping all traffic.

This afternoon, after enjoying nice umbrella shaped chocolate icecream pops with Luis at la parada de busses, we got on another extremely crowded bus. There were 3-4 people to every seat and another dozen or so in the aisle. I found myself literally standing back to back with another person in the aisle between a row of 3 people and a row of 4 people. The whole bus was like this. Ridiculous right?

Well when we got off this bus, we stood for awhile waiting for the bus to Santo Tomas. Two elderly women and a granddaughter walked up carrying large bales of cabbage (Repollo) on their heads, getting in line for the chicken bus.

When the bus pulled up, it was an old American Short bus. Like the ones my school has that have a legal limit (in the USA) of 20 people… Well there were at least half that many at the stop waiting to get on an already full bus. Okay, so maybe THIS was the most crowded I’ve ever seen a chicken bus.

Well every block we stopped to pick up another two or three people, and by the time we got to Santo Tomas, there were literally 9 people standing forward of the yellow line which represents yet another completely disregarded American safety “suggestion”. There were quite literally two or three people hanging out the door being held in by the Ayudante’s arms. We pulled up to my stop, and the other fellows got off, but I couldn’t because the other ayudante hadn’t been able to scramble to the front yet to take my money and I was afraid I would get beat up or something if I got off the bus without paying. As they were crawling out, the other ayudante yelled “andele” from his precarious perch out the front door.

I panicked and started yelling in Spanish because my friends were climbing out the back door, and the bus was starting to take off. I have absolutely no idea what I yelled but it was some combination of the words no, parrada (bus stop), alta (stop), atras(rear), and various incorrectly conjugated verbs and strings of words generally meaning what the heck are you doing there’s people climbing out the back of the bus you crazy fool.

It seemed to work. The bus stopped. But everyone else on board looked at me like the completely out of place gringo I am who really has no idea what he’s doing riding a yellow sardine can in the developing world.

All this after I walked out of the house and left the wonderful lunch my host mom had painstakingly prepared for me on the kitchen counter.

P.S. I wrote this blog last night, and this morning I was one of the people standing in the wheel well of a chicken bus holding on very tight. (Its actually safer than it sounds).

As you read this post, please keep in mind that on my commute home yesterday, I was carrying a bag of 12 eggs in my right hand. 3 of which were already broken.

The “camionetas”, as they are affectionately called by Guatemalans, are a great way to start the day. Each ride on the camioneta is a brand new experience. They speed off as soon as you step your foot off the bus, sometimes soaking you in water. To get to seats at the back of the bus, you often have to pass through a nonexistent gap between two people who are leaning against each other because they are both sitting three to a row and falling off their seat, or sometimes even slide past someone who is standing in that nonexistent space.

Today I got on a bus which clearly had the words “pasajeros 54″ painted on a small symbol near the door. I lost track when I counted 85… It wasn’t even the most crowded… The thing about it is, it reminds me of a team building activity where you put everyone in an uncomfortable scenario, and they inherently bond.

Sometimes if you are standing in the aisle, you have to squeeze in front of the lap of the nice (or not nice) lady who barely fits on the tiny edge of the seat near you in order to let the ayudante pass (the attendant who collects your money and gives you change). He also takes your large bags if you have them, and climbs on the roof while the bus is moving to tie them to the top… Did I forget to mention, there is usually either super loud 80′s music, or super fast Spanish pop music blasting from customized.

The thing about it is the whole system is very efficient. They use much less fuel per person than the American system, you get there a lot quicker than you would in America because there are no stoplights what so ever, there are less cars on the road (each bus has mas ó menos 50-100 people) , and of course the speed limits are not enforced. Its also super cheap. I spend Q11.5 (Q8.22=$1) every day commuting 30-45 minutes each way… I would spend at least that on gas at home.

