Cover Story: El Mirador

In 1988, my second year in the Peace Corps and my last year in Guatemala, my girlfriend and confederate Catalina and I conspired to steal over sweet aguardiente and chuchitos. We contrived ways to make ourselves a little easy money: to seek out the weak of spirit and mind, the fat of wallet and waist, and to take them for what they were worth. We took from tourists mostly: Germans, Dutch, Japanese, Americans and Canadians. Catalina and I didn’t discriminate according to race or nationality, and we took American dollars only. I wasn’t making any money in the Peace Corps and Catalina convinced me that since we were only robbing the rich tourists, we were sort of de facto Robin Hoods, recycling their opulence through our own means. Catalina had a large, poor family of farmers behind her and a Marxist doctrine up her sleeve. My job so far as a Peace Corps volunteer — an eager servant to the people of Guatemala — consisted of avoiding hepatitis, occasionally leading AIDS awareness or health and hygiene seminars, and writing reports that no one in Washington would ever read. I was on the outposts. No one cared much what I did, and I was bored.

Catalina and I lived in Flores, in northern Peten, a city built upon swamps and savannas, and surrounded by ancient ceiba and mahogany trees, with less than 2 percent of the Guatemalan population. Flores was a city of the new frontier, muddy and reckless with bars and hotels amid a solemn, old-world atmosphere. But for us, Flores was time to think, to plan, to enjoy the bounty of my home in the tattered Hotel Peten: simplicity in the soothing breeze of a revolving fan; Catalina’s strong hands rubbing coconut oil into my back; fresh guava and papaya for breakfast; mango for lunch; the wild green marijuana of the rain forest and the locally brewed apricot chichas; the hum of the rainy season.

Catalina worked for a local money exchange where they often duplicated the receipts of tourists’ cash advances; she swindled tourists fresh off the gringo trail who needed cash — a beautiful quilt or a Guatemalan weave catching their eye, some silver or jade in the weekly market, buying frenzies encouraged by the atmosphere of fiesta. When I first met Catalina, it was across a counter with black metal bars between us where she smiled so sweetly, the lovely, dark-eyed Mestizo farmer’s daughter, the girl next door, who asked me so politely to please sign again.

Your signature is not through the paper, señor. Please, would you.

Catalina demurely stole money from me — a duplicated receipt that cost my credit card company $500. She thought I was just another turista passing through, my backpack hidden away in a youth hostel somewhere. When I went back to complain and threatened to call the police, she took me out for a lunch of beer and wild rice; we spent that night together wrapped up in the spoon of desire underneath my mosquito net while she told me stories about the crooked government that kept her family in poverty. I listened then but mostly marveled at her long, strong, corn-fed body and my good fortune at having been robbed.

We are minorities. You can’t understand what it’s like to work and work and work for someone else all your life without decent food and clothes for your family. We are not slaves but our government spits on us anyway.

She never gave me my money back, but since that evening, Catalina and I ran small scams on the gringo tourists, usually groups of five or so. We never hit more than once every two months, and we always initiated our scams amid the anonymity of Guatemala City, keeping our remote town secure. After our first hit together, Catalina introduced me to her family.

This is where my money goes, she said. This is why I rob the tourists.

Catalina never took me there again, but I had seen enough — the simple lives of farmers, a routine of long hours tending to their sharecroppers’ fruit harvest. Everything they had was rented from the government-supported plantation owners.

Eventually, Catalina and I fell into a cool, quiet love, spending our nights together, the gentle whirl of generators and the sounds of Spanish and Creole floating up to my second floor balcony: a quiet, satisfying life. One weekend she took me to the ruins of El Mirador, a Mayan city deep in the jungle.

The Mayans believed this place was a window to the world, Catalina told me. From here everything was clear, questions answered, riddles of the universe solved. From here they read the earth and sky for signals of what was to come. They anticipated life, death, war and peace.

When we stood atop El Tigre, the largest pyramid in the ancient city, it was Catalina’s generous black hair and quick dark eyes that I saw, her browned body in repose.

What do you see, my little rabbit? she asked me.

When I looked to the east, my eyes passed over the Mayan mountains to Belize; when I looked west toward Mexico, I saw smoke rising from the dense rain forest, a fire ablaze somewhere in the jungle, signals I couldn’t read.

In May

the rains came — early morning thunder, lightning over the temple Tikal, generators down in the evening — and there was little to do but swing in our hammocks and suffer the cool, clear, ventilating properties of aguardiente, so lethal in its localized, down-home wisdom. In September came the worst of the rainy season, streets sodden and muddy, gutters heavy with water and choked with leaves, mosquitoes and malaria ripe in the air. Catalina and I hunkered down under the shelter of the ramshackle but sedate Hotel Peten, content to smoke and drink and make our quiet love, the water rising up around our door. And the rebel armed forces, teams of hungry guerillas, were driven out of the jungle and into the bordering cities by the heavy rains.

