Sunday.  Headed up one of the local volcanoes in the Land Rover with R & P.  Didn’t do any hiking, just sightseeing.

We ended up at Santa Maria de Jesus, the fairly large and mountainous village at the top end of the paved road and at the bottom of the higher ‘peak trail’ that starts at the town centre.  Sal and I had been there before with K a couple of weeks back but it was pretty sleepy and dull the first time.  Today was quite different……….shades of Latin American politics coloured the visit!

The big Sunday market was on when we got there and the central plaza was full.  It was cold, windy and there was a threat of rain in the air but the place was still alive and bustling.  I’d guess at about one thousand people if you peeked in every nook and corner.  With a few hundred others on the approach streets coming and going.  These out-of-Antigua village markets are not tourist oriented and most of the stalls were trading domestic goods and foodstuffs.  Trinkets were noticeably absent.

But what was noticeably present was the number of men not interested in the least with market goods.  They were gathered in clutches and groups all over the place and there was a main gathering over in one of the plaza corners.  In that larger group (maybe a hundred men) there was an angry, gravely-voiced guy speaking with a loud and nasty tone into a portable microphone and speaker system.  He was not happy.  And he was spreading his discontent to a rapt crowd of pretty rough looking men.  It was a political gathering of sorts.

I caught a few words that sounded like ‘economics’ and ‘government’ but discretion suggested I concentrate on the fruits and vegetables like a good little tourist and that I should provide no excuse to have his or their focus turned on us few gringos.

The wider spread, smaller groups of men seemed part of the ‘mood’  but they were not paying close attention.  I got the feeling that the speaker and his words were well-known and familiar to everyone in the area.

Also noticeably absent were the police.  Didn’t see one single ‘official’  anywhere in the town.  It was just the village.  And us.

Santa Maria de Jesus Market

We were amongst a very small number of tourists (maybe six others) dispersed about the square and no one was lingering or bantering with the locals.  The vibes just weren’t great.  In fact, the mood was distinctly ominous and threatening although there was no discernible anger directed at us or the other visitors.  Sometimes it is just a feeling but we definitely felt it.

Ironically, it is R&P who seem to provide the most protection.  Your basic abuela and abuelo generate genuine respect wherever they go in the area and the older they are, the better they seem to be regarded.  It is almost as if there was an unwritten code: leave the tourists alone but especially the really old ones. 

Gringas, however, are fair game it seems.

Personally, I didn’t feel much hostility, that is for sure.  But when you are in one of the out-of-the-way villages, that kind of disconnect, that sense of ‘us and them’, that sense of being an unwelcome outsider is quite rare.  Usually we are met with smiles and looks of interest.  To be held at arms length is weird and it is that as much as anything else that created the weird vibe.

I went to the public washroom just off the plaza.  There was a group of ‘hangers about’ milling around the entrance.  I nodded to them as I pushed past to the men’s room and was told that I had to pay 2 quetzales (the common charge for using public washrooms that, in exchange, are usually kept spotless by a couple of women cleaners who will clean up around you as you stand at the urinal).  So, I paid some guy with his hand out and I went in.  This facility was not one of those that was being cleaned by anyone.  Ever.  I got the impression that the 2Q charge was levied because I was too stupid to know better.  I was a gringo, after all.  They ‘got me’  for 30 cents.

When I emerged from the grotto that served as a bathroom, I looked for my bandito.  He was gone but in his place was a smiling, gold-toothed hombre wanting to test his English.  So I stood around with the group for a few minutes while he impressed his friends.  Even though the guys all regarded me with some malignancy, it was not intimidating.  There were five or six of them but I was a head taller and at least twice the size of the average guy.  Amongst Mayans, I am Hulk Hogan.

Hulk Hogan of the Mayan World

We cracked a few jokes, made a little small talk and I left.  Sal and I gathered up her folks and we made for the car and a slow trip back home.  The visit was uneventful but felt like an event nonetheless.  For a short while we ‘felt’ that unwelcome stranger feeling that sometimes crops up when traveling.  It is unusual but all the more remarkable because of that.  In an odd way, it felt more ‘real’ than does Antigua.

Don’t get me wrong – we get ‘real’ in the Antigua market and it is almost always pleasant and welcoming.  But Santa Maria de Jesus had that added feeling that seems to accompany the areas we occasionally visit that have no real interest in tourists.

