by Levison Wood
Without a word, we got in the back of the car and immediately sped off.
Never get into a car with a stranger. I’m pretty sure every schoolboy and girl was warned of that. I remember the lessons, the posters and the government-sponsored advertisements back in the 1980s, when it seemed that all the world’s ills were finally realised.
Well, stupid or not, I clearly wasn’t listening, because I’ve hitchhiked in pretty much every country I’ve ever been to and I haven’t come to much harm myself. So long as I exclude a couple of car crashes and one pointed gun and two attempted robberies, but out of eighty countries that’s not bad going, I suppose. The point is, I thought nothing of getting into the car. When you make a living out of travel, you have to put your faith in the kindness of strangers, otherwise you’d never leave your hotel room.
I sat on the right-hand back seat, with Alberto in the middle next to me, and on his left was a man in his forties, the oldest of the three locals. He wore a dirty checked shirt and was smoking a hand-rolled spliff. The sickly-sweet smell of marijuana wafted through the car. In the passenger seat was another man wearing a baseball cap. He didn’t say a word. The pot smoker did most of the talking, and the driver occasionally asked questions.
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m Mexican and he’s from England,’ said Alberto.
‘You came from Belize? Why are you walking?’ asked the driver.
‘The gringo likes to walk. I’m his guide,’ Alberto laughed.
I smiled. The pot smoker laughed. Here we go again, I thought to myself, Alberto’s turn.
‘What’s the camera for?’ I saw the fat man’s eyes glancing at the video camera on Alberto’s lap.
I thought it was best to tell the truth rather than continue with the daft-tourist routine, which they clearly weren’t buying anyway.
‘I’m a writer, and we’re also making a documentary,’ I butted in, before Alberto could reply.
He nodded discreetly and continued.
‘All about Central America. We’re walking to Colombia.’
The fat man turned around and looked us up and down as he drove.
‘Colombia has good ganja,’ said the pot smoker next to us. ‘Gives you good energy for making love to the ladies.’ He made a lewd motion with his hands.
The driver and the man in the passenger seat looked at each other suspiciously.
‘Are you working for the government?’ he asked, suddenly agitated.
‘Hell, no,’ said Alberto. ‘Chinga. We’re just travellers.’
‘How much is the gringo paying you?’ said the fat man.
‘Not much, I’m doing it for fun.’
‘If you’re walking, what is your route?’
Without thinking, I told him my plan – following the road south through El Petén to Rio Dulce, then down the river to Livingston and Puerto Barrios, and onward to Honduras, through San Pedro Sula …
Shit. I realised what I was doing. I was telling a complete stranger, no, three strangers, who could be anyone, my itinerary and plans for the next weeks. I stopped abruptly.
‘But of course, we sometimes change our plans,’ said Alberto.
‘Where is the rest of your team?’
I butted in again, ‘We’re meeting them ahead, later on today. We’ve just spoken to them on our phones and they’re tracking us on our GPS anyway. They’ll be wondering why we’re going off route.’ I nudged Alberto discreetly.
‘Yes, these TV people don’t give us a moment’s rest,’ Alberto interjected, playing the game.
‘They’re going to buy drugs from Colombia,’ said the pot smoker, bursting into uncontrollable laughter, as we pulled into a village. The car came to a halt outside a small shop that doubled up as a restaurant.
The fat man got out first and motioned for us to follow.
We all stood around the car and there was an awkward silence. Alberto grasped my arm and said in English quietly, ‘Have you any photos of your book on your phone? Hurry, they don’t believe us.’
I didn’t see the immediate danger, but I trusted Alberto’s instincts and got out my phone, scrolling through the camera roll until I found a shot of my Nile book cover. I handed it to the fat man, who looked at the picture, spelling out the words, ‘WALKING THE NILE.’
‘El Nilo,’ nodded the pot smoker, looking over the fat man’s shoulder. ‘Es muy falta.’
