When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the twilight of my room, I had only two things on my mind: Getting my grant applications in on time and a ride into town. I headed down the path that would take me to the highway, not really in a hurry, but anxious to check my email on a connection that wouldn’t conk out when I tried to do something as taxing as reading the New York Times.
I got to the highway, crossed it, and sat down on in the shade of an overhang. Sitting next to me was an indigenous woman of perhaps 60 or 70. Her traje implied that she wasn’t from San Se. She smiled, though was clearly confused why a gringo such as myself was sitting in the middle of nowhere, far from the nearest tourist attraction.
“Are you coming from La Mesilla?” She asked, referring to the Mexican border crossing 75km to the northwest. I guess she thought I must simply be passing through.
“No, ma’am, I actually live here in San Se. I’m the new Marcos, working in the schools.” Marcos was the volunteer before me and Lauren.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I knew him! He was so nice, always singing with his guitar. He’s left now though, right?”
I responded in the affirmative just as the bus heading to Huehue pulled up. She was headed elsewhere, I guess, because she didn’t move to get on. “Goodbye!” I shouted just as the bus started to pull away. As I found an empty seat, that familiar sense of accomplishment washed over me. Another successfully banal interaction. Perhaps I’d reward myself with a parasite-free salad when I got into the city.
Still smiling, I reached for my wallet, getting my money ready for the ayudante (eye-you-DAHN-tay, lit. “helper”) to collect. You never knew when someone would try to squeeze in next to you, trapping your back pockets. Then the only way to access them would be to root around in that sweaty, fleshy chasm between their leg and yours. No, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I looked in my wallet: Peace Corps ID, my Guatemalan debit card, two vouchers for free coffee in Antigua, and a few assorted things that were both American and long since expired. The one thing that was missing was the only thing I needed: Cash, equal or greater to 5 quetzales to be exact.
Worriedly, I looked up and saw that the ayudante was still chatting with the driver. At least I had a little bit of time.
I looked in my wallet again, hoping that the paycheck which had been deposited into my account had magically spilled from the abstraction of cyberbanking into my billfold. Still nothing.
I cursed the laws of physics as I frantically started patting my body all over, looking for a forgotten bill somewhere. The people nearby began shooting me sidelong glances, and moved away ever so slightly. Either the gringo had been the target of a sudden and coordinated assault from a renegade band of fleas, or he was going crazy. Either way, a little distance couldn’t hurt.
I found a single quetzal note after tearing through my backpack and clothing. This wasn’t good. Alternative methods needed to be explored, and I was desperate. We were at least 9 or 10 miles from anywhere, and the most common result of failure to pay is to get booted from the bus.
I looked behind me, hoping there was an acquaintance or friend that I hadn’t seen who could lend me 4Q until I could hit up an ATM in Huehue. No one. I was on my own, unless I wanted to explain to a total stranger how I, as the perceived rich gringo had absolutely no money and was begging from subsistence farmers. The irony was not lost on me, and I didn’t think that it would be on them, either. I would avoid it if I could.
The ayudante started his relaxed, ponderous stroll from the front of the bus towards me, collecting the fares from each person as he went by. Each of them was able to pay. I would not. With mounting dread, I looked through my wallet one last time, hoping that I had somehow missed something during the previous two searches. It really isn’t a very big wallet.
By some stroke of luck I actually had.
In the hidden pockets behind the sleeves for the credit cards, I found a single, folded one dollar bill. I noticed a slight tear on one end and dimly recalled how the bank had refused to convert it when I tried several months ago. The current value of the US dollar is around 7.50 or 8Q. Maybe, just maybe, this could save me from a hot, dull, slightly perilous trek along the highway back to San Se.
The ayudante reached my row, and took the fare from the guy sitting across from me first. As he turned, I began to sputter the carefully-rehearsed lines I had prepared.
“Hi. Fíjese que I just realized that I don’t actually have enough money to pay the fare.”
The ayudante looked at me like he hadn’t understood, which he probably hadn’t since I was too nervous to actually consider the grammar or pronunciation of what I was trying to say. Gamely, I struggled on, his face slowly showing recognition that the “rich” gringo was a pauper.
“What I can do is run to the supermarket near the terminal where there is an ATM and come back and pay you. It wouldn’t take a minute.” I smiled weakly, hoping a joke might lighten the mood. “Unless you take plastic?”
“No,” was his simple reply, and I wasn’t sure to which statement he was referring. He started looking back at the driver as the passengers around me began to catch on. He was going to tell the driver to pull over. I guess he meant “no” to both. The whispers, which I was too preoccupied to translate in their entirety, were of a nature that suggested the irony was not lost on anyone.
“Well, look. What I can do is give you this one quetzal note and this American dollar.” I let the word “American” hang for a second to emphasize its exotic and profitable nature. I tried to hide the tear from view. “The dollar is worth 8 quetzales, so in some sense it would be like I’m paying nearly double the regular fare.”
He turned back towards me. Incredulity was etched over his uncommonly-expressive face. Again I smiled weakly, trying to shove the two bills into his hand. He looked at me for a second, then down at the bills, and back at me again. Was this gringo for real?
He took the bills grudgingly. I highly doubted he’d go to the bank to actually collect on the fare, but they were on a deadline, and stopping would throw them even more off. He turned, and continued collecting the fares of the other passengers. Those nearest to me, who had heard the entire, mortifying exchange, chuckled. I sank lower into my seat, trying to hide for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, school buses are not meant for people of my size, and it didn’t work. From the back of the bus, I’m sure you could see my scarlet ears towering over the backrest meant for 4th graders.
When we reached Huehue, I got off at the mall, ran in, and promptly withdrew 500Q. I was a rich gringo again, and had traveled from one end of the great disparity to the other in only 30 minutes.
Find the accompanying pictures here: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week22?authkey=Gv1sRgCNqw56TRyOfPSA#
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