Judging from the amplified voice in the plaza, they have bigger things on their mind.

Correction:  Anna turned out to be a wonder.  I did her a disservice by suggesting that ‘her ways were weird’ (as are the ways of all foreign cultures) simply because she disappeared for a few days.  Turns out she was ‘gone’ because she was turning the local internet company upside down getting our internet line fixed!  Anna showed up yesterday evening with a ‘lineman’ in tow and he climbed trees and strung us a new cable on the spot!  Anna to the rescue with her trusty and diminutive 5 year old daughter in tow.

Anna would be competent in whatever country she was in.  But she might be hard to find now and then.  Just sayin………

During our ‘down time’ and Anna’s walk-about, Greg had also sent Rhet.  Rhet is a bit of a techie and did a few tests to determine that it was not the house system but that a line was down.  Before he left, he called the cable company and they opined that, with luck, we might get some one to look at it within the week.  Probably not.  We were resigned to no service with that message but, of course, we had not yet factored in the ANNA element.

But Rhet was an interesting fellow, too.  Seems he had recently witnessed some bad deeds being done to tourists and took the unusual action of reporting on them to the police.  Since then he has had a low-grade fear for his life in Antigua so he decided to move to Guatemala City for improved personal safety reasons!

He was reluctantly in town for just a few hours and was keeping a very low profile (grey clothes, hoody, staying in the shadows).  I picked him up in a shadowed doorway and, after he had tried to fix the connection, I drove him back to another out-of-the-way spot…………all the better to avoid being a conspicuous target on the streets!

“Was it really that bad?!”  I don’t think so.  Rhet figure it would ‘blow over’.  He was just being a bit cautious.  Still, he was adamant that we be careful and described several common deceits inflicted on tourists that left them hurt, raped and robbed.  He was pretty condemning of the ‘milieu’ of hangers-on that frequent the central park.

Central park is truly the town’s place for congregating, ambulating and people-watching.  Yesterday there was a mini-concert in the park and I would estimate that about 250-300 people milled about.  Including me, R&P.  But this kind of event, according to Rhet, was an ideal time for the hustlers, hawkers, pick-pockets and worse.  He figured several robberies would take place and a lot of scams would be pitched to maybe-too-innocent tourists.  “Don’t ever accept a date to teach you Salsa dancing.  It is a rape scam!”  He made the park sound pretty unsavoury.

Not to mention ruining my plans for dancing Latin that evening.

“Black Thursday, a few months back, was the worst!” he said.  “A pick-up truck full of knife-wielding thugs stopped near a group of tourists and between 8 and 12 gringos were stabbed and robbed!  It was pretty bad.  Really, you must be careful here, too.  This country is still very dangerous.”

I don’t disbelieve him.  He did have some horrible stories.  But danger and accidents fall into the same category – they are surprises.  In other words, you can’t plan adequately for them.  Despite what Worksafe BC claims, accidents cannot always be prevented.  Nor can crimes.  Life is a crapshoot (and literally so if Montezuma gets involved).

We take reasonable precautions, trust our instincts, stay observant and don’t push the limits.  And in our previous travels we have still been robbed (petty theft), violently confronted (some thug in China) and found ourselves on the wrong side of the tracks on the wrong side of the wrong town not just a few times.  Once I found myself in a packed drug den full of red-eyed, stoned, surly black men after midnight in Belize City.  By accident, of course.  I attribute my safe retreat to my blazing white skin.  I think I temporarily blinded them.

Our friendly neighbourhood security guard

The point is: there is no point.  Life happens.  Some of it is bad.  There is barely a day that passes back home that I don’t start bleeding, burning or hurting myself.  When you play, you get dirty.  That happens everywhere.  That happens in Harlem.  That happens in Antigua.

Abuela going undercover

Having said all that brave stuff, Sally and I have decided to spend the rest of our winter vacation in bed in some safe, huge hotel.  We’re thinking the Holiday Inn, perhaps?  Then we’ll sneak to the airport at the right time disguised as Mayans.  Pray for us!

Update: Friday, January 27.  Two earthquakes and counting.

Three weeks in Antigua under our belt.  Great location, good house. And it was a perfect arrangement with the LandRover made available.  Brilliant, actually – made everything work out just right.  Nothing to complain about.  Landlord provided what he said he would and more.  It is all good.