He was right, it was very far, the memories hadn’t escaped me yet.
‘How many books have you sold?’ he asked me.
‘Erm, I don’t know. A few thousand, maybe.’
‘Ah, good money, eh? You must be very rich.’ His eyes widened and the other men grunted with agreement.
‘No, no, books don’t make him any money. He’s really poor, look at his clothes, they’re so dirty.’ Alberto patted me on the shoulder.
The fat man didn’t look convinced, but at least now they believed we were who we said we were, and relaxed a little. We sat down at a table and waited for the pork and tortillas to arrive.
‘So, you’re going to Honduras next?’ said the fat man, whose name it transpired was Hugo.
The pot smoker, Walter, winked at Alberto. ‘Good ganja there, too.’
‘Yes, we are, any advice?’ said Alberto, as a waitress poured fresh lime juice into plastic cups.
‘Yes,’ said Hugo. ‘Don’t film or ask too many questions to the narcos. They don’t like it and you’ll get into trouble.’
‘OK.’
‘If you want, I can help you. I know people there, they can get you across the border in a truck, if you like?’
‘It’s OK, we’re walking and anyway we have passports, so don’t really need to be smuggled.’
Hugo looked a little disappointed.
‘So, what do you do?’
I asked the men, before realising it was an inappropriate question as Alberto’s knee slammed firmly into mine.
The men looked down at their plates and started eating. ‘We grown beans and corn,’ said Hugo in a mumble.
‘I’m a policeman.’ After a moment of silence, the third man who’d been in the passenger seat spoke up. He hadn’t said anything until now and we hadn’t caught his name. ‘Be careful in Honduras. There are American DEA officers everywhere. Their spies are in all the villages. Even here in Guatemala, they work on the border. I thought maybe you were one of them, filming things.’
‘No, they’re not,’ said Walter, who had stubbed out his joint in favour of eating. ‘They’re looking for drugs.’
‘No, we’re …’ I was about to protest, before the policeman carried on.
‘Want to see his house?’ he pointed at Walter. ‘It’s just next door. You can film his house for your film and make us famous.’
‘Erm, OK,’ I agreed.
After finishing up the pork, we walked out of the shop and went to the house next door through a little garden. Rows of holey underwear were strung from a washing line, under which a five-foot-high cannabis plant sprouted from the flower bed. Walter, who was almost certainly a bachelor, had torn a piece of paper and was busy rolling another joint as he led us into his house. It was nothing more than a tin shack with holes in the walls. The floor was filthy and a fraying hammock dangled loosely from the termite-infested beams.
Inside the tiny hut was a small stove, a chest of drawers, and bags and bags of dried marijuana. He lit the roughly rolled spliff and handed it to Alberto, who took a drag out of politeness. The policeman smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Hugo, the fat man, made a gesture and we knew it was time to leave. Before they could change their minds, we shook their hands with big smiles, thanking them all for their advice and promising them we’d send copies of the film and book, and keep them all updated on the journey. Then we walked, and kept on walking as fast as we could.
‘I’m not sure what I made of them,’ I said to Alberto, as he caught his breath.
‘I reckon they were narcos,’ he carried on.
‘Do you t
hink?’
‘Of course. One hundred per cent. Remember when you asked them what they did and they said they grew beans and corn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I looked at their hands. They weren’t dirty. Their clothes, everything about them, made me think they weren’t farmers. I think they wanted to check us out. That’s why they stopped. They wanted to see if we had any money, that’s why they kept asking how much I got paid and how many books you sold; whether we were worth kidnapping or not.’
‘What about the policeman?’ I asked.
