Sleazeballs and Cons

In case the title didn’t give it away, the end of my stay in Flores didn’t leave me with warm, fuzzy feelings.

I’ve been blessed to have met wonderful, kind, interesting, friendly people as I travel, and to have had few real mishaps.  In the 11 years I’ve been wandering on my own I’ve broken 5 cameras, had one serious car accident, one real theft, one case of food poisoning, and learned never to use a credit card in an airport because it gets hacked. Other than that, the travel gods have been kind to me.  The only times things have gone badly were when I didn’t listen to my instincts.

From the beginning I didn’t want to go to Guatemala.  I’ve been homesick, and I really just wanted to get on a plane and go home for a week.  But flights are expensive, and the only way I could have afforded it was to come back mid-week, after school had already started again.  So I let my director talk me into Guatemala- a cheaper option that would put me back in Orizaba before school recommenced.  I wasn’t happy, but I chalked that up to homesickness and made my plans.

The vast majority of the trip was good.  I loved Palenque, the travel went smoothly, and the border crossing was easy.  A few things along the way ended up being more expensive than I’d planned for, so I hung around in Flores instead of going off and doing interesting things with my new Argentinian friend, but I enjoyed it just the same.  Still, the whole time I had a nagging feeling of not-rightness.

I realized why the night before I came home.

I went to the front desk at the hostel, where I had purchased my return ticket because their travel agency and offered a slight discount.  I was feeling anxious and wanted to make sure I correctly remembered what time the collectivo arrived in the morning.

After I confirmed the time, I asked, “And all I need is my receipt showing I paid, right?” and held out the receipt I’d gotten the day I arrived.

“What is that?” the girl asked.

“It’s my receipt,” I replied, a little confused.

“That’s not our receipt,” she replied.

“Um…what do you mean?”

“It’s not our receipt, or from the tour agency,” she repeated, and held up two receipt books that did, indeed, look completely different from the one that I held in my hand.

“Well, I bought it from the ticket agent who was standing right next to this reception desk on Monday,” I told her.

She took it from me to look at it and shook her head. “That’s not our receipt, and I don’t know who this man is who put his name on it.”

At that point, I got the sinking feeling that I was screwed, and I started getting both nervous and a little upset.

“Miss,” I said as calmly and quietly as I could, “This man was in your lobby for at least 2 hours Monday, selling tour tickets.  I saw him give you money and his receipt book before he left.  You put the money in your shirt pocket like you do when you are too busy to unlock the cash box right away.”  I genuinely wasn’t trying to accuse her of misconduct, but I definitely wanted her to know that I had been paying attention.  I had heard that cons were crawling all over Flores, fleecing the tourists.  I made sure to buy a ticket directly from the hostel- or so I thought.

She immediately went on the defensive, and I knew that I’d been had.  “I said I do not know this man,” she repeated sharply, “And I don’t like you accusing me. You can ask anyone who works here.  This man is not with the hostel.  We don’t stop you from buying tickets from anyone you want, but we don’t guarantee them unless you buy from us.”

“But… He was RIGHT HERE, beside your reception desk.  How could he stand here for two hours and sell tickets if he was not part of the hostel?”

“We cannot control who you buy your tickets from,” she repeated, and shrugged.  “This is not a ticket to Palenque.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.  “He was right here, next to your desk.  How could I have possibly known he wasn’t with the hostel?”  I had to have sounded panicked.  I had 25 quetales left and the banks were closed- it was 7:45.  The nearest ATM that was not locked inside a bank was a 45 minute walk away in Santa Elena and I wasn’t about to do it alone at night.  Neither the hostel nor the tour agency accepted credit cards.  The only bus I knew of going to Palenque was leaving at 5am, and this woman was telling me I had no ticket and no way to buy one.  I was panicked.

“We cannot control who you buy your tickets from,” she said yet again.  “There is nothing we can do.”

“I want to talk to your manager,” I said.

She rolled her eyes and glared at me, “I am the front manager.  The owner is not here.  Go ask in the restaurant if you want, they will tell you the same thing.”

I did.  They did.  And after burying my head under the pillow on my bed and screaming in frustration, I went back to the front desk.  I needed a solution, and I didn’t have anyone else to ask.

As calmly as I could I asked her, “If this is not a ticket to Palenque, what can I do?  I have to go home.  How can I get there?”

She shrugged, “I do not know.  This is not our problem,” and turned away.

