The guide book said ‘Local families also rent out beds in their houses to travellers; you won’t have to look for them, they will find you.” Looking around the village, I saw in an instant that things would be basic. Homes were built from wood and daub with chickens running wild through the open doors.
A puddle of water formed under my bottom, chilling me to the core. Alcalde gestured to his wife to bring the special drink, a home made alcoholic brew decanted from a plastic bucket into an old bottle which was passed around the group. I poured some into my coffee hoping to warm my insides.
There are no bald Guatemalans!
I count twenty seven people. My mind wanders to thoughts of being crushed by an Anaconda. “Don’t exhale, you will have the last breath squeezed from your body,” I tell myself. “Are we nearly there yet?” I long to whine. There are pins and needles all over my body and the stench of BO is suffocating.