In the Bus Station

He stood there just feet in front of me huffing what smelled like turpentine from a small plastic bag. Struggling to balance himself, he turned his blank stare to meet mine. I studied his light blue jumpsuit, the drool falling from his mouth onto the bus station floor, and the string of dust and dirt hanging from his hands. I had just arrived in Xela – my destination for the next several weeks – and, as I had feared, there was no one waiting for me – well, besides for the junky. Trying to avoid eye contact was tough and even tougher when he grumbled something that I’m pretty sure wasn’t English, Spanish or any language. As I sat in that empty yet cramped waiting room alone with my bulky bags I realized I had absolutely no idea what I would do if he decided to attack me. What the hell am I doing here, I panicked.

At this point, it was 6:30 P.M. in Guatemala (2 hours behind New Jersey), and it had been fifteen hours since I left my house. Thus far, the rest of my trip went as well as it possibly could have. The airport – to my surprise – looked just like any other airport I’d ever flown into (though it was quite plain). I met the school’s contact who drove me to the bus station and purchased my ticket to Xela. My two hour wait flew by after I met a fellow traveler/aspiring Spanish student from Boston. Even the four-plus hour bus ride on a Greyhound from the early 70s (at least) gave me an unofficial tour of the mountainous countryside.

But when we finally made it to Xela, it was not the bright colorful place that I had seen in pictures. Rain clouds spilled over the mountains surrounding the city and refused to let the remaining daylight break through. The bus drove through the dark and damp city and pulled into a random hole in the wall/garage. Everyone got off. When no one was there to pick me up off the rainy street and I realized I couldn’t communicate well enough with anyone to find a phone to use, I retreated to the narrow bus station. For the first time all day, I felt scared.

Wanting to end this stare-down with the zombie-like junky, I got up and went to the desk. “Uhh… ¿Puedo usar su teléfono?” I struggled to spit out. “No, no,” the man said while turning away and laughing. I took a seat next to the desk and, to my surprise, he finally got the stoned man to leave.

At least he’s gone, I thought to myself, but the fact of the matter is I was still alone and unsure if anyone would be there to pick me up before the station closed. Where the hell is Jaime? With each passing car and pimped-out US school bus the anxiety grew and grew. I’m really not ready for this. Why the hell did I come alone? Guatemala... that sounds like a good idea… not. People would walk in and my heart would lift for a second only to be dropped as each one walked right by me. It was now completely dark in the city. I can’t even pay a cab driver, I reminded myself. Crap, crap, crap.

Then, amidst my mental turmoil, a short Guatemalan woman walked into the station and walked right up to me with a smile on her face. “¿Eres Tom?” Thank God. “¡Sí!” I almost shouted in her face. “Soy Patrícia,” my host mom.

We left the bus station and walked eight blocks back to her home – my new home. Suddenly the streets felt warmer and my Spanish started coming back to me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.