I was a foot taller than her, 80 pounds heavier, and have karate training.  For about 2 minutes, I seriously considered just breaking her in half and then going all cat-fight and tearing out her hair.  Luckily, logical Evie pointed out to pissed off and panicking Evie that landing in a Guatemalan jail would not, in fact, get me home on time.  Or at all.

So I took a deep breath, put my hands in my pockets and stepped back.  My mind was whirling and I was kicking myself in the ass mentally.  I hadn’t liked the guy when he asked if I needed help the day I’d arrived.  He had felt creepy. He had leered. I had considered coming back later, but money was thin and I wanted to guarantee I had a return ticket.  So, leering creeper or not, I went ahead and bought a ticket.  He was in the hostel.  He was wearing a polo shirt like the other staff was.  He’d been there when I arrived 2 hours earlier.  It had never once occurred to me that he might not be with the hostel.

I stood in the lobby 5 minutes, trying not to cry (which I do not do in public) and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do.  Then, a quiet voice behind me said, “Is something wrong?  Can we help?”

That’s when I met the couple who, as it happens, live 15 minutes away from me in Cordoba.  I told them what was going on, and that I didn’t know how I was going to get home if I couldn’t get on the collectivo.  They told me not to worry, that public buses left every hour or so from a stop in Santa Elena, and that I’d be able to catch one later in the morning if I needed to.  Just that one tiny bit of information let all the tension out of me.  If I couldn’t take the tour bus, at least there were other ways I could get back.  Really, at that point, that’s all that mattered.  I just needed to be able to be back in Palenque by 8pm to catch my bus for Orizaba.  If I could do that, losing a little money wouldn’t be the end of the world.

We chatted about other things for about an hour, exchanged contact info, and went our separate ways.  The bad feeling I’d had the entire trip was gone.  I was still pissed off, but at least I knew I’d be okay.  To double-check what I was fairly sure I’d figured out, I went and talked to a couple of the nearby travel agencies.  They all said the same thing, “We know who this guy is.  There are 2 or 3 like him.  They wait at the bus stops and bring people to that hostel.  The hostel staff lets them stand in the lobby and sell fake tickets, because they pay a commission.”

I try not to use foul language in this blog, so I can’t repeat some of the things I said in response.  Let’s just say I was colorful.

At 5 in the morning, with but a sliver of hope, I was outside the hostel waiting for the collectivo.  When it arrived, I showed the drivers my ‘receipt’ and their response was…colorful, in Spanish.   They knew this guy, too, and they recognized me from the trip down.

I explained what had happened, what I had learned, and that I was out of cash.  The tour agent looked at me a minute and sighed, “Give me your bag and get on the bus.  We’ll stop by an ATM on our way.”  I was going home.

At the border as we separated from the tour agent, I said to him, “If you see this guy, do me a favor.”

“What?” he asked.

“Punch him in the face, and tell him this American bruja will be sending much bad luck his way.”

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a man laugh quite that hard.  “Señorita,” he finally said to me, “I will do both of those things if I see him.  If you will let me have the receipt he wrote, I will also give it to the police and file a report.”

I expect nothing at all to come of that, but at least there’s hopefully a good face punching and bad juju threatening in store for the sleazeball.

It cost me an extra $50 bucks and a few hours of stress.  A minor thing, in the grand scheme of it all, but the idea of taking from anyone who is trying to live life generously and with kindness makes me angry.  That the hostel permits it makes me angry.  That there was, quite literally, not one single thing I could do makes me angry.

I’ve written nasty reviews of the hostel on every forum I could think of.  If you ever go to Flores, Guatemala, do NOT stay at Los Amigos Youth Hostel.  They’re scum (and there are roaches in the bathroom).

Fortunately, the rest of my trip home was uneventful, and I felt far lighter than I had on the way down.  Still, never have I been so happy to get off a bus in the freezing rain as I was 24 hours later when I landed back in Orizaba.  😀

This tiny kitty popped it’s head out of this guy’s pocket and mewed. They completely enchanted me as I waited for my last bus home.

MEXICO!! I was super happy to step off the boat into what now feels like home turf

Women and children doing a little mid-morning washing in the river.

Feeding a sad, stray dog when we stopped for a break.

Mototaxis waiting for the day to really start.

Flores- A Mixed Review

I posted the following comment on Facebook while I was traveling.

My perspective of Guatemala so far: Hot. Sunny. Gorgeous. Tranquil. And there’s a middle-aged man pissing on a wall around every third corner. Seriously. I’ve seen enough accidental-penis in the last 2 days to last a lifetime. Sheesh!