‘Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Even if he was, and the DEA story was true, it doesn’t mean he’s not a narco. Here they’re all in on it. You don’t think all these mansions were built right under the noses of the army and police without them knowing? And the fat guy, Hugo. He said he’d been to Honduras, right? Why would a simple farmer go to Honduras? And the fact that he offered to smuggle us in a truck? You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘I think they were low-level smugglers. Not the bosses, but the meat heads. They were too stupid to be top bad guys, since they let us film and ask questions. They let their vanity get the better of them when they thought they could get on TV. Lucky for us we had the camera, eh, otherwise they would have taken us to their hideout and we’d be sat on our knees with a blindfold on by now.’
Alberto was right. We’d had a lucky escape. I’d made the mistake of underestimating the environment. I think I’d got sloppy after walking through the Yucatán and Belize, which for the most part were safe, but here was a different story. I could have slapped myself now. As we headed south on the deserted road, I realised that I’d told those men our exact route, so that if they changed their minds and fancied kidnapping us after all, they knew exactly where we’d be; regardless of how stupid they might be, it didn’t take a genius to work out that one loose word to their boss, or another gang member, could end up with us in deep trouble. It was a lesson learned for both of us, and one that couldn’t have come at a better time, because where we were going, we couldn’t afford to take any chances.
South of La Cumbre, El Petén closes in, and the rolling hills slowly transform into a series of looming karsts and mountains. The road snakes through the jungle-clad gorges flanking the main valley. We had left the dirt track behind and found ourselves on a busy highway full of trucks and motorbikes, and yet more shiny 4x4s, as they went about their business. A further three days’ walking brought us to the Rio Dulce – the sweet river – at the point where an enormous sky bridge had been built to intersect the great lagoon. We’d finally reached the gateway to Lake Izabal, which stretched out for twenty miles to the west.
But we were heading now in the opposite direction, to the east, back towards the Caribbean, where we would be able to cross into Honduras. It was here that Stephens and Catherwood had entered Guatemala and begun their epic voyage in search of the Mayan lost worlds, all those years ago, and I imagined the intrepid pair on board a steamship as it chugged along the Rio Dulce, and the wonder in their eyes as they set forth into the unknown.
I wondered how much had changed in reality. I was well aware that life for the early explorers was far more perilous than it is for us now. For Stephens, there was no communication other than the occasional handwritten letter. The telegraph hadn’t reached Central America at that time. There were no trains, cars, or paved roads. Each day was a struggle for survival and life was cheap on the road. Caste wars between the races in the Yucatán and a civil war in Guatemala made journeying impossible for all except the bravest, and only then with a diplomatic passport, aristocratic connections, and a saddlebag full of gold. Oh, and half a dozen rifles, just in case.
These days anyone can travel anywhere, and that’s part of the privilege of living in these times. A plane ticket and an Instagram account are all one needs to justify a trip, if you even need that. Of course, there are risks and hazards, you only have to turn on the news to see that, but what I’d come to realise is that even in the most dangerous places in the world, there are still thousands, if not millions of people living out their daily lives in relative peace.
Even in a war zone, not everyone is getting shot at all the time. I’d been in enough war zones to understand that ninety per cent of the time, nothing happens – merely the humdrum daily chatter of people going about their business, hoping that infernal politics will settle for long enough to allow them to go to the shops, or visit their sick aunt, or celebrate a friend’s birthday. We sometimes forget that, when we’re fed a constant drip of bombs, bullets and terrorism on the popular news. The truth is usually a lot less dramatic than first appears, and it’s only by visiting those sorts of places that you can understand that for yourself, and in doing so, gain the experience and wisdom to make the right choices along the way. While you need to be prepared for the worst-case scenario, and accept a certain level of risk, more often than not, things work out OK in the end.
Alberto and I followed the course of the Rio Dulce east, past engulfing canyons and thick forest, watching as Mayan fishermen cast their nets into the deep brown waters below. Pelicans glided low against the lapping waves and herons perched in little crevices in the cliffs, watching us with marble eyes. We emerged at its estuary in the town of Livingston, where a few hundred Garifuna people live. They are the descendants of African slaves who escaped the island of St.Vincent in the seventeenth century to form their own unique, African communities along the Caribbean coastline to this day.
