From Nothing Happens Fast

From the forthcoming Manual Publishing release ...

Nothing Happens Fast (A Guatemalan Travel Diary)

By Mike Murphy

Rule 6, corollary 1: This can’t be stressed enough: No one wants to hear about your last bowel movement.

Rule 10: Don’t follow rules. This is probably the most important rule.

--Tim Cahill, Professor Cahill’s Travel 101

Travel writer Tim Cahill once wrote a list of rules that travelers should follow. Rule # 6 was never discuss bowel movements with your fellow travelers. My tale is going to break that rule repeatedly; luckily Cahill’s final rule is to break all of his rules. Number 6 is probably not the rule that he thought travelers should break but, whether you like it or not, this story revolves around bowel movements. Consider yourself warned.

The Breaking Point–Summer 1999

My life is complete hell. It shouldn’t be but it is. I’m making more money than I ever have, I have a job that most people would consider perfect, and yet I dread every day.

The thing I like the least about my life is wearing a tie. Some days it feels like I’m putting my head into a hangman’s noose; other days I feel like a dog on a leash.

I hate my life so much that I cannot even think of another job I’d rather do. All of my thoughts return to dropping out of the game. I want to get as far away from Washington, DC, as I can because everything in this city revolves around work. In this town, it’s a badge of honor to say that you’ve worked 50, 60, even 70 hours a week. Fuck that. I want to throw away my badge and ride off into the sunset.

Wanted: Human Guinea Pigs–November 1999

I have decided to take an extended trip to Latin America. Officially, I’m going to learn Spanish, but I really just want to get away for a while. To pay for it, I became a medical research subject in a John Hopkins University (JHU) study for a new vaccine created to cure traveler’s diarrhea.

After I applied, a few months went by before I received any information about the study. Worried that they forgot about me—my ability to take the trip hinged on the funds I would receive from JHU—I broke down and called the school. Soon afterwards, I received a packet of forms containing questions about my medical history, next of kin, travel plans, etc. After a round of phone calls with JHU, I was accepted as a participant.

Vaccination Day (Washington, DC)–January 18, 2000

To get the vaccinations I needed for my trip, I made an appointment for 9:30 Tuesday morning. I was unaware that this particular Tuesday fell after a holiday weekend, which made it feel like a Monday, so I forgot about my appointment until 2:30 am the night before.

I tried to get some sleep but was thwarted by a nasty case of the shits. This was ironic, of course, given that I was headed to an underdeveloped country to participate in an experimental trial for a traveler’s diarrhea vaccination; maybe I should have participated in a trial for a stay-at-home diarrhea vaccination. That way, if the vaccine doesn’t work, I can still find comfort by sitting on my good old, American-made Kohler toilet. Ah, so cool and comforting…(as my stomach does another set of somersaults).

It seems that my stomach can’t stomach American food anymore. Will Guatemalan food be the death of me? Or will it be my savior?

* * *

Even though it’s the middle of January, today is one of the first cold and snowy days that Washington, DC has had this winter. What a great reminder of why I picked Guatemala as my destination. My ears were numb as I searched along K Street for the address of the medical clinic.

The waiting room at this traveler’s clinic was just like any other doctor’s office. I signed in and completed the medical referral sheet. A short time later I was called into the back office by Nurse Zopf.

She asked me questions about my trip, such as what will I be doing there, and expressed jealousy. It was a welcome change of pace. Most of my friends seem to respond with some version of “What the hell are you doing? Why don’t you just find a new job?”

She showed me a map indicating the areas of Guatemala in which I would need to be worried about contracting Malaria. Then, we discussed some of the other bugs that could cause problems. When the talking was over, I received a shot for hepatitis A, a prescription for chloroquine (to fight malaria), and an oral vaccination for typhoid, which I could not take until my current case of stay-at-home diarrhea cleared up.

Lab Rat Central (Baltimore, Maryland)–February 10, 2000

While talking with the organizers of the vaccine study, I learned of an opportunity to make an additional $50 if I was willing to drive to Baltimore and have some blood drawn. I was and so I headed North.

Baltimore on this day was the exact opposite of what I was looking for on my journey. It was cold, gray, snowy, and dreary. I took a while, but I eventually found the offices of the Vaccine Testing Unit. It was a place of pure chaos. There were stacks of paper everywhere and in the midst of it all, cute young college students were busy bringing more heaps of paper into the room.