VRBO (Vacation Rentals By Owner on the internet) has worked out well for us.  We’ve done it a couple of times now and, with a little ‘background checking’ one can achieve a reasonable ‘rental’ almost anywhere in the world.  (One small hint: whatever the rent quoted on the ad, it is likely flexible – especially as the rental period date looms.  A lot of people seem to have purchased rental condos and cabins in a fit of vacation-induced thrall and found out later that the unit is a bit of a burden over the long haul.  There is an element of damage control in their property management.  They would prefer 75% of the desired rent to no rent at all.  This hint is based on nothing factual whatsoever – just a hunch and two experiences that worked out that way.)     

Antigua holds a lot of interest, little challenge, no discomfort or danger and plenty of nice restaurants.  And the people are generally great, very friendly.  Very, very busy.  It was an easy cultural experience.  Recommended, even.  Some of the outlying towns are a bit more gritty and earthy but they were also safe enough – especially when viewed from the comfort of a Land Rover. Gregorio’s house in Jardines de Antigua at 25-2 was a good hit.  See it in pictures on VRBO/Guatemal/Antigua.

It was all very nice but it is also enough.  We move on to El Salvadore  in a week.  I am looking forward to the change.

Sal’s parents will return to the Great White North just before the end of the month.  They did good.  Their intrepid trekking days may be over but their intrepid days are not.  They were good company.  We’ll head west to the beaches and then bounce south over the border to San Salvadore by way of the ubiquitous chicken bus.  It’s been a while since we ‘roughed it’ but the itinerary leaves us no choice.  We have to ‘backpack’ it for a bit.  I may miss a martini or two.  Damn!

The loss (temporary, I hope) of the internet adds to the urge to ‘get on with it’.  It’s embarrassing to admit this but the ‘net’ is now an integral part of travel.  Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is.  Certainly for me. There is the expedited learning curve about an area, of course, that the net provides, but that isn’t really it.

For me, it is the quicker connection to home and family.  I have always liked to travel and the only drawback  was that I was restricted in sharing my experiences – at the time – with my friends, family and yes, ‘work connections’.  I usually have a great time and one that invariably generates stories and anecdotes and, naturally, they are shared hot-off-the-press with the travelers-we-meet-while-doing-it but that isn’t quite as neat as sharing it with those who are still at home.  The internet bridges that gap somewhat……….when it is working!

And that reminds me of yet another regularly encountered travel quirk: foreign culture peoples simply do things so differently than you’d expect you are always wondering, “What are they thinking?!” 

Yesterday the housekeeper, Anna, showed up as per her weekly routine.  She was going to ‘clean and tidy’, maybe do some laundry and generally be a housekeeper.  Usually that means a four hour Anna presence.  As soon as she walked in, we mentioned that the internet was down.  She pulled out her blackberry, walked outside (no reception inside the house) and made a call to Gregorio (landlord) and got instructions. Seems she was directed to town.  I offered to drive her.  She declined but headed off immediately to – presumably – fix the problem.  That was at 9:30 am.

Anna, of course, didn’t get to her usual household tasks that day.  She was in town.   But Anna never returned.  Anna didn’t call either.  Anna didn’t leave a note.  Anna didn’t return the next day either.  And the net is still not working.   The housekeeping duties are not essential – we are neat and tidy and capable.  And we can get by without the net simply by going into town.  But now I am left with the mystery of the missing housekeeper.

The plot thickens, the game is afoot and I did hear the dog barking in the night!

“Geez, Sal, think Anna is OK?  I mean…..no contact, gone all day, no duties performed, no news!?  Nada.  Doesn’t that seem weird?”

“Of course it does!  Except, don’t you remember that everything seems weird in other countries?  Weird is the norm.  Had she made a call and a repairman showed up while she carried on with the household duties and things were all completed as expected, wouldn’t you be stunned?  Shocked?  I mean, really!?  Could it possibly have gone as we think it should? “ 

“No.  You’re right.  It has to be mystifying.  Hell, now that you mention it, maybe Anna and her family have moved to another town, Greg has sold the house and the new government has cancelled the net!” 

“Now you‘re getting it………..”

The ‘net’  has been down for a couple of days.  Happens all the time, it seems.  But it went off yesterday and is still off.  I am writing this from a hotel lobby a few miles from home. 

