Guatemala - 1977 

The following story is an excerpt from Art Faibisch’s diary of a trip taken in 1976-1977 by Art and Misti Faibisch, and their two sons, David and Mike, to Mexico, Belize and Guatemala, traveling in their school bus converted to a camper and named Gus.

Excerpt from diary:

On the road to Tikal, Guatemala, January 9, 1977

After crossing the border from Belize into Guatemala, we stopped for the night alongside the road about 75 miles from the ruins at Tikal. At this moment, we’re surrounded by about twenty very curious Guatemalan Indians who are looking in all of our windows and even climbing up the ladder in the back. The people are friendly enough but are curious as hell, and fortunately we’re not scared. It’s dark and we have the lights on in Gus and can see all of these faces peering in, a bit unnerving.

We’re on the worst road that I’ve ever seen in my life and it promises to get worse before we eventually get to Guatemala City, a distance of about 300 miles. We knew the road was bad, we had talked with a number of people who had traveled it and they said it ranged from terrible to impassable, but we had to find out for ourselves. Besides, this is the only way through to Guatemala.  If we didn't take this road we would have had to backtrack through the Yucatan to Villahermosa, cut through the mountains and enter Guatemala on the other side, quite a distance, which involved a fair amount of backtracking. Also, we  wanted to see the country of Belize, which most people have never even heard of, as well as the jungle and ruins at Tikal. So far we have no regrets.

We're in jungle country, the heat is oppressive and it bothers us. Without the screening and skylights we'd suffocate in a short time. Some of the bugs are so small they go right through the screens, but we sprayed the screens with insect repellant, which hopefully will keep the bugs out. Of course, we don’t have any air conditioning.

Guatemala City, Guatemala, January 13, 1977 ~

We’re finally in Guatemala City after an incredible drive through the state of Peten in Guatemala, about 300 miles on a terrible muddy road.  From the Belize border up to Tikal, then to the city of Flores and on to the paved road, which is about 250 kilometers from Guatemala City; quite an adventure and hard on us and Gus. The worst of the ride was getting out of Tikal.  It started to rain late in the afternoon of the one-day we spent in Tikal, and by the following morning the road was a swamp. We had been told that when it rains the roads become impassable. We left Tikal, early in the morning, ignoring concerns about the road. We picked up an Italian couple who was stranded in Tikal since planes couldn't take off or land due to the heavy rain, and started the roughly thirty mile trip to Flores. We made it with some effort. It took four hours to go the thirty miles and there were several times when I was certain we'd bog down in the mud, which was several feet thick in places.  

Twice on this short journey we jolted Gus so hard that I thought for sure we had broken a spring or axle. On the first bad one we came to, a place where the mud was especially deep, I decided to just power through it. I hit the gas to pick up speed and didn't realize there was a big hole in the mud bog. We hit the hole at speed and bounced several feet off the road. The impact was so great that it broke all the bottles of beer we were carrying in a case on the bathroom floor.  But it didn’t seem to bother Gus and we just kept on going.

Tikal was nice; the ruins are impressive, even though we only got to see just a few of them. We stayed at the Tikal Inn, rather than camping in Gus in a free campground. That was a mistake. We had to pay $40 for a room, which included three meals for all of us, but the place was dismal and the food wasn’t very good. We would have done better if we had stayed in Gus. One of the main reasons we took the room was to use the bathroom and take a shower. Luckily I took a shower immediately, which was fortunate since all the water soon stopped working, including of course the toilet. I was annoyed that we had spent $40 for a room that didn't have either a toilet or shower.

In the museum in Tikal we talked with one of the guides, a young woman named Robby, and arranged for a short tour of the ruins. She and her British friend, Patty, took us, and several others, on a short but fascinating tour of the major ruins.  After the tour we invited Robby and Patty into Gus for an after dinner drink and gave them some ham and cheese which they regarded as a special treat since neither is available in Tikal. We struck up a conversation and friendship with these two pleasant young women and spent an enjoyable several hours learning about Tikal and their lives there.