Out of El Petén, with its suspicion and paranoia, we were welcomed once again into people’s homes and lives and given a glimpse into a world inside a world, where the rhythm of west Africa still thrives. Among the ramshackle wooden houses, we were greeted by trinket-sellers offering turtle shells and conch. Stalls laden with all kinds of colourful fruits from the surrounding jungle filled the narrow streets. Every house seemed to be a restaurant, where little hatches revealed old men with dreadlocks and gargantuan women too big to leave the house, instead putting their culinary heritage into practice. All the while, a familiar and constant drumbeat blasted from their radios.
It was a scene I’d seen a thousand times along the Nile and it was easy to forget which continent we were on. These proud people, isolated from the rest of Guatemala by the colour of their skin, their language and their culture, live out on a limb like a tribe apart. Whereas in Belize, Africans had mixed with Europeans and Indians alike under a remarkably open and tolerant society, the same could not be said here.
We followed the Caribbean coast south, walking along the beach with the emerald water lapping against our feet and the sun beating down. Our only shade was the spindly leaves of the palms overhead that fringed the edge of the mangrove swamps. For a while we found ourselves in paradise, but it was a short-lived vision, because up ahead we knew the hardest part was yet to come.
The past month had given us an insight into life in this distinct region. For both of us, we’d learnt how to get along in some tough circumstances, very much outside our comfort zone. It was a challenge, though, that we’d come to relish, as each new day brought with it incredible wonders, and for me at least, this was the first expedition that I’d embarked upon safe in the knowledge I was walking with a companion who could guarantee to make me laugh, no matter how hard things got. As we arrived at the Honduras border, I was glad that I wasn’t doing this alone.
12
Barrios
It was almost the end of the first week in September when we arrived at Corinto, the gateway to Honduras. Hardly anyone was crossing at this border and except a solitary official in uniform, the offices of the immigration post were empty and bare. The pavements were overgrown with weeds and rusting trailers that hadn’t moved in years gave the whole place an almost apocalyptic feel. A limp Honduran flag dangled in the oppressive afternoon heat; the only suggestion that we had entered Central America’s poorest country.
Plodding on towards the east, we skirted the Caribbean c
oastline along a main highway. To the left stretched the last flat lands that we’d encounter for a long while, and to the right, looming some two miles distant, were the Merendón mountains. At two and a half thousand metres, they formed a natural barrier to the comparatively flat Petén that we had spent the past weeks walking, and it came as no surprise to learn that this was the extent of the ancient Mayan civilisation. Beyond this wall of almost vertical green rainforest, we would be leaving behind a familiar culture and entering somewhere altogether wilder.
Honduras means ‘the depths’ and was named by Columbus as he sailed past the country in the deep water, but decided against disembarking. Perhaps the ruggedness of the country put him off. As we stared up at the vast mountain range, I could hardly blame him.
At Cuyamel we stayed for a couple of days to stock up on provisions before setting off into the hills. For this we’d need some local help, as there didn’t seem to be any clear trail, so we employed the services of two local lads who knew the way over the passes to San Pedro Sula twenty miles away.
‘What are your names, chicos?’ asked Alberto, as the pair of scruffy teenagers stood to attention before us. I’d found it remarkable how a border can change so much, including it seems, national character. Whereas in Guatemala we’d been greeted with nothing but insolence and disdain, there was a totally different atmosphere here. The locals were smiling and seemed happy; the kids, in spite of their all-too-apparent poverty, were all very willing to help out, or maybe they were just a bit more entrepreneurial? In Guatemala, you couldn’t get decent service even if you emptied your wallet. The shops were empty, the people cold, and the atmosphere indifferent. In Honduras, people genuinely wanted to help out a couple of foreigners, and we had no trouble finding willing volunteers.
‘I’m Jose,’ said the older of the two. ‘I’m Darling,’ said the younger. They were brothers.