With the sounds of rain and thunder outside, Catalina and I sat on the balcony of the Hotel Peten working on our first grand ploy to sell phony tickets for trips to see the Blue Hole off the eastern coast of Belize, a deep shaft about 90 meters across that is the only opening to a complex series of caves and crevices in the Caribbean Sea: a diver’s paradise. Catalina and I, gringo dollars in our eyes, figured that divers were generally people who could afford the heavy equipment and the exorbitant fees that came with their exotic hobby. We had already conned a busload of leathered and sunburned Germans into waiting in the Hotel Don Quixote in Guatemala City, excited by bright, turquoise pamphlets and rumors of adventure and wonder in the intriguing Caribbean Sea. We played the perfect adventure couple, tanned and khakied, a twinkle of expertise and experience in our eyes, gleaming phony Rolex’s from Guatemala City on our wrists, and an outrageous hatful of legends and lore to keep them dreaming all the way to the coast. It was easy money and our biggest yet. Our scam was simple but eloquent: We sold the tickets in Guatemala City where we met them — the price of transportation by bus and boat, gourmet meals under the moonlight on board the phantom craft the Gran Jaguar, our pricey guide fees that said we were dependable and well-trained, their diving rentals, local and national taxes, an agency fee. From there we would ride with the eager group in our friend Arturo’s Pullman — an old Greyhound, a magnetic sign reading Barrier Tours — to the border near Puerto Barrios where the potential explorers were to switch to a ferry for their ride to Belize. Arturo would ride with them, a familiar face until they reached Punta Gorda in Belize, where he would finally slip away in the confusion of disembarkation. Catalina and I would ride back to Flores, separating dollars into three piles, ready to disappear again for a few months.

As I sat on the porch counting the money that we would inherit and dreaming of our own exotic vacation to Brazil, Catalina tip-toed up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, refilling my glass, kissing me on the neck and plucking my cigarette from my hand.

What are you dreaming about, my little rabbit?

Money, honey. And lots of it.

I turned to her, marveling at her face, the richness of her brown eyes, the curve of her lips like the bud of a rose.

She inhaled deeply and blew smoke into the air, creating a temporary fog in front of her face. We will be rich, no.

No, not rich, just accomplished. I took her hands in mine.

Catalina pulled a chair next to mine and sat down, her lovely brown legs stretched out before me, two beautiful limbs crossed like a promise of the good fortune that shone down upon us. Her black hair hung down over her shoulders, its ends curled by the moist air. She ate from a plate of papaya as she looked out over the balcony railing. I leaned into her, pulling her hair from her neck and kissed her perfect ears.

Do you love me, Catalina? Do you really love me, a gringo?

Don’t be silly. She laughed and cocked her head away from me at the sounds of distant gunfire.

What’s that? I asked.

She stared at the rain in front of us, pensive. Guerrillas. In town tonight. Good reason to stay inside.

Catalina rolled a joint and leaned in closer to me, placing the neatly rolled smoke between my fingers. I pushed her hair from her eyes and pulled her head to my shoulder, lighting the joint in my left hand. She pulled my hand to her mouth, drew on the pungent dope, and laughed. Tomorrow, everything will be different.

At 4 in the morning,

the city dark and quiet, the rain gone, a mist layering the streets, we departed for Guatemala City with Arturo. We rode in silence, the solitude of the Pan-American Highway keeping us thoughtful. Catalina slept against my shoulder as I kept one arm out the window and smoked. Arriving in Guatemala City, we met our 12 German friends at their hotel, eager and ready inside the lobby, hands laden with coffee and cigarettes, their expensive bags beside them like obedient children. We shook hands again, met wives and lovers; a few chesty men took on the role of leaders. Catalina moved gracefully, sliding with confidence among the tourists, collecting their money, directing them toward the Pullman, handing out a photocopied book of necessities and safety precautions; she was all smiles, a dose of the girl next door thrown in with her khaki shorts and hiking boots, hair wrapped loosely in a ponytail. Arturo was somber but industrious, fiddling with the Pullman engine — imaginary distractions — playing the part of the obedient native. We left for Puerto Barrios at 8 o’clock.

An hour into our trip north, rain came down hard and we found our progress slowed by the muddy roads along the Honduran border. The rain kept the morning dark, the excitement of the Germans lulled by the gloomy sky. Catalina had decided over roadmaps in my hotel room that we should try alternate roads to avoid the more frequented highways, so Arturo turned the Pullman west to travel along a secondary route. We had been on the secondary road for about 30 minutes, slowed by mud and large potholes, when Arturo stopped the bus, the only sound cheap wipers on the murky windshield. I leaned up front.