However, Chicken bus is a bad name for them. The reputation they have only applies to half of my commute. To get to Antigua, I spend Q2 to commute from Santo Tomas Milpas Altas, to Santa Lucia Milpas Altas (literally 6 minutes) on a really rickety old American school bus from the 80s (clearly always in mint condition). Yesterday the license plate said North Carolina… I then get off the bus, walk the length of a football field and across a one way interstate highway to the bus stop for Antigua.

I wait 5-10 minutes for the bus, hoping for an actual seat (a window seat is WAY too much to ask…) and usually am disappointed. When the bus arrives, sometimes it is a few years old, sometimes it is brand new, always it is pimped out. The “Antigua-Guate” buses are the most efficient buses in the country. They are subsidized by the government (I think, someone explained this to me in Spanish, so consequently I can only guess what the complicated words meant, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he was trying to say). This means the government subsides the bus owners so they can afford to comply with the government regulations for the interstate highway routes. The buses to Guate (pronounced Whahtay) are nice new American school buses, outfitted with actual metal hand rails, actual reliable engines, and certain reliability standards. I think hotrod sardine can is a much better name for them.

OH, and half of them have been upgraded with “racing” engines so that they can accelerate faster between stops and pick up more fares… in case you were wondering, they definitely don’t comply with emissions standards.

They then cram them with even more people, and go speeding down the mountain, with la gente (the people) being thrown left and right every time the bus goes around a corner. Remember, these are one-way, two lane mountain highways, which they take at twice the legal US speed-limit.

Let me also say that before you get on a bus, you need to make sure all your valuables are either in your front pockets or deep inside your bag, and put your bag on your front like you’re carrying a baby. You then have to try to balance standing up.

To get off the bus, you simply stand up and force your way to the front of the bus before your stop. Sometimes you make it in time, sometimes you cant get there in time and the bus speeds off and you have to get off at the next stop and walk. This has only happened to me once, in Santo Tomas, and it wasn’t that bad but apparently it has happened to volunteers on the Guate bus and they have had to catch a bus going the other direction.

So pretty much, the chicken bus has changed my life.

As you read this post, please keep in mind that on my commute home yesterday, I was carrying a bag of 12 eggs in my right hand. 3 of which were already broken.

The “camionetas”, as they are affectionately called by Guatemalans, are a great way to start the day. Each ride on the camioneta is a brand new experience. They speed off as soon as you step your foot off the bus, sometimes soaking you in water. To get to seats at the back of the bus, you often have to pass through a nonexistent gap between two people who are leaning against each other because they are both sitting three to a row and falling off their seat, or sometimes even slide past someone who is standing in that nonexistent space.

Today I got on a bus which clearly had the words “pasajeros 54″ painted on a small symbol near the door. I lost track when I counted 85… It wasn’t even the most crowded… The thing about it is, it reminds me of a team building activity where you put everyone in an uncomfortable scenario, and they inherently bond.

Sometimes if you are standing in the aisle, you have to squeeze in front of the lap of the nice (or not nice) lady who barely fits on the tiny edge of the seat near you in order to let the ayudante pass (the attendant who collects your money and gives you change). He also takes your large bags if you have them, and climbs on the roof while the bus is moving to tie them to the top… Did I forget to mention, there is usually either super loud 80′s music, or super fast Spanish pop music blasting from customized.

The thing about it is the whole system is very efficient. They use much less fuel per person than the American system, you get there a lot quicker than you would in America because there are no stoplights what so ever, there are less cars on the road (each bus has mas ó menos 50-100 people) , and of course the speed limits are not enforced. Its also super cheap. I spend Q11.5 (Q8.22=$1) every day commuting 30-45 minutes each way… I would spend at least that on gas at home.

However, Chicken bus is a bad name for them. The reputation they have only applies to half of my commute. To get to Antigua, I spend Q2 to commute from Santo Tomas Milpas Altas, to Santa Lucia Milpas Altas (literally 6 minutes) on a really rickety old American school bus from the 80s (clearly always in mint condition). Yesterday the license plate said North Carolina… I then get off the bus, walk the length of a football field and across a one way interstate highway to the bus stop for Antigua.