Had another earthquake yesterday morning.  About 5. on the R scale.  But the following is what I was writing when the neighbourhood cable went on the blink………

When I was a young man racing motorcyles, I read about bikes voraciously, subscribed to magazines and had several ‘shop manuals’ to pore over.  When I had to learn about running a clinic, I read books on management and accounting, hospital practices and drug addiction.  And when we moved to live on a boat, I read everything from Chichester to Wally Ross, from How-to-tie knots to navigation.

I have a tendency to ‘get into’ things and it often manifests in my devouring library books.  The really interesting thing is that sometimes the interest comes first and the reading follows up as I ‘try to make sense’ of what I got myself into.  And, sometimes, I just stumble on a subject while looking for something to read and the next thing I know, I am developing real estate based on having read Commercial Real Estate Development for Dummies.  Sometimes the chicken, sometimes the egg.

Which brings me to the current reading list.  I have been consuming books on the economy and financial matters for decades but lately I seem to be gravitating to two different schools of thought.  One, of course, is that everything including the climate and the source of your food, safety, finances and water is all going to Hell-in-a-handbasket.  The message is, essentially, ‘survivalist’  and how to achieve the kiss-your-butt-goodbye pose in yoga while sporting an M-16.

These doom-and-gloomers do not intend to go quietly.  There is a huge contingent of ‘off-the-gridders-cum-survivalists’  who also believe that we will have to kill or be killed because of our semi-automatic totin’ neighbours who will want our stuff and that investment in MREs, body-armour, dried foods, water filters and heavy and light arms is the only way to go.

These Mad Max’s give us rural sweethearts a bad name.

Then there are the real sweetie-pies.  These are ones who see the coming turmoil (everyone sees coming turmoil) as simply the ‘transition’ phase from the dog-eat-dog consciousness of the capitalist past and as best exemplified by the GWB’s and other imperialistic efforts that have prevailed throughout history.  They think we are going to shift to being good.  The new ‘sweethearts/utopians/Millerites and such think we are transcending our basic, primal selves and going all ‘community/love/new age’ as we step into a universally higher consciousness of eco-community and, well, more love.

‘Course, none of this is new.  It always comes down to the good guys versus the bad guys.  I’m ‘pulling for‘ the love side, myself.  And, to that end, I recommend Paul Hawken (Blessed Unrest) and even David Korten (Great Turning).  (Poor ol’ Dave is a bit of a nut.  Uses words like ‘spriritual’ and all that all the time.  Gets a bit evangelistic but, basically, the basic concepts  seem lucid and logical enough.  I think he wants to have his own cult.  But, if you can get past that, his book is interesting.  Sort of Jared Diamond and Naomi Klien meet Jim Jones and David Koresh.)

Personally, I have no idea how it will all shake out.  Clearly the bulk of the population think that it will be business as usual and they’ll just get older and collect their pensions.  I have my doubts about that.  Considerable ones.

But, if it does not go to Hell-in-a-handbasket and it does not go all love/green/eco/community and if staying-the-same is not bloody likely, then what alternatives are there?

If you want to use Antigua and Guatemala as a gauge, you’d get a weird picture: there are the heavies of government, the narco-mafia and a culture of local violence, corruption and decay that has a pretty strong history, not to mention momentum and quasi-acceptance.  It seems culturally built-in.  On the other hand, there are more goody-two-shoes NGOs, charities, churches and volunteers than you can shake a stick at.   Helping Mayans is a huge industry here.  HUGE!  Love is in the air!

However………you get ‘fleeced and cheated’ on one side of the street and sold ‘ethical, fair-trade, sustainable coffee’ on the other.  And, as for the ‘status quo’?  Well that changes every day but, in some odd way, everything remains the same.

Anitigua manifests the corruption and exploitation of the old imperialist (read: USA) regimes while, at the same time, running a parallel, ‘we come in peace’ alter-culture centred around, ironically, gringos and US-based NGOs and missionaries.

In a mental snapshot, it is like the picture of the Kent State shootings – hippies on one side, soldiers on the other.  And, in this twisted example, the indigenous peoples are selling refreshments from the sidelines while texting on their smartphones.

Maybe Antigua is not the right model to study……..too confusing.

