Slowly making my way down the Caribbean coast toward Honduras, I opted for one last foray into Guatemala and stopped over in the Garafuna port town of Livingston. Now, I had heard mixed reports on the place, some people loved there time there, some people hated it. I would definitely agree with the later take on it; I hated it.
From in instant I stepped off the boat from Belize I did not feel comfortable in this crowded dingy little town. In the 30 meters it took me to walk to the immigration office from the dock, I was offered to buy weed four times. Each time the offer was more aggressive than the last, as the pushers would try and cut you off as you walked. Then, while waiting to get my passport stamped a young Garafuna man started chatting with me.
"Where ya from maan... oh, California... West side... I gotta family in LA..."
His name was Tom, he was about my age and had an inviting smile, which made me wary.
"So, do you smoke weed?"
"I'm from Berkeley, of course I do," I responded without thinking.
"Good! As soon as you done I take you to buy som."
"Oh, that's OK Tom," I answered with detectable hesitancy, "I need to get a hotel room and everything."
"I take ya to a good place mann, reeal cheap," Tom insisted.
At this point I knew there was no getting rid of him and at least I would not get hassled by anyone else if I was walking to my hotel with him. He waited until I had passed through customs and we walekd out together, the immigration official giving me a knowing look, as if to say 'kiss your white ass goodbye.'
True to his word Tom took me to a cheap hostel just down the road and blocked the exit while I checked in and stood in the doorway while I put my stuff in my room.
"First, you go get papers, then I take you to get weed, den we smoke it down at da beach an drink beer."
I noticed that he had strategically placed 'you' before the word buy and 'we' after it and I was beginning to see what was in store for me, and my wallet, in the near future.
We walked back through town and stopped in at a tienda to pick up the necessary supplies. Then we cut down through the residential side of town toward the beach, all the while people giving me knowing looks. We came to a vacant lot, which had walls to all sides and only a narrow whole in a fence
to get out. I looked eerie like the set in a Scorsese film that someone would be taken to get executed. I put my hand on my pocket knife and waited for the ambush."Give me da money an wait here," he asked, though not really asking.
I did as told and happy figured I would wait for him to leave, cut my losses and get the hell out of there. But, before I could make a break for it he came back around the corner again.
"He don have non here, we go to somwhere else I know." We walked on.
Up until this point, Tom had been very talkative, asking me questions about where I was from and telling me about his life and those of the Garafuna people. It was almost like a guided tour, which I was happy to have since we were descending deeper and deeper into the barrios of Livingston, not a place to walk by yourself. But slowly, knowing that the further and further we walked the less and less he would have to work to keep me with him, the conversations and questions ceased and an uncomfortable silence seeped in.
We cut through another residential section and descended down a dirt path to the beach on the far side of town. He made me wait outside again while he went off to make the score and I passed the time trying to look casual and board instead of nervous and highly alert as packs of local youths passed by me on the beach. Returning about 15 minutes later, Tom produced a few sacks of dirt and took me to a bar down the beach were he ordered a couple beers and rolled up a joint with the papers that I had bought but he had kept. We sat there in silence while he smoked my weed, occasionally offering me a hit and calling over his friends, who appeared to be anyone passing by, for a toke. He ordered more beer and rolled another one and sparked it up. After a polite length of time after the second round I excused myself saying that I was tired and wanted to take a nap before dinner.
"First yous pay for da beer," Tom insisted. I had anticipated this and was ready with my nullifying reply.
"Of course I'm going to pay for the beers Tom, you have been great. You showed me the city, told me about your people, found me a great place to stay and helped me enjoy my afternoon." He seemed stunned by this response. Going with it I put my hand on his shoulder and added, "and when I see you tonight, I'd love to buy you a couple more."
"yeahhh," he said with a convinced nod. "Das right." And with that I made a hasty exit.
Walking down the beach, more groggy then high, I was convinced that Tom's finally words of 'go down the beach and turn right to get back to your room' where in essence throwing me to the wolves. Even the Lonely Planet, which tends to gloss over many of the dangers that places can present can be quoted as saying, "don't walk alone on the beaches in Livingston, they are not safe." I made my way along the beach, flashing my hip knife to all the packs of locals who stopped talking to watch me as I passed by. I actually managed to find the road up to my hotel and, relieved, started up it back toward the center of town. I was about half way up when another guy came up to me and asked me if I wanted to buy weed. I told him that I didn't smoke the stuff and started to walk on.
"Well den," he said stepping in front of me, "give me a dolla for a beer."
Where Tom had only been using me for a free high, a gentle jacking if you will, this character was flat out trying to take my money. I told him that I didn't have any change, he said he would take me to the bank. I told him that I had Belizean dollars and no Guatemalan money and he said he would take me to a place to change cash. Finally I said, that I though I might have some left over money from the boat and reached into my pocket to fish out a couple loose bills.
"A ten will do," he said snatching a bill from my hand, "and remember, if you wan som weed, jus com see lil' Cesar!" Yeah, buddy, you just made a hell of a sales pitch, since you were so warm and friendly I'm defiantly going to try and find you again.
I ran in terror back to my room and shut the door, venturing out only once more a few hours later to make a made dash across the street to a small comedor. I hid behind a wall as I ate a quick dinner and then I streaked back to my room and did not come back out until the next day. That was at 630 pm.
I awoke in the morning to a pouring rain, but I drudged down the street to the dock and got soaked to the bone taking an hour and half long boat ride in an open aired water taxi up the river just to get the hell out of Livingston. I stopped in at a backpacker hostel in the small town of Rio Dulce. Partly due to the horrific day I had had before, and partly due to the fact that the hostel was a shithole, I did not enjoy myself there either. After an atrocious dinner at the hostel restaurant -which ended up giving a guy food poisoning in the bunk next to me- I spent an awful night in a damp
dorm room with twenty other beds and no mosquito netting, having to pay extra in order to attain a sheet to put over the bare soggy mattress. In the morning I made the easy decision to move on to Honduras, finally willing to say goodbye to Guatemala. While my experiences there where not common and many people have had great times in these places and seem truly shocked by the stories I've just told, there are still my experiences. And, if I can pass any advice on to you it would be to not travel in said towns alone and if you must, lie til you are blue in the face and never stop to walking. Otherwise, you can kiss your white ass goodbye.
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