Taking the Chicken Bus to Nebaj, Guatemala

For the first week of my Guatemalan holiday, I’ve journeyed in the relative comfort of private minivans to the well-known tourist attractions of Antigua, Chichicastenango, Lake Atitlan, and Huehuetenango. Now, spurred on by other globetrotter’s wondrous accounts of semi-tropical forests and vibrant Mayan culture, I’m ready to venture into the Central American country’s remote northern highlands. Unfortunately, minivans are not a travel option here. The only modes of transport are segunda clase “chicken buses”, which accept animal as well as human cargo. I ignore my misgivings and decide to press on, but the seven-hour trip before me promises to be anything but boring. And, at the end, the town of Mayan town of Nebaj with its artisan handcrafts -- gorgeous hand-woven wall hangings, crocheted handbags and thick woolen blouses.

Pressed Like Cold Anchovies

I toss my bag up to a young guy on the roof, who fastens it with the others, securely I hope. Several men squat amongst the baggage. Their situation doesn’t look too comfortable, but after stepping inside I’m tempted to climb up and join them. The seats are bench-style, designed for two but with three people jammed into each. And they’re the lucky ones. From front to back bodies stand pressed together like cold anchovies.

I push to the back where I hope it’s less congested, but no luck. The other passengers look to be Mayans or Ladinos: a mix of Latino and Mayan. The women have long raven hair, tawny complexions, and full Mayan lips. Many wear huipiles, handmade garments woven in multihued geometric patterns.

The men are not so colourfully attired. A few wear fresh, black suits and shiny dress boots but most are unshaven and look as if they’ve been wearing the same wrinkled shirts and trousers for days. They have the lined faces and cracked, blackened hands of dirt farmers. I spot only one chicken, tucked quietly under the jacket of a sheepish-looking fellow seated by the window. I’m a little disappointed there aren’t more, although the three baby pigs tied to the back of the rear seat are an unexpected bonus.

As even more people continue to squeeze onboard, I pray that we will leave soon. An old man with sun-baked skin and a toothless grin leans against me, reeking of chili peppers and gin. Once again I consider joining my backpack in the crow’s nest. In spite of the cramped conditions the passengers are animated, chattering and laughing with Latino gusto. I can only grasp smatterings of conversations but I pick up enough to know that many are gossiping with friends and family. “My son wants to move to Guatemala City,” a stout, middle-aged woman complains. “Who will help me on the farm?” “How can Julia marry such a useless drunk?” a young Mayan girl implores. “She thinks he’ll change but she’ll see.” Evidently, the bus is not only a means of transport but also a forum. Fervently I wish that I were more fluent in Espanol.

Nebaj, Guatemala

I’m jolted from my musings by pounding Latino music. It’s way too early for this, I think, but then I consider that the musica may be the only thing keeping our driver awake.

The Engine Roars to Life

As The Gipsy Kings fade the engine groans, hesitates, and then finally roars into life. The driver, who wears a torn, filthy t-shirt too small for his massive belly, spits out the window and grinds the skeleton-head stick shift into gear. He makes the sign of the cross to a small portrait of Jesus as we lurch over mammoth potholes and onto the road in front of the station. In a few minutes the city lights fade as we ascend into brown, rocky hills toward lush, green mountains. In the dim light of daybreak I make out an old man in a white outfit leading a donkey up a dirt path beside the road, a scene that reminds me of drawings I had seen in markets days earlier. Livestock and half-dressed children run around humble, adobe houses.

A camouflage green army truck zooms by on a steep incline. Several bleary-eyed soldiers dressed in fatigues crouch in the back, shivering in the frigid morning air. They look no more than sixteen, clutching rifles nearly as big as themselves.

When I check to see if my money belt is still attached, I realize that I haven’t paid, nor has anyone else. I wonder if we pay when we get off, though it seems unlikely. My curiosity is satisfied when a skinny, teenage boy clutching a roll of bills emerges from the wall of humanity in front of me. Even though the bus is packed he manages to collect money, make change, and inform the driver where each party wants off. I lay out fourteen quetzals, or about two dollars, for the seven-hour trip, a tenth of what I had paid for private shuttles.