Took a run out to La Reunion today with the two abuelos.  It’s a golf resort.  Look it up.  Very beautiful.

Located at the base of several volcanoes, it is about 25 kms from Antigua on a nicely paved road (after a few miles of filling-remover track to get to it.  I swear: if you have loose follicles when you arrive in Antigua, you’ll be bald by the time you leave!).  Of course there are the usual stretches of rubble-strewn, dirt-and-mud sections but, for the most part, it is an easy drive.  Well, the last kilometer is a smidge ‘uncomfortable’  as it is a winding, cobble-stone, picturesque lane that is steep and  curvy as it wends its way up the base of one of the volcanoes to the clubhouse and hotel.  Again with the bobble-head.

La Reunion is gorgeous.  Absolutely what a foreign ‘dream’ golf resort should be except, maybe, for the country it is in.  The temperature is perfect.  The views are perfect.  And even the golf course – a Pete Dye design – is absolutely stunning.  It is also empty.  Reasons……….?  Well they are myriad but, for starters, it is too far from anything else.

La Reunion is one of those ‘destination resorts’ that is not really destination enough.  Plus it comes with a huge price tag.  Golf is $150.00 a round.  Rooms $350/night.   We sat on the terrace taking in the view while a golf widow knitted on the lounge next to us.  Boredom writ large all over her too-rich-to-move face.

I asked the sales rep (yes, I am a glutton for punishment), “So, how is it going?  Lots of sales?  Seems a bit quiet right now. Lovely, tho, really.  But not a lot of cashflow, I am sure.  How much does it cost to buy a unit?  And how many people live here right now?” 

“Yes, signor, it is quiet.  Economy very bad.  We have ten residents right now but the plan is to have hundreds of units filled.  Someday.  Maybe.  I hope.”

Ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.

La Reunion must have over 150 employees just to ‘operate’.  What it took to build is anyone’s guess………a bazillion?  It covers ten times the area a normal golf resort covers……….I am guessing 2000 acres.

There are lot of these ‘five star’ jewels around the world and not enough 5 star wallets to support them.  I wonder what will happen?  What now, Dubai?

I was gonna offer to be a marketing consultant but I don’t wanna do it, can’t likely do a good job, nor do I think they would like my plan…………

“Signor, this is what you have to do.  First get China Air to fly direct from Beijng into Guat City.  By way of Tokyo and Seoul.  Jam the planes full of Asian golfers and bring ’em in by the 747 load.  These cultures do ‘resort tour packages’ in a big way.  ‘ Specially golf.  Plus they have the money.  Let the gringos dribble in.  There might be some.  Someday. In the meantime, follow the money.  It’s in China.” 

Yeah, I know what you are thinking……...”Geez, Dave, did you once earn a living with ideas like that?” 

Guest contributor.

I stay in touch with what is going on at home.  One of my friends wrote me this morning………….

“You certainly are missing out on the excitement of this gusting 60 knot SE’ster. R &RM still has his water frozen.  Probably C&J, too.  It has been howling a few days now!”

Earthquake was a 6.2 according to the net. Just right for fun and conversation (and blogging). Everything settled back to normal immediately thereafter. And then we went out for dinner.

Guatemala has a weird cultural habit. Maybe it is just Antigua. I dunno. But, anyway, they set off firecrackers all day long. Just about every day.  And at all times of all the days, tho mostly at night.

There seem to be two types – the ones that you might expect at a Chinese New Year celebration: a few hundred in a bunch going off like Rice Krispies on ‘roids. The kind that sound like rapid light arms fire (military vernacular).

And then there are the ones that sound like they were dropped from the Enola Gay. These puppies BOOM!  I mean, like: you can feel the vibration in the air sometimes!  A shotgun going off in the air over your head fifty feet from you doesn’t make the noise these min-bombs do from blocks away. Some are so big, I thought at first it was a volcano popping.

Abuelo last night figured it was a real ‘firefight’ between shotgun totin’ desperados and Alberto.  Hard to say.  Honest!  I am pretty sure it was just the usual bigger-than-sticks-of-dynamite fire-crackers but we’ll check for bodies later in the day when we go out.

Last night we had rapid light arms fire-type noise all night long to the cranked-up accompaniment of party music at a neighbours house. Good fun, it seems. There would be riot police if it was that loud in Vancouver. Bylaws would be passed.  The premier would promise to crack down on something. Latin music, I hope.