One of the reasons that we gave the two girls our last ham and cheese stocks is that we had lost our refrigeration several days earlier and were afraid they would spoil. On Sunday, after bouncing some distance on Belizean and Guatemalan dirt roads, we discovered that our propane was leaking, the same connection that had broken twice before, in Mulege and Mexico City. In Mexico City I had the tank lowered to reduce the vibration from Gus's body, but the bouncing on the bad roads was just too much. I shut off the propane at the main valve but the next morning we discovered that the connection was broken off and the regulator was dragging along the ground. Today is Friday and we haven’t had the use of our refrigerator or stove for five days. We've been eating most of our meals in restaurants and some from the supply of canned goods and crackers we had.

We had an especially nice experience on the road from Flores to the paved road. After having lunch in Flores and talking with some travelers from Indiana in a VW bus, and also meeting our friends from California who we had been bumping into ever since Cancun, we set out to drive until dark and then park on the side of the road for the night, as we often did. The road was a nightmare and the driving difficult, hard rain and a muddy road that was barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. In some places the road was washed out and we came upon two trucks trying to help each other out of the mud and up a hill. It was rough going, but I loved every minute of it. It began to get dark and we were hoping to see a sign for a campground the people from Indiana had told us about. It was really very dark and between the hard rain, trees and dense jungle all around us, and no moon, there was almost no visibility.
 
Our spirits were beginning to sag and I was beginning to think that our situation wasn’t improving. There was no place to stop and pull off the side of the road and suddenly we saw a sign for an inn, actually a finca, which is what they call a ranch or farm in Guatemala. We stopped and a young man came up to the gate. I asked if we could get food and spend the night parked in their driveway off the road. He said yes, and we pulled into the driveway. This turned out to be one of the most pleasant experiences of our journey. The young man's mother prepared a delicious hot meal of chicken and meat and frijoles and bread. We had cold beer and soft drinks for the kids. We ate with them at their dinner table and felt as if we had been invited to dinner with some old friends. After eating mostly cold and miserable food in Gus and in cheap restaurants, since our propane went out, this was a real treat.

The young man and his father spoke some English and with my broken Spanish we struck up a conversation and a friendship. After dinner the young man, his name was Percy, came into Gus to see it. We spent the night safe and dry parked in the mud in front of their ranch, off the dirt road, which hopefully would soon bring us to pavement. The next morning we had coffee and bread and some fantastic cheese and eggs for the kids. Total charge for all of this was $5 for dinner and $1 for breakfast for the four of us, and we felt we had been visiting with friends. Percy took a liking to us and we exchanged addresses. Just before leaving, he gave David a valued possession of his, a leather pouch from Argentina. He showed us around their ranch, showed the kids how they milk cows, and we bid them farewell again on our way to find the paved road that would take us to Guatemala City.  

Gus did very well on the bad roads in Belize and Eastern Guatemala.  In the crossing from Flores to the paved road, which is about 200 kilometers, we saw only one passenger car and one VW bus, all the other vehicles were trucks and buses. There were no recreational type vehicles to be seen. It would have been impossible to pull a trailer over such a road and motor homes couldn't possibly take the punishment. I’m amazed at Gus's stamina and traction. I suspect the no-spin differential helped quite a bit.  We sloshed through deep mud, even going uphill, and always kept moving. I’m sure the low gearing in the transmission helped also, there were times when we stayed in first or second gear for miles. Gus has something called a “granny gear” which is an especially low gear for maximum pulling power; we often used it on these roads.

On the last twenty miles of the bad road, after crossing Lake Isabella, the road got a little better and we picked up some speed for the first time in several hundred miles. At about 30 miles an hour I began to notice a loss of power and difficulty in getting up some of the steeper hills. Apparently the many miles of dirt, dust and mud took their toll on Gus and there seemed to be a carburetion problem at higher speeds, which didn't surprise me given the goop we had just driven through. When we finally reached the pavement, after five or more days on dirt roads filled with potholes, it was quite a thrill. It was strange driving at forty and fifty miles an hour, and everything seemed different about Gus, the steering and suspension especially. I guess it was just that we were accustomed to driving at five miles an hour through mud.

We stopped at a mechanic after driving about 25 miles on the pavement and he worked for several hours trying to find the problem I described. After a number of checks he thought everything was okay but a trial drive showed the problem remained. He thought we might have needed a new distributor cap and suggested we drive on to Guatemala City, which was another 75 miles, for repairs.

