” I From? ” and The Case of the Rubber Band Bandido

I couldn't resist, just one story from my trip in Central America. As Pat rips around Costa Rica, I hope he digs up all sorts of weird, but God willing, nothing like this.

As I mentioned in the previous story, I spent 5 months backpacking around Central America. One heck of a ride is an understatement. My girlfriend at the time, Nicole was with me, so leaving her out of anything would be untruthful. She is still tearing around the Earth (God Bless her).

Unknown Guatemalan City along the “Road Less Traveled.”

Nicole and I had consulted what at the time we called the "orb", or our weather beaten copy of Lonely Planet's Central America, and decided that taking a less popular route along northern Guatemala would serve our interests. Those interests at the time being chiefly: less backpackers, strange locals, beer, street food, and picture happy little kids. After briefly reviewing the literature on the "road less traveled" we agreed that a 6 day bus trip without connections would serve us up a burrito full of the aforementioned attributes.

At some point along our path we had been told that in Central American cities, principally smaller pueblos, that if you saw a partition separating the view of the saloon from the street, we should turn heel and find another place to wet our bocas. By the time we found ourselves prodding along the less traveled routes of Guatemala we were surfing a tidal wave of hubris. We had just crossed the Cuchamentanes for Christ's sake. It is  misty, rain stricken mountain range in North Western Guatemala where 6 days of wet feet, chapped thighs and burning lungs left us feeling quite invincible.

Per usual, I must of said something like "come on fuck it, how bad can it be." For anyone that knows me, that will surely be chipped into my gravestone, or at the very least spoken aloud by loved ones as they dash my ashes into the wind. Nicole, and I, were in one of the little Guatemalan towns that have captured the imaginations of generations. The chicito town square, where mamacitas stir unknown pork parts into savory stew, hawkers of all sorts lurk around looking for someone to peddle their wares, children screech their approval to snap and pop of cheap chinese fire works, and per usual we were looking for somewhere to knock the dust from our throats.

"Come on let's dip in here. It can't be as bad as they say." Keep in mind that we had already survived a 3 day bender with the Whiteman as well, and up until this night, nothing, I mean nothing could compare with watching that 7 foot whirling Dervish spin his maniacal drug abuse around an unsuspecting pueblo.

Nicole and I reluctantly walked around the partition and took a peek into what we here in the US would call a dive bar, but that moniker does not do justice to Central American saloons. We peered into a cement floored room, a stump holding up some sort of derelict card table, a few folding chairs, a bar tender type behind a folding table with his arm draped across a wide eyed child, and a gaggle of  local hooligans slurredly exchanging boisterous, and excited words in Spanish.

For whatever leave of absence our reasoning went on, we decided to slide across the room and pull up a pair of splintering, wooden chairs up to a table. The bar tender looked at us with a mix of consternation, wonder and fear as saddled up in his saloon. He finally whispered something to the child and walked over to our "table".

"Uhh dos cervezas porfa."

The barkeep nodded in agreement and walked back to his cooler. Returning with his beverages he made eye contact with me and his "pinned on red" irises said it all. "You should not be in here gringo. These are bad, very intoxicated men, bent on pouring hell broth all over you and your lovely gringa. If you are lucky they will only take your women and pistol whip you. Worst case: you both will be sold into sexual slavery, living out your days on a steady diet of fear, tortillas and semen."

As non-chalantly as possible I tried to reassure him with a confident nod. One that said " I hear you little barman. But my woman and I have traveled hard and far. We simply want the pleasure of few libations and we will be on our way. We want no trouble from these ruffians."

He then looked at me like I'd just sky dived out of a 5ooo story funny farm with an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of stationary as a parachute.

It didn't take long for Pedro, Pablo, and Porfilio (names unknown) to take notice of our presence. The smell of our fear summoned this trio of sauced out bandidos to our table like a pack of raptors to a downed allosaurus. All I could hear was the sound of large men straining to get up from rickety chairs, and the shriek of metal on cement as they drug their seats to our table. As luck would have it I had my back to the cinder block wall separating me from the interior of our terrified bartender's residence.

With a shaking wrist I waved at the bartender to bring us a round of beers. I figured at least, I could start this thing off with little show of North American superiority. Per usual, half blinded by fear and fatigue I start off right from the gates, like a long stabled horse at the sound of gunfire.

