Okay... upon mulling this over for past day or two, I think I left out another crucial part of the story. If my memory is correct (and it rarely is) I think that Anne had made it into Panajachel in hopes of finding an ATM. There was no ATM, so we realized sometime around this part of the trip that we were going to need to start conserving funds until we could find another functioning cash machine.
Moving on, we were back at our camp site and our host who's name for confidentiality and lack of memories sake will be Brian, sat himself down at the table right in front of the cooking area and began staring off into the distance. We brought our food over and began searching in the rusted sink for a mixing bowl that could at least be cleaned somewhat well. The kitchen was an outdoor space with a metal sink installed in an old and splintered wooden plank fixture. It was full of rusted and encrusted dishes that were dirty beyond repair. There was also no soap and due to something that happened earlier in the day, there was no water either. I pulled water from a jug (that brian told me had clean water) and sparingly began cleaning the bowl. I had a little pocket knife that we sterilized and used to husk the vegetables.
Brian, who had been making light conversation with us the whole time began asking us about the town and how everything was out there. We replied that it seemed business as usual. He then told us that there was a beheading yesterday.
Story has it, a band of 4 thieves made their way into town. Three women in their forties, one pregnant, and man in his early thirties rode in with the wind and robbed a poor shopkeeper in broad daylight. The entire state of Guatemala and inherently Lago Atitlan have been having problems for ages with corrupt government and law enforcement, so when the shopkeeper was had, the town mobbed. Vigilante justice in the mob mentality was the only proper form of punishment. The mob successfully captured the man and in a relentless haste of bloodlust and fury, they beheaded him. Despues, the mob demanded more. At that point, local law enforcement had rounded up the three remaining women and placed them in the local jail. Not much longer after that, the jail was surrounded by the furious mob demanding that the prisoners be delivered to them. The police resisted the demands and after not much more of a struggle, the masses diffused.
almost comically, my comrade and I stroll into this city and sure enough, there was absolutely no sign of any such event ever having existed. We ended up finding a newspaper sometime later that put validity to Brian's story. He seemed to be un-phased by the towns shelling of this seemingly significant event. Actually, he had more domestic issues at hand. At this point, Anne and I were peeling vegetables for guacamole and after an already shocking story, werent quite prepared for what came next.
Brian, in a very depressive tone began unloading to us a story about two workers that live on his compound. Now, Brian is no spring chicken, hes 60 years old, and the two men he begins to tell us about are around the same age. These two men have lived on the compound for at least ten years and they both hate eachother. In their history together, there are have been many fights between the two, but they apparently got into it pretty heavily this morning as well. Brian then began telling us that one of the men was rancid with hatred and had told him earlier that he had lived a long and good life and that he was going to kill the other man. He had a gun and that was that, he was going to kill him.
This part of the story temporarily peaked my attention and distracted me from my guacamole. I asked him if this man was currently staying on the compound. He indeed was. I asked him if the man he was going to kill was staying on the compound. He indeed was. I questioned further about how serious the man was about this decision. Brian was sinking deeper and deeper into a depression and assured me that the man was dead serious and he in fact was going to kill the other worker and he just didnt know what to do to stop it. He saw my worry and then tried to tell me that he didnt know when it was going to happen. As if that would truly make me feel better.
I knew both men lived on the compound but I had no idea where, so I asked. He pointed to the front gate and motioned towards a tent. Thats where the man who was about be murdered slept. The gunman, he was in the trailer on top of the hill right next to our little tent. The fear from Brian's tone of voice alone was enough to scare us ten times through, but being the hardened travelers that we were, we took it with a grain of salt and continued about our dinner preparations. We'd cross the dueling bridge if ever we had to.
Around this time, we had finally finished our guacamole. We sat down at the table with our host and proceeded to feast. He began rambling on about his obsession with the number three... as in worldly trifectas, phenomenons that occurred with some underlying current of the number, and how the starts aligned with some sort of trinity. once again, its been far too long since this actual event so my factual data isnt there, but this man was crazed about these happenings and over all way of life. We also throughout this conversation learned that this man hasnt left his compound in years. He has his groceries delivered to him and has developed an extreme case of agoraphobia. I thought my hostel owner had it bad, this guy was the real deal. I'm sure it all played a part in the manic depression, rampant paranoia and conspiracies into patterns of three.
For a brief moment, he left us and Anne and I were left alone to discuss and contemplate everything we had just heard. All around consensus: this campground advertised to us by the rough guide was about as safe and welcoming as the streets of Guatemala City after sundown. Before we knew it, we heard a little bit of barking and Brian yelling. The puppy that was chained to the tree when we first arrived had gotten loose and Brian was trying to get it back on a leash. The dog ran into the kitchen space where I had begun scrubbing the guacamole bowl (this time with dirty water that had already been used) and ran behind me. Brian showed up a few seconds later, very composed and asked me kindly to grab the dog so he could put it back on the leash. I did. Brian came over, grabbed the dog away from me by the scruff of his neck and lifted it off the ground. He delivered a blow right to the dogs face right in front of us and began yelling and swearing at the poor animal. He then lowered it, gave it another blow to the gut followed by more yelling and harnessed it back to the leash. Without saying anything to us, he turned and dragged the dog back to the tree where it was to be tied up.
Anne and I were horrified. The mans manic behavior was clearly out of control and unwarranted. We discussed what we should do because after the nights events, we felt far from safe marooned on this little campground. Before Brian came back, we decided that it was too late in the night to head out into the town in search of another place to stay and we would have to spend the night there.
Brian came back and apologized but began telling us how the dog was just a puppy and needed proper training (because beatings and constant insult are great modes of training). We didnt say much, still lightly in shock, but finished cleaning up our meal and said goodnight.
Once in the tent (right next to the future assassin), we began talking about what we were going to do next. We resolved to head into town early in the morning and figure out how we could get to our next destination, the ancient Mayan city of Tecal. We also realized once again, that financially, we had money for the time being, but since there was no real idea as to when an ATM would greet our fortune, we needed to start thinking more seriously on a budget.
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