I think the hockey riots were quieter.

And, of course, the occasional Manhattan project would boom every hour or so just to remind you where you were.

The really interesting part is that this ‘assault’ can be heard all over town at different times and at different places every day of the week. Maybe a bit more on weekends. Maybe a bit more again at festivals, funerals, weddings and parties.  Or for any reason, now that I think of it.  But, no matter, the fireworks are as ubiquitos as car horns, motorcycle drones and diesel buses. Describing Antigua without the fireworks is like describing Vancouver without the mountains.

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Is it the same guys going about in trucks all night long or is it a cultural habit enjoyed spontaneously by denizens of all neighbourhoods?

Last night we had the addition of half-a-rooster adding to the din. This poor ditz just didn’t have the call down pat. He’d ‘cock-a-o-woooo’ . Missing the doodle. That I found disturbing.

To answer the obvious question: Yes. I sleep through it all. Mostly. The damn chicken gets me now and then.

What kind of weird bird-gene deviation leaves out half a ‘crow’?  Where’s the ‘doodle’?  His timing was bad, too. He’d half-rise to the occasion at about two in the morning, make a few goofy, limp-taloned efforts and then fade against the latest barrage of gunpowder ‘blasts’ from the guys-who-have-all-the-fun-with-explosives. Sunrise, it seems has nothing to do with it.

There is no way that rooster gets lucky.  Think about it: first you are born a chicken.  Then you are born a chicken in Guatemala.  Then you are cursed with a speech impediment and finally, you have no sense of timing to speak of.  To add to the misery, you have to compete with bombs going off and a whole other village-within-a-village of dogs compelled to add to the ongoing cacophony.  No wonder he gives up half-way through.

OK, it is not much for a blog entry, I admit, but I, for one, am really, really glad I am not a Guatemalan rooster.

Maybe you have to be here to really feel it?

Old is old.  Can’t deny it.  But Sal’s parents sure do a good job of ‘resisting’ it.  These guys rock.  Well, they roll, lurch, tip a bit and stumble too, but they are pretty much ‘on the ball’ overall and happy to get out and about.  As a group, we’re a bit slow but, when milling about amongst the hoi polloi of the publico mercado, speed is not much of a factor.  We get around.

Nice thing about the local mercado: R is still tall enough to see in a Mayan crowd.

While Sal and the two A’s (abuela and abuelo) went searching for veggies, I sought out my ‘butcher, Raoul, again.  We did meat business once again in his 10 foot by 10 foot cubicle complete with bandsaw, sink, stool, boxes, side-of-beef, tiled front counter and three other members of his family.  Wife was all smiles.  Kids were nice.

Butchers in the mercado do not cut meat in the same manner as do NortAmericanos.  They just slice ‘blobs’ off of ‘hunks’ hanging overhead and, for the most part, everything ends up looking like stewing beef.  To get BBQ-type steaks the first time was a challenge and so I go back to my now T-bone-educated Raoul

Raoul wants to give me his undivided attention but he has other customers so I wait my turn.  Everyone likes that – especially me.  Lots to watch and learn about while waiting.  Interesting.  No matter what they say, they all walk away with stewing beef.

Stewing Beef and More

The customers who have a bit of English stick around to help me with Raoul.   Today I could not get my request across.  I finally drew pork spareribs on a napkin (the universal translator) and everyone shrieked the proper name at me.  Still haven’t a clue.

Too much pride, laughter and congratulatory smiling all around to say, “What?!”  Instead, I do the gringo nod, smile and say “Gracias”.

Raoul doesn’t carry pork.  So he sent his wife down the way to ‘borrow’  some from his cousin.

Mind you, that limited selection tends to limit the both of us to the ‘quasi’ t-bones.  I am going to have to remember how to ‘cut’ some other ‘types’ and teach them to Raoul.  He wants to learn.  He’ll get more gringo customers that way.  I was a butcher-boy when I was 14/15 but I have forgotten everything.  Still, I am not above making it up as I go.  Should be fun.

Currently experiencing an earthquake as I write this………been going on for about 30 seconds now.  I’d guess; 6.0, maybe 6.5.  Ponds a’sloshing, wind-chimes singing, plants and trees rocking to and fro. Glasses and cups clattering in the kitchen.  Pretty neat.  R says very calmly, “Well, P, maybe this is how we are going to die!?  Should we do something?”