By this point our little barman is shaking in his black nikes and making gestures at me that say. "RUN FOR YOUR LIFE YOU SIMPLE FUCK. LEAVE YOUR WOMAN. YOU AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING BLOND HAIR WILL HAVE NO TROUBLE FINDING ANOTHER."

Our new friends crowd around us, making it near impossible to do anything but scrunch closely together and clamp ever tighter on our fresh beer. These three hillbillies at this point were one or two drinks from vomit or coma, so a little tinge of confidence was working its way up my spinal column. Or maybe it was the fact that Id snapped open my folding knife in the pocket of my north face pants and was contemplating which guy to throat stab when this thing touched off.

The biggest, drunkest and fattest of the three stood up and proudly pronounced in Spanish that he had been quite the student back in the day. Loved English. Loved America (even though I am sure I told him we were Dutch), and most importantly spoke a little of the lingua franca himself.

He stumbled around the table and got in front of Nicole and asked her. "I from?"  "I from?" He repeated it a few times, flashing toothy shitfaced grins at his merry men and continued to glare at Nicole. He finally took a knee, took her hand into his sweaty catcher’s mitt and repeated "I from?" This is about the point where my little rush of confidence was giving way to my leg doing the sewing machine underneath the table. If you don't know what the sewing machine is, you haven't been properly introduced to mind numbing fear. It’s the point where your body dumps adrenaline into your system, preparing you for a real life, fight or flight scenario.

Our blacked out Lothario now changed his focus onto me. He pulled up another chair and scooted shockingly close to me. He said in Spanish that Nicole was guapisima, and tan chula, and he thought that they'd make a swell couple. I ignorantly nodded in agreement and tried to laugh off his comments, hoping against hope that he was simply hammered, and had no intention of going through with my worst nightmare.

Lover boy then reached behind his sweat stained waistband and pulled out a silver 45. Caliber pistol, replete with a rubber banded grip. Again, for those of you haven't spent any time around drug dealers, murderers, road agents or thugs you may not know that rubber bands around a pistol grip make it difficult to pull a usable fingerprint. He then tossed the piece on the table and told me that I could either shoot my way out, or he was leaving with Nicole.

Well, that is quite a pair of options. Options I was certainly not entertaining 25 minutes ago when I talked my lovely girlfriend into a romantic drink off the plaza. I laughed the laugh only someone about to die can make, and told him that he was crazy and I would do no such thing. This was where I looked into his eyes and realized he wasn't as drunk as I thought. There were still enough sobrieties in this guy to do some serious damage.

The bartender at this point had gone outside and summoned the local gendarme, which peeked his uniformed head into the saloon and asked for the three guys to come outside. Thank Jesus. There is a God. Allah, Jehovah, who knows, but our salvation hath arrived. Meanwhile, the bartender was giving me a quick rundown. These guys were indeed bandits, narco traffickers etc., and not the people we should be canoodling with. NO SHIT.

3 minutes later our 3 sauceketeers stumble back in and regain their previously lost real estate. Apparently, and as I would learn more than once on our trip, a little mordida and a handshake can go a long way with getting  la policia to fuck off.

Lover boy now tossed his silver murder weapon in my lap and repeated his offer. I picked up the hand cannon and set it back onto the table, and giggled. I then had, or Nicole had, the stroke of genius that would probably end up saving our lives. SHOTS. SHOTS. SHOTS.

We waved our knee knocking cantinero over and asked for a couple rounds of aguardiente, the local fire water. The kind of liquor that is generally reserved for bathtubs and being linked to local blindness and after a few rounds of this potent brew our "new friends" were starting to nod off like happy heroin addicts in a subway shitter.

I glanced over and the bartender nodded his approval, and Nicole and I got up and gingerly slid past the bulwarks of bad news. I quickly grabbed the bartender and asked him what was up with these guys. He said that they were planning on convincing us to meet them early in the morning to take us onto the next town, rob us, and God knows what else. Nicole and I pushed our way past the partition, back across the teaming plaza, past the spinning children, past the pillars of the community enjoying a postre on a warm night, and ran, literally ran back to our hotel.

That is yet another story that has taken on a shape of its own, through countless retellings at bars and cocktail parties. The details constantly oscillate back and forth, and each time I tell it, I remember and forget various details. The one detail that I never forget is that I am lucky and my nine lives are burning up like a baby meteor in a mighty planet's atmosphere.

by Russell Young Tagged as: Detroiters abroad, Foreign Travel No Comments