Everyone was surprised to see me when I showed up at the office. Very few “subjects” are ever seen in person by the study organizers. Usually, subjects become known as a set of initials, an ID number, and, in rare instances, a voice on the phone. Yet, here I was, a living, breathing, walking person. They scrambled to accomodate me. One even offered to move a recently created stack of paper so that I could sit down.

One of the older, female staffers asked me where I was headed. I told her Guatemala and she replied by telling me that I would have a wonderful time. Again, the positivity pleased me. Between the over-reactive US State Department web page and my unsupportive friends, I’ve have second thoughts about taking this trip.

Finally, David, the study’s nurse, was available. He gathered my consent forms and took my blood. Next, he gave me the supplies for the vaccination procedure—a small Styrofoam cooler containing two ice packs, two bottles of frozen water, two glass vials containing a murky substance, and 2 metallic-looking packets. I also was given a sheet with a phone number that I was to call to receive further instructions.

When I returned from Baltimore, I called the number and spoke with the dosing nurse, Barbara, who gave me my instructions. Basically, my main task would be to keep a diary that documented my physical symptoms. Given this information, I set up an appointment for the following week to take my first dose of the vaccine.

When the time for the appointment arrived, I called Barbara. She reviewed what I had written in my diary and instructed me how to mix the vaccine with the water and the metallic packet, which contained some sort of salty substance. When I added the ingredients together, the mixture fizzed wildly, then I drank it. It tasted like unsweetened, carbonated Kool-Aid. Whether it was a placebo or the real vaccine, I didn’t know, but I was curious. I even thought about taking a big gulp of dirty river water after my initial dose to find out if I was protected.

A week later, Barbara and I repeated the process. All the while, I marvelled at how it’s possible to develop a bond with someone while discussing nasty things like bowel movements and other unnattractive physical processes.

Going Away Party (bethesda, MD)–February 18, 2004

My friends threw me a going away party. I don’t think any of them could actually believe that I was going.

As soon as people learned that I was really going to go to Guatemala for three months, the first question out of their mouths was "Why?" Rarely was it a curious "why." Usually, it was a “why of a demanding and judgemental sort. I had learned from a previous trip to Europe that people often react quite strangely to travel plans that were anything more extensive than a week in Cancun or Florida. I would usually oblige their questions, but I would rarely give them the real answer. The fact that they were asking why suggested that they wouldn’t be able to comprehend the answer anyway so, instead, I offered a reply that I thought they could understand.

Thus, I made noble statements such as, “I want to further my understanding of the Spanish language.” Or, “I want to experience a third world culture.” Those statements weren’t totally false, but neither did they reveal my real reasons for going to Guatemala. I didn't even reveal those to myself. The truth was that I needed a break from my life. I was sick of working, sick of relationships, and sick of responsibility. Try explaining that to a boss, parent, or girlfriend.

The way I saw it, if I was going to drop out of life for a while, I had to go someplace where I could disappear for a decent length of time. One of those typical, American-style 6-day vacations wouldn’t cut it. On those trips, you end up spending more time preparing for the trip than you actually spend on the trip. I needed a destination where I could take it easy, but not appear to be the slacker that I truly was. I needed a place where I could stay for a good length of time, which meant I needed to go some place cheap. That narrowed things down to either language schools or volunteer work. Volunteer work is still work, and actually probably worse. All the hassle of a job without the key benefit of a real job—money. At a language school, especially the kind with one on one instruction, I would at least be in control of my day, including whether or not I wanted to learned anything on a given day.

After a few weeks of research, Guatemala seemed like my my best option. It was cheap and, as an added bonus, there was an opportunity to make $600 dollars as a medical research subject. $600 was easily enough to pay for an extra month out of the country.

I spent the last two weeks of February working. I had some pretty miserable experiences during that time, but they only made the thought of leaving that much more enticing. In retrospect, the work really wasn't that bad, but given that I was leaving, I could no longer tolerate the routine. Putting on a tie everyday became more and more difficult, as did the questions that were becoming more and more frequent. Why do you want to go to Guatemala? Why for so long? What does your girlfriend think of you leaving? What do your parents think of you leaving? How are you going to afford such a thing?

The sheer volume of questions made me begin to doubt myself. Eventually, I wanted to leave the country just to escape the questions. People who had never taken a similar trip, or quit a job because they were sick of what they were doing, would never understand my motivations. Then again, maybe I just couldn’t explain myself to them.

Ultimately, it all comes down to values; to what you deem important. I've never seriously desired a new car. I don't need a $500 suit (hell, I don't even want a $50 suit) … those things just aren’t important to me. What is important is not wearing a neck tie. Fewer things make me happier than knowing that I won't have to wearing a necktie for three months.