What’s happening?

No se. Arturo’s face was impossible to read.

A large truck with wooden guardrails was stopped before us. The stillness of the obscure road unsettled me.

Are they stuck? I asked him.

No se. He hadn’t taken his eyes from the truck.

What’s it doing there?

No se.

Goddamnit, Arturo, I whispered to him. What the hell is it? Hondurans?

Then he told me. Guerillas.

The Germans began to stir, nervous about the abrupt stop, our whispering. I turned to them with a big gringo grin, trying my best to appear calm.

No problem, folks, looks like it might be some local farmers stuck in the mud.

Arturo calmly opened the Pullman door, got out of the truck and walked forward, his jacket pulled up over his head to keep the rain off. Shadowy figures appeared suddenly at the door, unaffected by the rain, black faces under green hats. Arturo disappeared without a word, his figure growing fainter as he walked toward the truck. Everything was a shade of green: the rain on the windshield, the jungle to both sides, the ghostly men with guns. I put my arm around Catalina and prepared for an appeal in my best Spanish. The door opened and a man spoke calmly, Por favor, gesturing toward the inside of the Pullman. At first I didn’t understand and I thought he wanted me to turn on the radio, the absurdity of his request puzzling me. The soldier interpreted my lack of movement as disobedience and moved further inside the Pullman, pushing his rifle hard into my ribs, planting a foot on the running board and raising his voice to a subtle level, curt and clear, Por favor, señor. And then I understood as he said Catalina in the same lifeless voice. My lovely Mestizo girlfriend opened the bus door and stepped out into the rain without looking back at me. I leaned into my seat in shock, my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes to clear away the confusion, unsure of what to do, and I heard the slide of the side baggage doors opening, the Germans behind me throwing angry questions at my back. Catalina climbed back into the Pullman, moving with simple conviction, and began to ask for the wallets of each German tourist. Two more soldiers appeared behind her and began to take the luggage away. A chesty German man in a ridiculous safari hat, an expensive camera around his neck, stood up suddenly and grabbed Catalina by the arm, pushing her against the door. He shoved his way past her and stepped out into the rain.

Vhat za fuck is going on?

Quickly one of the ghostly green men appeared at the front of the bus.

Señor! Please get back in the bus.

The German looked at the two guerrillas pulling luggage from the bus, then left at the man who had spoken to him. He turned, his big, pink fists clenched in anger, and stepped toward the front of the bus.

The bus, please, señor, the guerrilla shouted and raised the barrel of his rifle.

The German shouted back at him, his pointed, pale face growing red. Vhat is this? Vhy are you frightening us?

Señor, stop now.

The German kept moving and with a snap of his wrist tossed the silly safari hat at the shadowy guerrilla. A gunshot cracked the air with a short report. The women screamed and the men shouted in frantic German. The broad German jumped backward and reached for his gut, astonishment in his eyes, then stumbled forward, his hands out before him as he zombie-walked toward the guerrilla. But before he could reach the rebel, the German fell with a splash into the mud. Through the bus window, it appeared as if he had bent over to look for something he had lost in the mud and then fallen forward on his hands tucked underneath him. His feet pointed out from his body, his head and neck bent upward, his eyes frozen open in shock and anger. A woman in a simple white cotton dress screamed, Dieter, and leaped forward, but two men pulled her back to her seat, their meaty arms wrapped around her plump, middle-aged body. The other Germans sat back in silence, their initial shock settling into paralysis.

My god, Catalina? What the hell is going on?

She didn’t respond, didn’t even look at me, but kept her eyes on her task and moved back toward the front of the Pullman to the large glove box. I began to stand, a hand out to touch her arm, to find a hint of the lovely brown girl that sang children’s songs on my hotel balcony. A rifle butt slammed into my right knee and I fell to the floor of the bus in a spasm of pain and awful cracking sounds. Inside the glove box were the total payments from our German prey — almost $15,000. We were a cash-only business. No credit cards. Catalina removed the metal moneybox and turned to leave.

Catalina! I don’t understand! I thought ...

What? That we were in love? Oh, my little rabbit. You saw only what you wanted to see. But you are gringo. Si, imperialista. There is nothing. You ... are nothing.

Catalina stepped down, shook her ponytail loose and walked out into the rain again toward the shadow of the truck, two soldiers at her side. She was poised and beautiful, her black hair streaming free and wet down her back, her khaki shorts pressed against her angular hips, tight around her lean legs. She kicked off her shoes and wrapped an arm around the soldier on her left, her head back in a stout laugh, barely a nod to me over her shoulder as she disappeared in the fog.