It’s just the tip of the iceberg of why my feelings about this particular trip were decidedly mixed.

I spent 2 and a half days in Flores, Guatemala, doing not much of anything.  It was pretty, hot, sunny, surrounded by water and very full of backpackers, so fun was to be had and new friends were to be made.  I wandered, shot photos, read, napped a bit, paddled the lake, and chatted with people.  Usually when I travel I’m out doing all the ‘things’ there are to be done.  This trip was a forced necessity, not a trip for fun, and running out of funds was a real concern, so I skipped the tourist stuff and just relaxed this time.

The city of Flores is on an island in Lago Penten Itza. It is all of about 1km around, and the narrow, cobbled streets follow the contour of the island in 3 concentric rings connected by just a few, even narrower lanes.  It’s probably the safest village in northern Guatemala, which has a distinctly nasty reputation for drugs, poverty, and violence, but it’s still not a place to be unaware.

Across the causeway, on the mainland, is the city of Santa Elena.  It’s dirtier, more crowded, tourist-light, and has hilly streets that alternate between cobbles and just plain dirt.  I wandered there for one of the 2 days I was in the area, and was definitely aware of being a stranger.  I’m used to standing out, of course, but I’m not used to being stared at like an anomaly as I walk along.  In Santa Elena, that’s exactly what I got.  In the large, crowded, central market small children gaped at me and men half a foot shorter blinked and took a step back.  When I stepped into a tiny local restaurant to grab lunch the entire crowd went silent for a moment and watched as I took a seat.  I got the impression that few of the backpackers who visit Flores bother to wander into Santa Elena, even though it’s just across the bridge.  It was pretty, though, and I enjoyed poking around (in spite of almost tripping over half-a-dozen wall-pissing men).

Back on the island, I sunned myself on docks out in the lake and talked to the various young tourists to be found there.  I happily spent my evenings having dinner and chatting with the lovely Argentinian girl who rode the lancha over from Mexico with me.  Then, the last night I was there, I met a fantastic German/Mexican couple who, amazingly, live just one town over from me here in Mexico, and we agreed that once we were all home we should definitely get together.  That was the gem of the trip.

I’ll tell you about a live-and-learn moment, and why I decided I really didn’t like Flores after all, in my next post.  For now: photos.

The garden area in Los Amigos Youth Hostel. Pretty, but always crowded.

My room. I love the bright yellow walls!

Map of Flores on the wall in the hostel. Just in case we get… lost?

Narrow, steep, cobbled streets. Driving here must be a real pain!

The central plaza sits at the highest point on the island.

Flores’ one and only church.

A view down the hill and across the lake to the mountains in the distance.

This chick with the red heels really needs to rethink her footwear choices.

School kids on their way home for lunch. Why not when NOTHING is more than 1/2 a kilometer away.

Mototaxis are the way to go here.

Flores, as seen from the causeway.

Giant replica statue guarding the entrance to the ‘mall’ in Santa Elena.

Even here the giant cupcake dresses are everywhere, just waiting for a girl’s quinciñera princess dreams.

The main throughfare disguises the massive maze of walkways and open shops that is the central market. Small children could be lost in an instant.

The ‘mall’ has a movie theater, 3 levels of shops, and this strange open area with a single jumbotron, which was playing the soccer game of the day when I wandered through.

The center of the causeway has an arch, and is flanked by a shop, and icecream store, and small, twin parks.

I love, LOVE the bright colors and contrasting hues to be seen along nearly every street in every town.

At one point, this was a thing. It is now an obstacle in the sidewalk.

Living on the water means everybody needs a boat of some kind. These native women have a solid, tree trunk canoe.

Water bird has fish!

The tiled steps of this hotel/restaurant flowed right into the tiled interior. SO pretty!

There’s a 5 foot drop-off in front of this door. Someone forgot something…

Every 5th doorway in Flores opens onto a shop filled with t-shirts, blankets, jewelry, and Mayan-style tchotchkes.

Getting to Guatemala

Far too early on my 2nd morning in Palenque, I was up and waiting on the curb, backpack loaded, to catch the collectivo that would take me yet farther south, to Guatemala.  I knew it was going to be a long day, and I was feeling antsy but ready.  The first leg of the 3-stage journey was not too bad.  The van was impossible to sleep or even sit comfortably in, with seats set closer together than my long legs appreciated and not high-backed enough to rest my head against, but it was air conditioned and secure.  The road from Palenque to the frontera was bumpy, but the landscape in southern Mexico is lushly tropical, with rolling hills, distant mountains, and tiny thatch-roofed villages set along winding streams.  And it was a lovely day, sunny with cottonball clouds dotting the sky.  I got to enjoy testing out my new camera at high-speed as we drove along.  Still not as quick as the one in the shop, but serviceable.