So what is important to me? Having new experiences, seeing new things, and meeting new people—the work-a-day world doesn’t leave much room for these things. Sure, in the beginning you learn some new procedures and meet some new people, but after a month or so, the days all start to belnd together. Yech!

I also went to Guatemala because I wanted to prove that I wasn’t just talk. I repeatedly told people that I loved to travel and that I wanted to travel again for a long period of time. It was time for me to put my money where my mouth was. When I left my last job, a boring nonprofit organization, I told people that I was leaving to travel. Six months had gone by and I had not travelled anywhere except to and from work. I was getting a reputation as a boring, lazy, slacker. I was a slacker, of course, but I wanted to be an interesting slacker. I had to go somewhere.

Leaving–February 24, 2000

I didn’t sleep much last night. I was too anxious about the trip. Things have been tense between Margaret and I for the past few days. Even though she agreed to let me go on this trip, I know that, deep down, she isn’t crazy about me leaving for three months. It probably didn’t help that I only spent about an hour in bed with her before leaving.

We got up at about 4:30 am, so she could take me to the airport. There isn’t much talking, partially because neither of us are really morning people, but we really don’t want to talk about the trip either.

After checking in at the airport, I received my boarding pass and then proceed to the gate. We still have an hour or so to wait before I boarded the flight. We tried to eat breakfast at the airport, but neither of us had much of an appetite. So we sat and waited, holding hands and leaning against each other.

She’s never doubted her feelings toward me, but she could tell that I was feeling some ambivalence about our relationship. I don’t think I had ever seen her look so sad. I didn’t know what to say, I was already at the airport and looking forward to the trip.

I want to say something to make her feel better couldn’t. She didn’t know what would happen to us as a result of this trip and neither did I. I couldn’t tell her that everything was going to be ok because I didn’t know.

Time moved so slowly. The tension between us was about to explode and neither of us wanted me to leave on a negative note. It was such a feeling of relief when they finally called my flight. Margaret broke into tears, but I didn’t feel sad about leaving. It was heartless of me to feel that way, I know. The best I could do was offer her a feeble, “I’m sorry and thank you for everything,” as I walked down the entrance ramp.

I found my seat on the plane and sat down. I had not even left the ground and already I felt exhausted. I fell into a sound sleep before they even closed the door to the airliner.

Antigua, Guatemala–February 24, 2000

Flying into Guatemala City was beautiful. It was so hilly and seeing the volcanoes from the plane was quite a sight. The final approach to the runway, however, was frightening; the plane descended, banked sharply to the left, and then leveled off before landing—just as you realize that you’re over a deep canyon. And if that isn’t bad enough, directly in front of you, on the side of a canyon, is a makeshift shantytown. I’m not normally a nervous flyer, but all I could think was that everyone on the plane was going to die and we were going to take every inhabitant of this poor village with us.

Going through immigration at the airport was uneventful. I changed some traveler’s checks (the ATM was not functioning) and the tourist office hooked me up with 3 other travelers headed to Antigua—Jenny from Delaware, a customer service agent for Amazon.com; Larry from London, a journalist/graphics specialist for the BBC; and Jim from San Francisco, the owner of an Internet start-up company. The four of us (and our luggage) crammed into a cab—a beat up silver early 80’s model Toyota Corolla—and that was it, my trip had begun.

The taxi ride through Guatemala City was eye opening. There was a lot of poverty, a lot of filth, and a lot of traffic, but scattered throughout it all were small islands of wealth. Once we reached the edge of the city, a where every American fast food chain you could think of had a presence, we started the drive into the mountains. I was shocked to see a stray dog that seemed completely oblivious to the four lanes of traffic whizzing by. The other passengers, all of whom had traveled through Latin America extensively, told me to get used to it because it was a common sight. Another common sight was that of Billboards, which seemed to be erected every ten feet. Included among them was a Burma Shave-style series of billboards announcing the return of Christ.

As we traveled up the mountain, the sharpness of the corners didn’t seem to matter to our driver. He kept the gas pedal to the floor the entire way. I couldn’t tell if it was the rickety body of the car or my body that was shaking with fear as we sped up the road that, for seemingly no reason, narrowed from four lanes to two lanes. The driver didn’t change his speed at this point, nor did he when we reached the top of the mountain and began our descent. I got a strong feeling that my three-month trip to Guatemala was going to be over on my first day. Would for dead gringos even rate a headline in the Guatemalan papers? Based on the way the drivers around us were conducting themselves, probably not.

