WHITE CHINA

Joyous singing, and clapping, echoes off the alleyway walls from the church illuminating a glow that stretches for a block or so before dissipating into the dark streets zig-zagging with tuk-tuks and motorbikes kicking up dust and exhaust into the faces of those they vaguely attempt to not run down, who wander on foot mostly toward the east or west.

To the north lies the skirt of the mountain range, of which a steep windy road carries chicken buses and pick up trucks down the hill, the beds of which are full of Maya returning home from the markets of Solola or from far off campos where they labor under the hot sun picking coffee beans for pennies a day. To the south, you will find the bank of Lake Atitlan, and across this bottomless abyss, hidden behind the curtain of night, stand three mighty volcanos who own this valley.

Those heading far enough to the east will eventually cross over a bridge where petty thieves linger like trolls, and unto the outskirts of Panajachel, where they will divide up amongst a maze of smaller roads and narrow alleyways. It is here, tucked away, I sit in a little bungalow recording in words the sounds and memories that float in through my window.

I know not far beyond the illumination of the church and all its joyous wallow, to the west the streets darken for a bit until they are illuminated once more with bare bulbs and saloons, where cocaine is served up on fine white china pretentiously, yet, as casually as pints of cheap beer is slammed down onto the bar top by slumbering and ranting drunks, and that just around the corner are the whorehouses. That’s what the American with a graying goatee, ponytail, and sweat-stained t-shirt informed me of two nights ago, just after letting me know he was a fiscal conservative, yet a social liberal.

“I am lazy,” he said, “that over there,” pointing to a thick indigenous woman at the end of the bar, “that’s my wife, she’s Mayan. I have no idea why she’s with me, I guess it’s because I pay the bills. 5Q goes a long way for a Mayan. Yeah, but I’m lazy as hell. I’ve been here damn near thirty years and still haven’t learnt Spanish, luckily she speaks English. The truth is, I’m just damn lazy. Anyway, you want to see the real Guatemala? Let me show you the whorehouse!” He insisted before snorting a line of coke served up by the bartender on the shiny white china.

He then offered the straw to me, “I don’t do coke,” I said.

“Well, I do!” He said proudly in return, nose dripping as he handed the straw back to the bartender who, without hesitation, finished off the last line. “Come with me, we’ll be back in thirty minutes!” He insisted again.

“No, I’m good” I said, “but enjoy. It’s late, I think I’ll head home.” I told him.

“Take a tuk-tuk, little punks hang out on the bridge and try to rob you, if one does just kick him in the balls.” After offering his sage advice, he pointed over toward a rather thick Mayan boy who stood beside his wife at the other end of the bar. “That there’s my stepson, he’s huge for 16 ain’t he? He’ll be able to whoop my ass in no time.” Then with a good sniff, he wiped his nose on his arm, stood up from his stool, slapped me on the back, walked right past his wife and stepson, turned west, and disappeared into the night.

I handed the bartender 20Q for my beer and walked out to the street, waved down a tuk-tuk, and headed east.