Lost in Las Lisas
"Here in Las Lisas the ocean spins incessantly. With wind and lightning falling off the face of the earth, you could easily disappear. The oceans sounds, pulling and now they are pushing our lives into dust. Wet grains of sand in my hand; foreign objects are cast out to sea. Waking up after Midnight the stars spoke out to me: 'Mind yourself and where you are heading. Since you've made it this far, all signs should be telling you: the life of a day one day at a time; electric lights shine on ocean waves.'"
Lines of airplanes play follow the leader above the constant dance of lights projected by Guatemala City. Along city streets, old buses belch forth plumes of black smoke and a wide assortment of vendors repeat offers. Young people pack the internet cafes and people navigate through scores of pedestrians. Sneaker shops and electronics stores grab the attention of those not actively avoiding them. Car radios sing to the people as they stop at the crossings. Taxi cabs impatiently ride the heels of people walking in the street, and tall billboards portray the high class of living. Beautiful people in these billboards offered a split second contemplation of what it would be like to have Quetzals, to have extra to spend, to live life as a vacation within a vacation, sipping champagne and avoiding the grueling responsibilities part of daily life for most. A tall old man with no shoes walked along a sidewalk scratching his beard and a woman working in a flower shop sniffed a patch of geraniums.
Within the complex known as the city airport, travelers were in a steady state of stimulation as they sought to collect all their possessions and scurry safely onward to their next destination. A big room yielded many corridors and store fronts enticed travelers to spend. Banks were open and guards holding rifles stood by nervously eyeing the surroundings in dark blue uniforms. Restaurants offered food made long ago and hot dogs rolled around on racks relentlessly.
A man wearing a plum undershirt advanced in line at a cafe. He had been carrying a load of gear and just landed on a flight from Mexico City. He eyed a stack of muffins and he could hear his stomach gurgle in confusion. He carried a purple backpack and a typewriter he was fond of. It helped him stay focused on his true passion: making descriptions of images and events, painting pictures with words, accurately imparting the feelings of characters. He had contemplated the lives of people, and how they were brought into this world.
Lucas felt a swaying haze pass through the air as he advanced toward the open walls leading outside where a succession of taxi cabs had established an efficient routine of lining people up and leading them away. As Lucas waited in line, he took in the sights and sounds of a first time trip to Guatemala. The indistinguishable syllables of a friendly Latina echoed up and down the corridors. Intermittent conversations were too fast or distant for Lucas to understand. He was anxious and almost like a surge of adrenaline rushing in due to danger he felt an awareness and observation unique to being in a foreign land. People looking for someone or something hustled by on their way to the most unimaginable destinations. In contrast to the fierce imprint of American consumerism, the soul and spirit of Guatemala shine through in an endless array of pleasant greetings, friendly encounters and an unspoken mutual respect that is admirable. Lurking deeper beneath lies a history of oppression and rivalries between organized crime syndicates and drug cartels.
A man sits ten feet high receiving a shoe polish and a choppy transistor radio trumpeted out traditional folk music. The man shining the shoes took meticulous care in his work. Whereas to one individual a shoeshine is just a shoeshine, this guy took pride in his work and seemed to be admired well enough.
Lucas had been instructed to meet George at La Pension Mesa, a spacious hotel and courtyard deep in the city. It had been revealed that Ernesto Guevarra, Fidel Castro and other subversives had stayed there. Lucas felt the solidarity and renewed urgency to the task at hand. He had no idea what this trip would bring, but he felt as though he was in a difficult race to survive.
The week of Semana Santa was beginning. Throughout the country, a national holiday and celebration took place in April. Signs of festivities were evident during the cab ride Lucas made to the hotel. Upon the streets people had created art by drawing pictures of dozens of random things: birds, fruits, et cet. These drawings were made of chalk and lined the cobblestone streets. The images were cast in frames and many participants filled in the shapes with what appeared to be minerals crushed into every color imaginable. Yellow and gold mixed with scarlet and magenta for a powerful sunset. Here a rusty brown eagle with life-like talons, there a cornucopia of bronze teeming with tiger flowers and poinsettias.
Lucas quickly paced the street and investigated a puppet sitting all alone on a street corner. The city bustled around him and on the way back to the hotel, Lucas saw an antique shop in an open garage. Lined within stood phonographs, old telephones, and an assortment of bizarre clocks from another life. He felt as though he had crossed over into the Twilight Zone.