We spent that night off the road near a restaurant where we ate, and limped into Guatemala City the next day with Gus sometimes being fine and other times having great difficulty getting up the hills. When we finally arrived in Guatemala City, we found the Chevy dealer, explained the nature of our problem and they went to work on Gus after lunch. They replaced the Bendix in the starter; a mechanic in Chetemal had rebuilt the starter motor, for $5, but didn't get to the source of the problem The Chevy dealer tuned Gus, checked the various filters and charging system, and said we should come back the next day to have the carburetor rebuilt. I couldn't believe the gas filter that they removed and replaced; it was packed solid with red clay and I’m amazed that Gus ran at all with that much dirt in the filter. They are now rebuilding the carburetor, which has been removed and worked on four times in the past 6000 miles--it was cleaned in La Paz and Merida and checked by the mechanic outside of Guatemala City, and now it’s being rebuilt with new parts.

Some thoughts about Guatemala and our trip through the Peten frontier. After seven weeks in Mexico, the people here seem more easy-going and laid-back than the Mexicans. They are friendly, polite, honest and nice as can be. They mostly wave to us as we drive by and when we ask directions or information, using my broken Spanish, they’re extremely friendly and helpful.

Driving through the back roads of Peten Department was quite an experience; seeing the primitive way the people live, the pigs and chickens everywhere and the thatched roof huts the people live in. The area is as primitive as I’ve ever seen and I doubt there are many places in the world that are more primitive. The chickens are the prettiest we’ve ever seen, multi-colored and cocky as hell, running everywhere. The ubiquitous pigs are huge, dirty and ugly.

As we drove through the small villages we were always the central attraction. Gus was a novelty and people stopped what they were doing and looked and waved as we went by. We were struck with the basicness of the people. Apparently most of the men earned their living as chicileros; they went out each day to gather chicle from the nearby trees. We noticed the absence of men, only women and children, as we drove by. Apparently the men leave for some period of time and return when their work is completed.

Amatitlan, Guatemala, January 17, 1977

We’re in a trailer park called Las Hammacas near the town of Amatitlan, about twenty miles from Guatemala City. This is our second day here. We’ve mostly been resting and enjoying doing nothing after the difficult trip from Tikal and taking care of various problems in Guatemala City, including getting more money to continue our trip. This is a lovely place, nicely forested and surrounded by mountains. The trailer park has a huge pool, naturally heated by a nearby hot spring. The first day the kids spent the entire day in the pool and made friends with two kids from Canada, Andrea and Graham. Last night, Misti invited their parents, Rob and Margaret, for a drink and they stayed to share our dinner. They contributed a bottle of California wine, which they had been saving for some time, a real treat for us.

On Saturday we went to the native market in Amatitlan and discovered some of the differences between Guatemala and Mexico. One difference is that the food here is much cheaper than in Mexico, that is, fruits and vegetables and meat. The variety is incredible, fruits and vegetables that we’ve never seen at home are available which are both delicious and cheap. For much less than a dollar we were able to buy enough food to last the four of us for several days. We mostly followed the rule of eating only those fruits or vegetables that had skin on them.

Canned goods in Guatemala are expensive, much more so than in Mexico and liquor is not nearly as available as in Mexico, and is more expensive. We’ve gotten to like the local beer, Gallo (with a chicken on the label) and it’s what we’ve mostly been drinking.

Yesterday we made a major breakthrough in our meal planning and for the first time went into a meat market, and bought some meat. It tasted like beef, which they said it was, was a little tougher than what we’re used to, but was very cheap, about $1.00 a pound. Misti cut it into chunks and we had it in a delicious stew. Today we bought five more pounds, which we plan to cook and refrigerate for future meals.
 
Amatitlan, Guatemala, January 19, 1977

I’m writing this from a bed in the Hospital Nacional de Amatitlan, recovering from a bad infection in my leg, which I foolishly neglected to the extent that I had to be hospitalized. The doctor isn’t certain what caused the irritation that led to the infection. After we told him we had traveled through the Peten, which is Guatemala's frontier, he thought the infection was likely caused by an insect bite (mortida). That may be so, but I personally think the cause was a boil, which I neglected and allowed to fester and become infected.