I wait 5-10 minutes for the bus, hoping for an actual seat (a window seat is WAY too much to ask…) and usually am disappointed. When the bus arrives, sometimes it is a few years old, sometimes it is brand new, always it is pimped out. The “Antigua-Guate” buses are the most efficient buses in the country. They are subsidized by the government (I think, someone explained this to me in Spanish, so consequently I can only guess what the complicated words meant, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he was trying to say). This means the government subsides the bus owners so they can afford to comply with the government regulations for the interstate highway routes. The buses to Guate (pronounced Whahtay) are nice new American school buses, outfitted with actual metal hand rails, actual reliable engines, and certain reliability standards. I think hotrod sardine can is a much better name for them.

OH, and half of them have been upgraded with “racing” engines so that they can accelerate faster between stops and pick up more fares… in case you were wondering, they definitely don’t comply with emissions standards.

They then cram them with even more people, and go speeding down the mountain, with la gente (the people) being thrown left and right every time the bus goes around a corner. Remember, these are one-way, two lane mountain highways, which they take at twice the legal US speed-limit.

Let me also say that before you get on a bus, you need to make sure all your valuables are either in your front pockets or deep inside your bag, and put your bag on your front like you’re carrying a baby. You then have to try to balance standing up.

To get off the bus, you simply stand up and force your way to the front of the bus before your stop. Sometimes you make it in time, sometimes you cant get there in time and the bus speeds off and you have to get off at the next stop and walk. This has only happened to me once, in Santo Tomas, and it wasn’t that bad but apparently it has happened to volunteers on the Guate bus and they have had to catch a bus going the other direction.

So pretty much, the chicken bus has changed my life.

Thus began a day of exciting exploration. We first went to a very quaint little commedor where I ate eggs and beans. Something new on my breakfast menu.

After we had finished our rules and regulations discussion, we ate at an awesome restaurant called Gringo Chapin. Gringo is the word for niave foreigners and Chapin is the word for native Guatemaltecos. Thats right, they took us to an authentic native restaurant with an out of place foreigner flair. It was actually a pretty good fit.

We spent the afternoon acting out security skits and Laura and Ian proved themselves to be good thieves. Now I know how to ride a chicken bus safely and how to respectfully decline very relentless street vendors.

They then unleashed us on Antigua for two hours, and we innocently decieved Luis, telling him we were going to go check out the ruins of a 17th  century Catholic church and browse the local marketplace. In reality, we spent the afternoon shopping for his birthday present and trying  to buy a cake with 34 candles. It was quite an adventure.

First, we spent the first half looking for a neon colored bathing suit, because he laughed histerically at the one I brought which is straight out of the 80s, he says. Unfortunately that really did not translate very well and we ended up in three different childerens clothing stores and a rediculously overpriced American surf shop (Q700 for one bathing suit…not happening). Thats when we called it quits on the bathing suit. We got some pretty odd looks here when we asked for a bathing suit. Apparently men don’t wear them or something because we had to keep explaining what it was and everyone thought we were confused and that we really meant a bikini. We just explained it as a crazy joke we were playing on our leader for his birthday and then our desire for such an item made perfect sense to them.

So about a block after we bailed on the bathing suit idea, we passed una pasteleria (cakery) and Ian stopped me and we decided to buy a cake.

Two gringos with very limited spanish pastry vocabulary trying to buy a cake in a foreign country was pretty much hilarious. I probably asked the poor woman 10 different questions, each with about 4 or 5 clarifying questions just to understand what she was talking about. After that she started describing the cakes with English words… But we managed to buy the cake successfully. It cost so much less than even the smallest Harris Teeter cakes (or Safeway, Whole Foods, Kroger, Ingles,take your pick).

