I had been travelling for 4 days straight. I crossed Nicaragua by chicken bus, I was shot at in Managua , passed through the dirty streets of San Salvador, had been harassed by prostitutes in Guatemala City, and finally was left by a bus driver in the middle of the highway in rural Guatemala with nothing more than a promise that a bus would be along shortly to take me to Santa Elena and my eventual destination of Flores, Guatemala.
As I stepped off the bus my anxieties seemed stretched to their limits. I was having the type of week that makes you realize the importance of travel insurance. I sat vicariously on the side of the highway at a point in the road where the pavement split in two directions; I had no idea which direction I was supposed to be going.
I did my best not to look weak as a group of rough looking men sat chirping in loud Spanish while drinking beer at a stall across the street. I pushed my shoulders back, and sat up as straight as I could pretending I was supposed to be exactly where I was, and knew exactly where I was going.
The river walk in Flores β Click to enlarge. The heavy sense of eyes set upon me was all too noticeable. Within a couple of minutes a man crossed the road to approach me.
He sat down next to me as I did my best not to make eye contact. The awkward air was broken by near perfect English and an offer to help. After quickly telling his story he stood up and put his hand out to help me up.
