The FOB Report: Guatemala
What we have here, friends, is another fine exclusive from that Deviant fella.
Deviant: He’s one of them latins
Guatemala, my land, my country, she smells funny.
I’m writing you–dear reader–for the sake of cultural education. Guatemala is the least known country in Central America, and I have been asked by Bagel to expound the virtue of this, my hometown. Let me preface this by saying that I wasn’t BORN in Guatemala, and that is my story until the day I die.
Antigua Guatemala, a city left untouched by modern convenience. Full of wonder and tourists. Shoot me now.
Guatemala is a land at once captivating, and at thrice, deadly. Not since the sinkholes of Brazil has there been a land with such a socio-economic divide. This unfortunate split can be felt between the excesses of the Guatemalan bourgeoisie who regularly dine on the flesh of poorer children (I am a part of this group) and the tawdry unkempt nature of the dirtbag poor who can be seen walking the cobble stoned streets of Antigua carrying shit on their head.
Guatemala’s poor “Indito” population can be identified by the
carrying of shit on their heads. Holy shit you thought I was kidding?
Spitting is encouraged in regards to these fleabags
The Guatemalan “Inditos” or “native Guatemalans” are suitable for labor in their Mestizo master’s households on account of their keen sense of smell, which allows them to locate dirt, and their double jointed elbows, which allow them to mop up hard to reach spots.
The Guatemala inditos are descendants of the Maya.
A proud race of ancient peoples with a tradition of bloodletting and synchronized farting.
In the tropical outreaches of Guatemala lie the mysterious Mayan Ruins; giant carved stone monuments to the Gods. They stand as testament to the savage intelligence of the Mayan mind before they were all carted off to distant planets by the the Go’auld.
The Ruins of Tikal stand in mighty retro opposition to the barreling machinery of modern convenience.
Why my mother thought it was a good idea to make me climb this thing when I was 6, I do not know.
Further into Guatemala is the capital, aptly and most cleverly named Guatemala City. A bustling metropolitan equal to your local “China town,” Guatemala city is an exciting cross-cultural mix of brown people and even more browner people who carry shit on their head. In Guatemala City, the locals have developed nuanced slang terms in order to get by, the weary tourists should take note of the following:
“Lana” – Bribes money offered to local cops
“Tamales” = Foul smelling cow dung.
“Donde estamos?” – Why did you bring me here.
“Porquero” – Rapist
Brick walled buildings often hide delicious secrets in Guatemala City. As a lad of 5 while on a trip to Guatemala, my mother took me within an Indito abode. In the center lay a chubby Indita woman slapping a piece of dough together with her hands in front of an open fire. “What is that?” I asked my mother. “She is making tortillas,” she replied. Warm fluffy homemade tortillas can be purchased from the poor, they are a treasured delicacy to both native Guatemalan and traveler alike. My father abandoned us before I was born.
Guatemala City, bustling Metropolis. My father lives there somewhere. Fuck you dad.
When the hustle and bustle of the Ruins and Guatemala City catch up to you, the gentleman’s choice for most relaxing spot in Guatemala is Lake Atitlan. The lake overlooks a long-dormant water volcano which, beyond the lake’s mist, seems to be gently floating along the water’s surface like a mighty Leviathan.
Beyond the police brutality and bloodletting, this lake reminds all who come that Guatemala is as serene as it is pristinely beautiful.
Lake Atitlan, where father taught me to swim upon our reunion. I almost drowned.
I hate you too mom.
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