We never pass anything that resembles a bus stop. If someone wants to be picked up they stand by the roadside and gesture at the driver, and are let off wherever they desire. When the baggage handler has thrown down their bags from up top he signals with a sharp bang-bang on the metal roof that it’s okay to continue.

Numb with Fear

After a couple of hours we’re into the mountains. The bus whimpers up the increasingly windy, now unpaved road. It’s daylight but low clouds make for poor visibility. Through the mist I catch glimpses of blue green mountains, lush valleys, and fields of corn. I spot an overturned bus much like the one I’m on at the base of a cliff. Dead flowers decorate nearby tombstones, a reminder that this journey is no magical mystery tour.

We stop before the first of many hairpin turns. A fourth crew member jumps off and runs forward to check for oncoming traffic. When he is satisfied that the road is clear he indicates with a shrill whistle that it’s safe to continue, then jumps back on as the bus is still moving. Once, when there is a vehicle around the bend ahead of us, we must inch slowly back down the hill for several hundred feet to a point where the road is wide enough for a delivery van to pass. I’m numb with fear, but the people around me seem unperturbed, as if this is an everyday occurrence.

Getting to Nebaj Nebaj is the largest of three vilages that make up the Ixil Triangle in Guatemala’s northern highlands, one of the smallest ethnic regions in Central America. Few tourists venture to this isolated area, though it offers spectacular scenery and vibrant Maya culture. Local women wear blouses with multi-colored geometric patterns over bright crimson skirts, and decorate their hair with red and green pompons. Many sell gorgeous hand-woven wall hangings, crocheted handbags and thick woolen blouses directly from their homes. Nebaj is only accessible by second-class bus from Huehuetenango (7 hrs.) Santa Cruz del Quiche (2.5 hrs.) or Sacapulas (1.5 hrs.). Reportedly, the road has recently been paved. Pack some Gravol. Hotels and Restaurants For a small town well off the beaten track, Nebaj has a good selection of budget and mid-range accommodations and places to eat. All are within a few blocks of the main square, and many have internet access. It is also possible to arrange a homestay with a local family, or to bone up on your Espanol at a local Spanish school. For more information visit Nebaj.com

Just after we’ve conquered a particularly sharp bend, we come to a wide clearing where the army pickup that passed us earlier is parked next to a larger military truck. A young soldier motions with a rifle for us to pull over, and then barks something at our driver who motions for us to disembark. What now? I wonder. I had read that there were problems with guerillas in this area in the past but I thought that it was now safe. Maybe they are just on the lookout for banditos, or maybe they’re only disguised as soldiers and are rebels or banditos themselves. What if I’m held for ransom? I realize that no one at home knows my exact whereabouts. I have visions of myself as the subject of a CBC documentary on Canadians who mysteriously vanished while traveling abroad.

A man in fatigues emerges from the back of the truck brandishing a long metal object that looks alarmingly like a machine gun. My heart leaps into my throat, but as he approaches I can see that it is actually a large canister. He enters the now empty bus and proceeds to spray the inside of the vehicle from front to back. After he finishes what I assume is a de-lousing we are told to re-board and continue on. For the next twenty minutes everyone is sneezing and coughing from the noxious fumes. I’m certain that whatever I’m inhaling is not exactly healthy, but also relieved that that my name is less likely to appear on a Guatemalan tombstone.

Beauty and Mayan Culture

After the hacking has subsided, a voluptuous, pretty woman smiles up at me. “Don’t worry,” she assures me in halting English, “we arrive soon in Nebaj. Is very beautiful, and good Mayan culture.”

“I hope so,” I tell her, “I’ll be glad to get off this bus.”
“This normal for me,” she chuckles, “I ride every week this bus.”

I nod, reflecting on my “chicken bus” odyssey. This ride hasn’t exactly been pleasurable, but for the last several hours I’ve lived more “in the moment” than ever before. Part of the reason for my wanting to visit Nebaj was to seek out a traditional Mayan experience. To my surprise, I found what I was seeking on this decaying vehicle.

I spent two weeks in Guatemala and Nebaj was the highlight. Nothing in the way of glitzy tourist attractions, but lots of spectacular semi-tropical scenery and traditional Mayan culture. Beautiful textiles were available. It was a real authentic Mayan experience - an adventure traveler's dream.

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