Trifter

The bus had dropped me on the edge of town; my fellow passengers and I jostled along side it to claim our backpacks from the luggage-hold. The expressions of disembarking backpackers in Guatemala – and indeed, the whole continent of Central and South America, are often much the same: worried; and the relief, once their belongings are safely strapped back onto their bodies, shows in their faces. But afterall who can blame them? The host of potential guides that descend upon new arrivals in town the second the doors swing open can be a little intimidating. And while most of them are honest (if a little enthusiastic) everywhere has that fleet-footed, “stray-baggage-clerk” to watch out for.

So I joined the queue and ducked (sometimes too late) as backpacks were hoisted aloft shoulders and people swung clumsily around looking for their companions. My own pack retrieved, I set about taking in my surroundings. We were at the beginning of a stone causeway which led Flores, a town built, surrounded by the waters of a beautiful lake called Peten Itza.

I set off across the causeway and was soon enjoying exploring Flores’ cobbled streets, with its many souvenir shops, restaurants, bars and all manner of vendors and places to stay. Walking towards me was a European looking chap. I had just seen him bid goodnight to his Latina girlfriend and he was wearing the dreamy expression of the lovelorn. The next thing that I realized was that I recognised this fellow. Several weeks previous I’d spent an evening with him and another backpacker in a bar in Mexico City. Since then I’d been through Belize, Guatemala, up to Honduras, and was now on the way back to Mexico via a different route.

It’s not that surprising to bump into fellow travelers, weeks and even countries apart in Central and South America. After all, most of us are heading for the same monuments and looking for similar experiences, all gently shepherded by the same guide books, along a route commonly known as the “gringo trail.” But why in the name of St. Christopher did it have to be him? You know how you don’t necessarily have to dislike a person to know you don’t want to be in their company again. We simply hadn’t clicked.

The other traveler from the bar, I’d happily have run into again. The last I heard, he’d gone of to see neighboring El Salvador.

I walked quicker hoping to pass him unnoticed – with a mix of polite but pointedly unwelcoming phrases clamoring to make proper sentences of themselves in my head, should they be needed.

Smiling in his reverie he looked up. His joyful expression changed comically to one of horror as he clocked me walking in his direction. With no attempt at politeness or fake camaraderie, he executed an abrupt about- turn and sped off in the other direction. I was left wondering whether to feel shunned, amused, or relieved – seeing as he obviously felt just the same way as I did.