The Guatemala-El Salvador border is one of the places I think people go if they die and both heaven and hell are full. Drab soviet style drabness has remained on the walls of the local houses where once bright colours were seen and the wear and tear of 3rd world living has made the people there seem somehow hunched and tired by the rigours of life. We arrived by bus in the early evening and climbed wearily down into the reserved pandemonium of such borders, where large trucks waiting in the shade, weary children selling fly-covered tortillas out of stained plastic bags, stray goats and men with large guns slung over their shoulders jostle for position. The border itself was far removed, hiding somewhere in the distance, it’s exact dimensions unclear to seemingly everyone including the border patrols.
Into this world we marched, Britt glad that I had persuaded her to buy a scarf, which she used to block out dust and rancid smells of engine smoke. Walking towards the passport office there was a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach as there always is at such times, some vague racist undercurrent that makes me uncomfortable to be white in a place where nobody else is. Nobody else but Britt of course, who handled herself with quiet dignity as locals followed her down the street with dark and sometimes troubled eyes. We walked together through the passport office where the walrus of a customs offical on duty tried to make a show of not being useless, and his scrutiny made me feel even more anxious. In the end he nodded abruptly, motivated mostly by a well placed smile from Britt and we were allowed to pass.
El Salvador loomed somewhere ahead across a massive bridge spanning a slow flowing river. The bridge was crammed with rickshaws and in their midst patrolled a skeletal vulture of a man in a open white lab coat who checked everyone passing for swine-flu. Britt held her breath and we slipped through into a country more desperate than that which we had just left. A drunk looking whore with dirty hair and glazed eyes regarded us as we dumped our bags down in a small roadside restaurant where the old Abuela’s stared wide-eyed at Britney and appeared with piles of warm flour and bean papusas and two bottles of chilled Pepsi for the price of a dollar and twenty five cents. Leaving my girlfriend in the capable hands of these matriarchs I set off to secure a ride into the interior.
“Fifty?” I asked later, disgusted and the small weasily looking man shifted about uncomfortably and nodded, “Si, Fifty…”
“FIFTY DOLLARS?”
“Si.”
"FIFTY DOLLARS, FROM HERE?" I looked around at the emaciated goats and rubbish strewn carpark, "can you give me a better price?"
"It's a good price" the man said with a air of finality that frankly scared me shitless.
I stared back as if he’d just told me he was from Mars. He had just asked for fifty U.S dollars for a hour long truck ride in a country where that could probably keep one in papusas, beer and accommodation for a week. It was unusual to even have to pay for a ride people were so glad to have tourists in their trucks, and here was this crazy man requesting $50. Instead of arguing I walked away, hoping he’d call me back and lower the price but no such thing happened and when I reached the next man leaning against a pick-up truck I was more hopeful,
"How much to the next town?"
"Eighty dollars, it's a good price!"
This time I didn't even balk. Instead I stormed off and appeared by Britt’s side looking sweaty and upset. After a few minutes of running around asking questions it turned out that as the sun had gone down slightly the local buses had stopped running and a friendly local suggested I wait till morning before carrying on the journey.
Repulsed by everyone and unable to advance we retreated, back across the bridge and through the border into Guatemala once more. Passports were stamped, the same overweight official gave us a bizarre glance and tried in vain to understand what we were doing. Together we stood for a minute in the manner of the English couple from film/book, The Painted Veil, our bags at our feet, alone in a world we didn’t understand and sensing that were far out of our depth. After a time Britt made friends with the border police and they escorted us to a Mexican prison-like hotel where we barricaded ourselves inside by pushing a bed in front of the door, venturing outside only to pick up a dinner of shoe-leather and syrupy-sweet soft drinks.
In the morning we were up early, Britt took a shower, came rushing out to tell me that (A) there was a frog perving on her and (B) there was only quarter of a loo-seat. Desperate to escape the dive we carried on the day as usual, packed our gear and re-crossed the border to perplexed looks by (yet again) the same officials. This time we were in time to catch a $2 bus, and happily took off, leaving behind us groups of dodgy looking locals angry at not having tricked us into spending all our money.
