Never There Long - A Journal Series: The Red Pickup Truck, Part 1

Written by Jordan Hofer, Guest Author

Before you dive into the actual journal pages to read the tale, please allow me to set the stage a bit to help put things into perspective.

I had been staying in a small hostel in Antigua for a few days, just sort of wandering around and enjoying the beauty of the town. I didn’t have any real purpose or reason for being there. I wasn’t working. I wasn’t studying. I wasn’t on vacation. I wasn’t doing charity work. I was simply traveling. Or maybe wandering is a better description. I was doing so with a freedom that was as close to complete as I have ever experienced. I was in the heart of some kind of nomadic quest that appeared to everyone other than myself as pointless, reckless, and absurd. The quest was my obsession and it had led me south into Guatemala.

The quest was pretty simple. Do whatever comes. Go wherever it leads. Let go of everything, give up all fear, and find what you are looking for in the unknown. To the domesticated and responsible adults we all have become, I totally get that that sounds insane and painfully platitudinous. But to me it was the opposite. I wasn’t mentally ill. I knew exactly what I was doing and was acting with intention and precision, although admittedly in an unorthodox way. It was the world of conformity, routine, and material success that were insane to me. The quest demanded that I abandon my civilized life, cut off contact with everyone I knew and loved, and travel far away without knowing why or what the outcome would be.

Up to this point, in a nutshell, the quest had unfolded something like this. I had traveled from South Dakota, through the American desert southwest, across the Mexican border, down the Pacific coast of Mexico, through the highlands and rainforests of Chiapas, all the way down to the city of Tapachula. Tapachula is at the absolute southern tip of Mexico, right on the border of Guatemala. It had taken a long time to do this – several months – and I had done it alone, with many misadventures, detours, and revelations along the way. My only real companion had been my car – a 1999 Saturn SL stick-shift – which never failed me the entire drive south from Sioux Falls to Tapachula.

  Looking over the Mayan Ruins of Palenque in southern Mexico.

  The Temple of Inscriptions peeking through the trees at Palenque.

Tapachula is the absolute end of the line in Mexico if you’re heading south. I decided it would be best to ditch my car and enter Guatemala on foot. I would store my car at the home of a curious Mexican family – the Del Toro family – who I had met by chance and had allowed me to live in their lovely home for the previous week in Tapachula (another tale for another day). Whenever it came time to journey back north, I figured I’d pick up the car and use it to continue on. Thankfully, the Del Toros were agreeable to this arrangement, as the patriarch of the family – Don Jaime – was a collector of cars and had ample space.

  The Del Toro family at home in Tapachula.

  Posing with one of Don Jaime’s many project cars.

  Don Jaime proudly posing with one of his completed project cars – a rare Karmann Ghia

So I crossed into Guatemala on foot, with just a backpack and a couple hundred dollars worth of pesos in my pocket. After getting my passport stamped, the first thing I did was exchange my Mexican pesos for Guatemalan quetzales with one of the many money-changers eagerly waiting across the border. I noticed there were several buses lined up as well. They appeared mostly empty, but people crossing over the border were slowly filling them, apparently to catch a ride to their destinations inside Guatemala.

  My passport stamps from the Guatemalan border.

My only plan was to head in the direction of Antigua. I’d read in my Lonely Planet book that it was a quaint and quiet town, worth a few days of exploring. I didn’t feel like getting on a bus, so I decided I’d just start walking and figure things out later in the day. I wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere. I spent an hour or two walking on the side of the dusty road, getting honked at by passing buses that, eventually I figured out, were attempting to decipher if I wanted to hop on or not. After a while, one actually pulled over, opened its door, and asked me where I was heading. I told the driver I was headed to Antigua. He told me to get in. I did.

I don’t recall exactly how long the bus ride was to Antigua, but it was a journey of several hours on winding, hilly roads through the mountains. The views were incredible and included silhouettes of giant volcanoes looming in the distance.

  Antigua: First arriving at the Plaza Mayor

  Antigua: La Merced Church

  Antigua: Looking down a cobbled street.

Once I arrived in Antigua, I wandered towards the central plaza and sat down on a bench near a large fountain, surrounded by colorful flowers and colloquial Spanish architecture painted in bright pastel colors. It was a beautiful town. It seemed to get its fair share of travelers because there was no shortage of hostels to choose from. I compared a few prices and picked the cheapest one – about $7 a night. It was a small, clean place, with a friendly owner. I paid for a couple nights and unloaded my backpack in my room. I pulled out a somewhat balled-up wad of cash from my pocket and threw it on the bed. It was a short time later that it dawned on me that I was nearly broke.

I can’t find any evidence that this fact significantly bothered me. Reading through my journal entries at the time, it was a fact that I took in stride. I didn’t seem overly concerned and I don’t recall feeling alarmed. What I do recall is thinking that I probably should have properly researched the peso-quetzal exchange rate prior to entering Guatemala and perhaps not put so much faith in money-changers’ ethical standards. A valuable life lesson, to be sure.

What had been a couple hundred dollars’ worth of pesos had been exchanged for about 70 dollars’ worth of quetzales. With the price I’d paid for the bus and my two nights at the hostel, that took me down to the equivalent of about 50 dollars. Never in my travels did I spend much money, so this wasn’t a major obstacle. It just meant I would need to cut back on some indulgences, like bottled water, taco stands, and cigarettes. This was easily remedied. I had a water purification pump in my backpack, I could eat dirt cheap from local grocery stores, and I’d just buy loose tobacco and roll my own cigarettes. It was a wash as far as I was concerned.

So here the tale of the red pickup truck is about to begin. I spent a few more days enjoying myself in Antigua, and eventually decided it would be a fine adventure to travel by foot back towards Tapachula – no bus this time. I assumed this would likely take many days – I wasn’t really sure – and would be a slow, peaceful, uneventful journey of solitude through the beautiful countryside of Guatemala.

I had barely set out on this return journey when the honking of a pickup truck horn and a friendly wave set into motion events that I had not anticipated. I hope you enjoy the tale, told through the original journal pages I wrote almost 20 years ago while on the road in Guatemala.

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