The mountains blur into a haze in the distance, but offer the promise of cool shelter and clean water beyond the hot, flat valley.

It’s hard to get good pictures through the glass of a car window, but the majority of the houses we passed were roofed in thatch like this one.

We arrived at the border after a 4 hour ride, with a fair stop for breakfast at a cafe along the way.  I was one of only 3 passengers who were crossing the border officially, and so the collectivo dropped us at the imigracion office and went on to get the other passengers on their boat tour.  As I got my exit slip and passport stamps, my heart dropped.  The exit fee was 300 pesos, even though the information I’d been given said it was just 260.  Already, my trip was shaping up to be more expensive than I had planned.  But, I forked over the cash, got my passport back, and trotted down the dusty street to where the van driver directed a small group of us to the river.

Hiking down to the river.

The second leg of the trip was by lancha, which took us a few km downriver and across to the Guatemalan border.  The boat was a long, narrow wooden affair covered by a curving tarp, with just the 5 of us travelers and the driver.  As we sped along, we took photos of the muddy gray-brown water, the steep, slippery banks, the mounds of rock jutting up here and there, and the small crowd of women and children bathing and washing clothes on a distant beach.  We also introduced ourselves and chatted about who we were and where we were from.  My traveling companions were: 2 Italian guys, a girl from Argentina, and a guy from Japan.  We would go on to spend the rest of our trip, and most of our stay in Flores together on one grouping or another, as we all were to end up in the same hostel.

Dozens of boats waiting to take tourists to the islands up-river or down to the border.

Washing in the river.

This was our “landing” on the Guatemalan side…a slippery climb up a damp clay slope.

Across the river, we scrambled up the bank and were immediately greeted by locals offering to exchange our pesos for Guatemalan quetzales. The frequent assurance was that we’d get a better rate at the border than in the city.  From experience I know it can be hard to find a legitimate exchange house, and not all banks will exchange foreign money that isn’t American dollars, so I went ahead and traded my pesos and counted my funds.  Immediately I realized I’d have to do the last thing I wanted, which was find an ATM and get money from my bank back home, or I wouldn’t have enough to finish my trip with.  Le sigh.  That happens when things turn out more expensive than you expected time and time again.  

Sweetest border crossing I’ve seen yet.

I will say this, though.  The immigracion office there on the dusty, backwater edge between Guatemala and Mexico was probably the easiest, most amiable crossing I’ve experienced.  Nothing at all like the noise, filth, and confusion of getting in and out of Costa Rica or Nicaragua.  No shouting, no vendors, no shuffling from one long line to another to the next; just a few hammock-swinging soldiers and one woman behind the counter stamping passports and taking money.  Bienvenidos a Guatemala!

 

 

80 kilometers of THIS.

The last leg of the journey was…misery.  The road was 80km of dirt, dust, rocks, heat, dust, and no shade, flanked by swathes of burning fields or scraggly herds of brahma cattle.  We bumped.  We jostled.  We squeaked.  We sweated.  We breathed dust and fumes.  We ground on over hills and holes for 2 hours, but eventually, blissfully, made it to the paved highway and a gas station where we could get cold drinks and cash from the ATM.  A short hour after that and we were dragging our footsore selves off the bus and into the cobbled streets of Flores just 2 blocks from the hostel we’d all decided to go to.

Los Amigos Hostel… not my favorite of the places I’ve stayed.

At the hostel, I paid for my 3 nights of stay, settled my things in my room, found some desperately-needed cold water and a bathroom, then met back up with my little group of fellow travelers for an afternoon stroll around the island.

Together we wandered the outermost ring of shops, restaurants, and hotels, taking pictures of each other, the lake, the buildings, and ultimately parking ourselves in a restaurant to get cold drinks, food, and a great view of the sun as it sank below the horizon.  We chatted, as best we could in our 4 languages, laughed, and unwound, then repeated the walk back the way we came in the cool evening air.  That night would be the best night of sleep I’d get in the 3 I stayed in Flores, as the road and the heat had made me weary, weary indeed.

 

FOOD!!! After a day of bouncing and not eating, veggies piled on a tortilla is like heaven.

 

Sweet, frozen, fruity, alcoholic joy in a glass. With a straw!

Proof that I was here.

Gone the day, gone the sun, day is done, time to rest.