Week 20 - On Second Thought, Let's Change That...

“In Sicily,” The Godfather tells us, “the women are more dangerous than shotguns.” Well, I’m not in Sicily (no matter how similar the machismo here may seem), but I could say that same sort of line, replacing “Sicily” with “Guatemala” and “women” with “machine guns.” That has a nice, factual ring to it, doesn’t it? “In Guatemala, the machine guns are more dangerous than shotguns.” Guns are everywhere, from the 12-gauge-wielding guard at every fast food joint, to the guy with the Uzi riding—ironically—shotgun in the occasional pickup. I’d say I’ve grown used to their presence, or at least the way I’ve grown used to the large, oddly flat wall spiders I occasionally see: I know they’re around, and I’m sure they serve at least some beneficial purpose, but for God’s sake, please keep them away from me.

It should come as no surprise then that in order to protect the gun-totin’ public, the police need to have more intimidating, powerful weapons. Every cop carries a pistol of some kind, and many also carry large, futuristic-looking TAR-21 machine guns about the size of my torso. We hear stories about the police, their general level of corruption, and how we should really think long and hard before asking them for help. And that’s where my story begins…

This weekend I went to Xela, the second-largest, and nearest truly cosmopolitan, city to me. It was the Welcome Party for the area, where new volunteers like me could meet and interact with the veterans. As a Huehueteco (male from Huehuetenango) I would be crashing it, but nobody ever minds, and it promised to be a great weekend where I could meet a lot of cool people.

Saturday night the Peace Corps took over a couple of bars in the city center, and as it wound down, I agreed to walk a friend back to her hostel so she didn’t have to do it alone. We got to talking on the way back, and by the time we reached the door a few blocks away two things became clear: First, we were waist deep in a conversation that was both entertaining and illuminating, and secondly, the night guard would not let me in since I wasn’t a registered guest.

We debated it, and decided to sit on the curb and continue. We talked, we laughed. And then the PNC (Policía Nacional Civil) drove by in their big black-and-yellow pickup. We looked up, saw it was passing us, and then went back to conversing.

The truck slowed, stopped, and then reversed towards us.

“Shit,” we both said aloud, sure we weren’t doing anything illegal, but less certain of how much they would request in bribes to not arrest us anyway.* I’ve never bribed anyone, and I wasn’t sure on the protocol. How much money was enough? Would they accept a check?

The truck stopped again, a few feet away from us, and two officers got out. I’d say they looked burly, but few people can truly look burly when they’re five and a half feet tall. They looked menacing, like they were looking for a reason to arrest us. “Shit,” we both said again.

“What are you doing here?” The first officer, apparently the boss, demanded.

“Nothing, sir. We were just talking. It’s getting late though, and we’re going back to our hostel. Thank you.”

The second, the one wielding what looked like a laser gun, took up a solid stance. We weren’t going anywhere until he or his boss said it was alright. Boss-man was doing slow circles around me, I guess looking for a reason to detain me. Not totally sure what I was supposed to do as he played Earth to my Center of the Galaxy, I waiting until he was directly behind me and slowly, non-threateningly, looked back at him.

He grabbed my shirt and lifted it, checking my waistline for a weapon. Of course I didn’t have one. He began frisking me, working his way down my torso and then up each leg. He felt each of my jean pockets, perhaps for drugs. Nothing, obviously.

“Thank you for your concern, officers,” I began again, “but as I said, we are staying at the hostel that’s less than half a block from here. We know it’s dangerous, and we promise to get off the street immediately.”

Boss-man pretended he didn’t hear me. Number Two seemed slightly bored, but his feet were still wide apart, his hands caressing his weapon. An athletic stance, I decided; this was a man ready for action. I began making a mental inventory of the cash left in my wallet. Were 100 quetzales enough to buy off both of them? 100 each? Did I even have that much on me? I doubted it.

“Show me your papers,” Boss-man demanded. My friend and I looked at each other, bewildered. “Which papers?” we thought. Neither of us had a passport handy. Not knowing what else to do, I gave him my Peace Corps ID.

Perhaps in other Peace Corps countries, the official identification is a little more, well, official. Here however, it’s a piece of laminated paper printed off a low-quality home computer. There are little divots and bulges where the person trimming it faltered. None of the corners make 90 degrees. I didn’t expect it to impress him.

The officer glanced at it, slightly bemused, then looked harder when he saw the seal of the US embassy. Maybe he thought I was affiliated more directly—a diplomat perhaps—but his attitude changed quickly. Gone was the all-powerful swagger, the assumption of total compliance. Number Two saw it as well. He shifted uncomfortably, tightening his grip on the gun's stock. The game had changed.

“Where’s your hostel?” Boss-man asked, this time a little more politely.

“Just over there, barely half a block. We’re happy to get off the street, sirs.” I said again, still not daring to press my advantage.

“It’s dangerous out here, especially for gringos such as yourselves. It’s time to go home now.”

“Thank you for your concern, please have a good night.”

They turned back towards their pickup and we towards the hostel. We saw them drive away just as we arrived at her door.

“What in the hell just happened?” we asked each other silently. “How did we get out of that? What could have happened if it had gone differently?”

“Fuuuuuuck” I intoned quietly, drawing the word out. I tried to let my anxiety and stress out with it.

After she went inside, I was alone on the deserted street. I walked to a cab and, in a brilliant feat of prudence outweighing stinginess, I paid the ten quetzales demanded by the driver to take me to my accommodations four blocks away.

When I got in the taxi the driver began to speak. “I should be charging more because of the hour. The only reason I’m doing this for ten is because it’s dangerous out here on the streets at night. You never know if someone’s going to rob you.”

Brother, you have no idea.

* I do not support, condone, or encourage the bribing of anyone, be they public officials or private citizens.

This week’s photos can be found at: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week20?authkey=Gv1sRgCIeEjLXNgMr91wE#. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I didn’t take two of these. The internet can be a wonderful thing.