Which brings me to my next point, they only have one size cake there. HUGE. For the price of a very small American cake we bought a cake that fed the 6 of us plus the entire kitchen and wait staff at restraunt and we still have  more than half the cake left.

After we bought this cake, I stuffed it in my backpack and carried my backpack in my hands so as not to dump the cake out. We met up with Luis and he just thought I was walking funny. And was in some huge rush, but had no idea I was carrying his enormous birthday cake. He even saw us give the lighter to the the waitress and still was completely oblivious to the fact that we had bought him an enormous birthday cake.

We presented him with the cake, sang Feliz Cumpleaños and gave him our present. Which was a book by his favorite Brazilian author. We just wanted  him to have a great birthday and I think we did a pretty good job.

After dinner we returned to the hotel and skype talked to Alec, who was sleepless in Dakar. He was having jet lag problems so he couldn’t sleep. Lucky for us though, we got to have a nice connection to the other half of our group on the other side of the Atlantic. It was awesome!

Thus began a day of exciting exploration. We first went to a very quaint little commedor where I ate eggs and beans. Something new on my breakfast menu.

After we had finished our rules and regulations discussion, we ate at an awesome restaurant called Gringo Chapin. Gringo is the word for niave foreigners and Chapin is the word for native Guatemaltecos. Thats right, they took us to an authentic native restaurant with an out of place foreigner flair. It was actually a pretty good fit.

We spent the afternoon acting out security skits and Laura and Ian proved themselves to be good thieves. Now I know how to ride a chicken bus safely and how to respectfully decline very relentless street vendors.

They then unleashed us on Antigua for two hours, and we innocently decieved Luis, telling him we were going to go check out the ruins of a 17th  century Catholic church and browse the local marketplace. In reality, we spent the afternoon shopping for his birthday present and trying  to buy a cake with 34 candles. It was quite an adventure.

First, we spent the first half looking for a neon colored bathing suit, because he laughed histerically at the one I brought which is straight out of the 80s, he says. Unfortunately that really did not translate very well and we ended up in three different childerens clothing stores and a rediculously overpriced American surf shop (Q700 for one bathing suit…not happening). Thats when we called it quits on the bathing suit. We got some pretty odd looks here when we asked for a bathing suit. Apparently men don’t wear them or something because we had to keep explaining what it was and everyone thought we were confused and that we really meant a bikini. We just explained it as a crazy joke we were playing on our leader for his birthday and then our desire for such an item made perfect sense to them.

So about a block after we bailed on the bathing suit idea, we passed una pasteleria (cakery) and Ian stopped me and we decided to buy a cake.

Two gringos with very limited spanish pastry vocabulary trying to buy a cake in a foreign country was pretty much hilarious. I probably asked the poor woman 10 different questions, each with about 4 or 5 clarifying questions just to understand what she was talking about. After that she started describing the cakes with English words… But we managed to buy the cake successfully. It cost so much less than even the smallest Harris Teeter cakes (or Safeway, Whole Foods, Kroger, Ingles,take your pick).

Which brings me to my next point, they only have one size cake there. HUGE. For the price of a very small American cake we bought a cake that fed the 6 of us plus the entire kitchen and wait staff at restraunt and we still have  more than half the cake left.

After we bought this cake, I stuffed it in my backpack and carried my backpack in my hands so as not to dump the cake out. We met up with Luis and he just thought I was walking funny. And was in some huge rush, but had no idea I was carrying his enormous birthday cake. He even saw us give the lighter to the the waitress and still was completely oblivious to the fact that we had bought him an enormous birthday cake.

We presented him with the cake, sang Feliz Cumpleaños and gave him our present. Which was a book by his favorite Brazilian author. We just wanted  him to have a great birthday and I think we did a pretty good job.

After dinner we returned to the hotel and skype talked to Alec, who was sleepless in Dakar. He was having jet lag problems so he couldn’t sleep. Lucky for us though, we got to have a nice connection to the other half of our group on the other side of the Atlantic. It was awesome!