We all just grin.

A few hours at the mad Mayan mercado.  An earthquake.  Maybe a nap. Happy hour.  Dinner.  Ho hum……..all in an ordinary day in Antigua.

Everybody has ’em!

On our street, we have two security guards, Alberto and Roberto.  Almost as indistinguishable as their names. They are both short, squat Mayans in security-guard-type uniforms and they each carry sawed-off shotguns.  Mossbergs.  Police ‘specials’.  The kind with the pistol grip and short barrel.  They don’t sling ’em over their shoulder.  They don’t leave ’em in the car.  They don’t even carry them casually with one hand.  The two ‘bertos’ (never together – one has the day shift, the other does nights) are always at-the-ready’ with the shotgun held in two hands and across the chest.

Equally as ‘ready’ are their smiles.  These are nice guys.  Almost child-lke.  I usually give them candies when I see ’em.  They like candies.  They like me.  I am Da-veed numero uno.  There are two lesser Da-veeds located around the corner somewhere.  I am pretty sure they don’t give out candies, but I do.  Thus my ranking.

Go to the local supermercado and there are two, sometimes four, ‘guards’, all with shotguns.  They stand by the doors (and there are doors front and back) and watch for any shoplifters that need to be blown away, I guess.

Guarding the Store

Interesting side note: at the back door there is also a lottery ticket salesman complete with a portable amplifier and speakers capable in itself of blowing someone away.  The guy with the microphone yells and screams at the crowd at somewhere around the 500 decibel level with Latin background music accompaniment.  I swear: the guard could likely shoot a person and not be heard!

There is usually a gun-totin’  guard at any ATM machine, too.  Which is kinda funny.  The local ATMs are often out of cash but the guard is hired by the day.  So there he stands, guarding……………an empty, bolted-down-and-fully-exposed-in-public ATM.  Armed.  Serious.  Alone.

I may start to carry more candies.

We once were stopped behind a box-van and the driver and the swamper got out to quickly unload a few ‘flats’ of eggs into a nearby tienda.  While they did that the security guard for the bank next door came over and ‘stood guard’.  We watched the eggs enjoy shotgun protection from truck to store shelf!

There are shotgun totin’ guards sprinkled liberally about the town and even on the outskirts.  Every good hotel has at least one.  The public park sports a few.  ‘Course the cops all have ’em and every twentieth vehicle is a cop car.  And then there are the noticeably fewer at the publico mercado and bus depot but that still adds another say, half-dozen.

My guess: there are at least two hundred shotguns-at-the-ready sprinkled about the town at any one time.  The town is about 8 blocks square.  That is an average of 3 or so shotguns per block.  And I may be underestimating.

Pinatas.  Shotguns.  Really, really loud noise.  I am starting to understand this country.

…………Cat Stevens, Otis Redding, Classic Beatles, the Stones and Simon and Garfunkel.  I mean, pulleeez………….Mariachi?

What are they thinking?

I’ll give you Margaritas, guacamole, hand-weaving and even cerveza and limes.  I’ll even throw in salsa, burritos and re-fried beans.  Hell, I like cactus, dessert, volcanoes and crazy bus-rides in baubled-and-chromed  chicken buses.  But, c’mon?  Mariachi?!

I mean, can we talk?  Ya gotta tell the truth, don’t ya? Tell it like it is- ya gotta do that!!  And only Latin America’s Santana got even close to good music . 

Damn!

Help me out here………….

Most tourists are afraid of Federales and banditos.  I live in fear of Mariachi bands.  C’mon!  Tell the truth. You, too, right?  It’s torture, right?

Am I alone on this?

Or am I like my daughter who has her own special curses.  She can’t abide the presence of a painted-face, circus-type clown.  Honest.  She has clownaphobia (coulrophobia).  Makes her crazy.

“Geez, is it just me or are circus clowns not really, really, really creepy?  I mean Chucky was a clown, right?  They are like psychos in heavy make-up.  What’s funny about that?  Keep ’em away from me!” 

You say ‘clown’, I say ‘Mariachi’.  Same visceral response – fear and loathing.  Emphasis on the latter.

They should fear me!

Sheesh!