The signs along the road indicated that we were approaching Antigua. The driver made a sharp turn off the road and, suddenly, the relatively smooth blacktop changed to large cobblestones. We had arrived alive! Maybe I would get a second day in Guatemala after all.

We pull into the town square of Antigua and asked the driver to let us out. We were all relieved to be standing on our own. We paid the driver a total of 200Q for the fare and as soon as our bags were unloaded, the driver opened the hood of the car and began to make some repairs. It is clear that he has made these repairs before and, judging from the age of the car and the way he drives it, I wasn’t too surprised.

We haven’t been in Antigua for a minute before young girls try to sell us change purses, hacky-sacks, shirts, and other souvenirs. We keep saying no, but they keep trying to make a sale. Doing our best to ignore them, we make our way across the square because Larry knows a place to look for a room for the night.

He brought us to La Casa Santa Lucia #4, which was just across from the Market. It was a small pension that had rooms for each of us. The price was certainly right, 100 Quetzals per night (about $12.00). It didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside there was a beautiful, but small courtyard filled with plants, a fountain, and dark wood benches. Before we went to our rooms, the manager warned us not to flush any paper down the toilet because the pipes can’t handle it. All used toilet paper got thrown in the garbage can. I had been warned about that, but it is definitely going to take some time to get used to.

My room was on the 2^nd floor and was much larger than any of the place that I ever stayed during my trips to Europe. It has a large double bed and its own private bathroom. I quickly unpack my bags and use the toilet, which doesn’t smell half as horrible as I imagined it would.

* * *

Right now, I have no place to be. I’m not quite ready to go looking for Spanish schools, so I’ve been wandering the city trying to get the lay of the land. The town is very old, but it is easy to get around in it because it’s laid out on a grid. The roads in Antigua are all cobblestone. I’m sure they were made this way to impress tourists, but it gives the town a nice touch. Green space is very limited from what I’ve seen so far. The only trees of any size are those surrounding the city and growing in the town square. There are flowers growing in window boxes and you can sometimes glimpse a tree or shrub within a courtyard. There are no front yards in front of Antigua’s homes. The walls come right to the sidewalk. Most of them have small courtyards within their walls, but they are all very private.

My walk took me to the town square where I found an empty bench to sit and watch people passing by. Jenny, from the taxi ride, came by and we talked for a few minutes. She is only here for a little more than a week so she doesn’t have time to waste like I do. She’s planned every moment of her week with climbing trips and visits to other areas of Guatemala. As for me, I’m going to enjoy this bench a while longer.

There are a fair number of tourists walking around and a lot of young girls trying to sell me coin purses, shirts, and jewelry. They can’t be much older than 8 or 9 years-old, yet they are already pros when it comes to salesmanship. I can’t say much else other than “no” and “I’m sorry.”

On my way back to the hotel room I decided to take a detour through the outer edge of the market. It’s like a flea market and seems to have every possible item a person could ever need: shoes, shirts, pants, underwear, food, toys, furniture, crafts, and a lot more. I don’t know why, but it seems as if every single vendor in the market is selling super glue. Does that much stuff break in this country? Maybe it is the superglue that is holding all these old cars, trucks, and buses together?

When I returned to the hotel I received a friendly “hola” from the manager. On my way to my room, I noticed that there is another set of stairs down the hall. I decided to be nosey and found that the stairs lead to the roof, which is set up like a patio. The view of Antigua is amazing from this vantage point. The town is ringed by dusty hills, covered in pine trees, and if you look to the South, a volcano is clearly visible.

Being on the roof gave me a different view of the town. I could see the courtyards of every nearby home, each of which contained a little tree and some grass. Although a thick concrete wall surrounds each home, they seem to be cheaply made, with a large portion of their roofs being nothing more than sheets of metal.

* * *

There was much to look at from my rooftop perch so I took my time. It was worth it, though, as my elevated position offered me the chance to get familiar with the layout of Antigua. After about 20 minutes, another traveler joined me up on the roof. We said our hellos, but soon after he walked away from me to “get his yoga in for the day.” I decided to give him his privacy and returned to my room.

The day of traveling and the new surrounds had worn me down so I decided to go to the little comedor next to the hotel for some dinner before I called it a night. Dinner wasn’t anything fancy, but it was good. The mean consisted of some very tender chicken served with a side of rice and beans and some very thick tortillas. To wash it all down and keep my caffeine levels elevated, I had a warm Pepsi. After dinner, I returned to my room and quickly fell asleep.