My leg had been hurting for several days with what appeared to be a boil. On Sunday the pain was very intense and Misti suggested I go to a clinic in Amatitlan, the nearest town, and a name I will remember all my life. We went to the clinic and a doctor in the emergency room looked at the boil and apparently didn't think it was that bad; it wasn't infected at that point. He prescribed an antibiotic and a pain-killer, but we weren't able to fill the prescription for the antibiotic, they were out of it, and the pain was bothering me too much to consider driving into Guatemala City.  At that point, Misti was driving Gus because my leg hurt too much for me to drive. So I just took the pain pills (Darvon) hoping the leg would get better, which was pretty stupid. We did have our own supply of antibiotics, including penicillin, that my cousin Barry, who is a doctor, had put together for us before we left home, which if I had taken would probably have fought the infection. But we didn't think to do this.

That night the pain became intense and I started taking stronger pain pills with codeine that we had in our medicine kit. In the morning Misti drove me into Amatitlan to that same clinic; I was in bad shape, moaning from the pain and barely able to stand up.

It was a Monday morning and the clinic was crowded with emergency cases.  These were poor people and many looked like they were badly in need of medical attention. While I was waiting my turn to see a doctor, the pain was becoming unbearable and I doubted if I could even walk the short distance into the doctor's office. When I was called, I did manage to walk to his office and Misti found me a chair to sit in.  As she was trying to explain the situation to the doctor, I started getting dizzy and passed out from the pain. This attracted the doctor's attention and before I knew it I was lying on a gurney being given several shots, one for the pain and others to test for possible allergy to antibiotics.

I was a total basket case.  The pain was intense, I was frightened from passing out and they said I had to stay in the hospital for at least one day and possibly longer. At age 38, I had never spent a night in a hospital as a patient anywhere. As a kid I had been into emergency rooms for things like dog bites, but I never actually stayed overnight. Being in a foreign country, and my use of the language still being somewhat limited, didn't help any.  This was a small Indian clinic in Guatemala, but I knew that my body was in serious trouble, and when I passed out I realized that I really needed medical help, and I was comforted by the fact that there were people here who were willing to help me.
 
I was taken on the gurney to the men's ward and transferred to a bed. I had been told that the infection was serious and it was necessary for me to receive antibiotics intravenously, which is what bothered me more than anything else. The thought of being hooked up to a needle and having fluid pumped into me was scary as hell. I’ve always had a fear of needles and will go out of my way to avoid one, and now I was about to get the granddaddy of them all.

There was, of course, nothing I could do or say. I knew I was in big trouble and that I had better do what they said. They proceeded to give me the IV and it really wasn't as bad (at first) as I thought it would be.

It’s strange that my first experience in a hospital would be here in Amatitlan, a small town in Guatemala. I had always thought of hospitals as being very antiseptic places with rigid rules about everything. This place did not fit that image. It wasn’t the cleanest place, although that didn't bother me. There were eight other beds in the ward and most of the men were older and seemed as if they had been in the hospital for some time. I felt so sick and bothered by pain that I found it difficult to try to communicate with any of the other men and, of course, no one spoke any English.

Without Misti there to look after me, I don't know what I would have done. She brought me meals, since one of the nurses said the food wasn’t very good, and stayed with me even though it wasn't visiting hours. She did everything she possibly could to lift my spirits, which had reached a pretty low point. She got someone from the campground who spoke both Spanish and English, to speak with the doctor and find out what was going on. Misti was my Florence Nightingale.

The first night was sheer hell, the worst I can remember in my life. The needle in my arm made it impossible for me to move around so I had to stay in one position for hours. I was given penicillin every three hours around the clock and each time the pain of the antibiotic going through my system was unbearable. After each shot I would moan and groan in English and, of course, no one could understand the words although they got the meaning. The guy in the bed across from me had his entire leg bandaged and must have been in incredible pain, since he cried out through most of the night. To pass the time I read the book "Shogun" which is about an Englishman in Japan in the 15th century. The book is gory with detailed explanations of tortures and killings, but it served the purpose of getting my mind off my own pain, and the time passed well.

The next morning things got better. Misti had me moved into a private room with a comfortable bed which made a big difference since the bed in the ward was the most uncomfortable I had ever slept on. This was sheer luxury, a private room with my own real bathroom, a bed that adjusted up and down, a nurse that came by every so often; I was in heaven and on the road to recovery. The hospital didn't want to give Misti the private room since they felt it was too expensive and not necessary. The cost of the private room was six dollars a day, which included everything except the doctor who was another few dollars. The room and doctor in the ward were completely free even to people from another country like me. It’s interesting that the Guatemalans who are so poor are willing and able to provide free medical care to those who need it while we, who are probably the most affluent in the world, aren’t able, or willing, to do this.

