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2009-08-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

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part 1: a chance meeting

2009-02-13T05:34:00.000-08:00

A SHAMAN once walked into my head, as easily and as vividly as you have opened this page. It was my first day hiking in the jungles of Petén, and, although I was enamoured of the place, nothing could have prepared me for what I was to experience that first fragrant night.

My memory is of a Mayan man in loincloth and sandals. He stepped into my dream as if it were reality, and he danced and prayed and urged me to follow. In the morning I awoke, in an euphoria of sunlight, of sandy earth and butterflies. But, lately, that optimism has passed, and I feel we’ll be needing far more than dance and prayer to save us now.

It started in a cafetería by the crossroads in Chimaltenango. I had foolishly ignored my own instincts and taken the conductor of a chicken bus at his word. Unrepentant, he had pocketed my fare, and left me stranded fifty kilometres from Panajachel, my destination.

Disembarking, eyed by curious farmers and their caged birds, I shot him an evil look, and, with my ears still ringing from the roar of the engine, crossed over to the cafetería to escape the traffic.

I had just ordered a bowl of chicken broth and was settling down to plan my next move, when a giant of a man in a khaki sports cap sat down in front of me. He was the Eternal Traveller; a man who had planned to go backpacking for six months, only to find himself, six years later, still on the road.

He spoke in a forthright voice, of his escapades around the world, of the wars in mountain and desert in which he had fought, and the dubious deals that had funded his journey.

‘You know, what this country needs,’ he said, ‘is people like you and me, who’ll stand up and be counted. If we rely on government to do things, the whole lot’s gonna go belly-up.’ And, looking at his frame and features, I wasn’t going to argue with him.

The conversation turned to football and my friend’s undying passion for it. He professed a love of Arsenal and was looking forward to his upcoming trip to Guatemala’s second city, Xelajú, where the locals were equally proud of their own team, Los Chivos.

In the meantime, he had business in Guatemala City, and asked me if I could relay a message to a friend of his in Xela. But I had planned to spend the week relaxing by the lake at Panajachel.

‘Why don't you ring him?’ I asked.
‘Well, I could,’ he said, ‘but he’s a travelling man; I don’t know where he’ll be.’
‘What about email?’
‘What about it?’ he said. ‘Not the most secure form of communication, is it?’
‘What, and I am?’ I said, and my companion laughed, and turned the brim of his cap thirty degrees from north.
‘Yes; you are,’ he said. ‘You’re a traveller too, aren’t you? He’s a tall chap, built like a navvy. I don’t expect you’ll miss him.’

He licked his dry lips, and glanced at the chicken’s heart immersed in the bowl. ‘All the gringos hang out in zone one,’ he said. ‘You’ll find him in the bar I should think; Bar Tecún. Just remember: a tall bloke in combat trousers, clean-shaven, and a proud nose. The locals call him El Narigón.’

‘OK,’ I said, hoping to humour him. ‘I’m sure I’ll find him.’
‘Good,’ he said, and turned his cap back to face the north. ‘That’s squared away then. When are you heading off to Panajachel?’

I told him, ‘As soon as the next bus arrives,’ and he replied that we could always steal the one that had stranded me in the first place – still parked just opposite – and he said he would drive. Assuming he was joking, I continued with my broth, whilst my companion decided to help himself to the tortillas that came with it.

‘What about you?’ I said. ‘What are you up to in Guatemala City?’ He dipped a strip of tortilla in some chilli sauce, threw it in his mouth, stood up, wiped his lips, then, without a word to me, proceeded across the road.

I saw him crouch behind the bus and look down at something at his feet. Then he turned to me and nodded; a lorry passed, and, a second later, I saw him jaywalking along the high street.

‘Don’t forget!’ he shouted, stealing his way through the traffic. ‘Tall, clean-shaven and a proud nose. Tell him I’ve gone to polish the family silver. He’ll get the idea. Adiós amigo!’ And with that he left me, and the last I saw of him was a tuft of blond hair at the back of his cap, and the dusty heels of his army boots.

THE PECKHAM RIFLES

Purchase The Peckham Rifles Audio Book

part 1: a chance meeting