This is now my third day in the hospital and tomorrow I leave to rest in Gus. I made a deal with the doctor that he would let me out of the hospital a day early, he wanted me to stay four days, if I promised to stop in a clinic in Mexico to have my leg looked at. Even though my hospital experience was an ordeal, I have some pleasant thoughts about it. All of the people were extremely nice and helpful and throughout I had the feeling that I was being taken care of, and that’s important when you're as sick as I was. One nurse in particular, a sister Yolanda, was especially nice. She spoke a few words of English and tried to comfort me when I was in the greatest pain.

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, January 23, 1977

We’ve been in a campground in the town of Panajachel, on the edge of Lake Atitlan, for the past two days. The lake is unbelievably beautiful with three majestic snow-capped volcanoes dominating the setting. Panajachel is a gringo town and many North Americans and Europeans live and visit here. Because of my leg, I haven't gotten around much; my first walk in about five days was to the lake but I decided not to try to walk into town.

We’ve met some nice people, a couple named Bob and Carol and their young daughter, Rebecca, from Connecticut who had dinner with us in Gus last night. They suggested our going together to a small out-of-the-way mountain town or meeting them there, which sounds like fun and we’ll probably do it. Carol is a pediatrician and volunteered to look at my leg; she said it seemed to be healing nicely.

Parked across from us are four Canadians from Alberta traveling in a school bus very much like ours, only bigger. They’ve broken down with a driveshaft problem and I lent them my shop manual, but they need to get a spare part, probably from Guatemala City. Camped next to us are two young guys from Denmark who are bussing and hitchhiking their way to South America.

Last night was hectic in Gus. Another guy named Rene from Switzerland asked if he could use our stove and kitchen to cook some spaghetti. Between him cooking spaghetti and Bob and Carol visiting and the kids playing, it was hectic.

We’ve bought a number of lovely things in Guatemala, some from the market in the cities we’ve passed through and other things from roadside stands. Guatemala is noted for its Indian handcrafted materials, weavings of handbags, colorful shirts and pants, and various other things. It’s all very inexpensive and Gus seems to have unlimited storage space.

We stayed one night in Antigua after leaving the hospital in Amatitlan. We camped right on the street, in front of the main plaza, near an old church that had been badly damaged by the many terramotos (earthquakes) that plague Guatemala. That day we drove to San Antonio, a town about ten miles from Antigua, and bought some shirts and wall hangings. We didn't see much of Antigua because of my limited walking ability. What we did see was quite nice but the entire city appears to have been heavily damaged in last year's (1976) earthquake. We didn’t realize it at the time but we later found out that the earthquake was the worst ever to hit Guatemala.

The drive from Lake Amatitlan to Antigua, and then on to Lake Atitlan, was beautiful; through high mountainous country with spectacular views of volcanoes. This part of Guatemala is noted for some of the most magnificent scenery in the world. The air is crystal clear from the lack of industry and vehicles as well as the high altitudes. The road that winds down from Solola to Panajachel is almost a straight drop with switchbacks and hairpin turns. The first view of the lake is breathtaking. Misti's description was apt, it looks just like Shangri-La.

My leg seems to be healing well. I’ve been taking a strong antibiotic orally four times a day and each day I seem to have more strength. The first day out of the hospital I wasn't able to walk at all. The second day I walked with the help of a cane that we bought in the market at Solola.  Now I'm able to manage short periods without the cane.  My illness has put a real burden on Misti, she has to do everything now, all of her chores plus all of mine. But she’s wonderful and doesn't complain at all. She’s nursed me back to health giving in to all of my cranky demands. A man couldn't ask for a better woman. Misti has had to do all of the driving for the past week and it’s been difficult since I had hogged the driving for most of the trip and she was out of practice. Driving a six-ton school bus on narrow mountain roads in Guatemala is not for the faint of heart, but she was up to the task.
 
San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico, January 25, 1977

We’re back in Mexico, after spending two weeks in Guatemala, and are now starting our long journey home. We estimate we’re roughly 4,500 miles from home and will take about four weeks to get back. I wish we had four months instead.

Art Faibisch, written in 1976 and edited in July, 2019