don't need no stinkin' haunted house...

no 'Exorcist' movie either. nix the black cat. and put away that damn ghost outfit.

i'm reposting something that you probably read a couple years ago in my blog. i always wanted to post it for Halloween...and now's my chance.

THE ETERNAL HAUNTING

Every year, in December and January, I am reminded of something that has haunted me since January 16, 1995...6000 miles away, it was January 17th and 5000+ people were dying in an earthquake. Although I have no personal ties to anyone who perished in the great Hanshin quake that struck Kobe, Japan at 5:46 AM...that event and something that stemmed from it will surely follow me for the rest of my life.

I have never been to Japan. Someday, I will visit the Land of the Rising Sun and much of Asia. Ever since I was eight years old, I have had dreams of visiting China, Thailand, and Cambodia as well.

No, in January 1995, I was in Guatemala, visiting Classic Maya ruins at Tikal, Seibal, Quiriguá, and Copán (in Honduras). I had planned this trip for months, even retooling it when Lois and I lost a day after being stranded in Houston at the beginning of the trip. Although I had been to Guatemala twice before, I really wanted this trip to be extra special; it was Lois' first time.

What a phenomenal trip we had! We scaled huge pyramids, noshed on fantastic cuisine, and were mesmerized by both the hospitality and myriad of colors of the Maya people. Panajachel is a tourist haven for many foreigners. Many 'hippie/granola' types are drawn to the cheap prices and intoxicating views of the five volcanoes that ring Guatemala's most beautiful lake, Atitlán. It's also a good location to base oneself if you are considering shopping in Guatemala's world renowned open air market in Chichicastenango.

One morning, we boarded an old, retired, American school bus (the preferred form of mass transportation in much of Latin America) for the trek back to Guatemala City. After three days rest in the Panajachel region, we were ready to get back on the road to ruins (no pun intended). Quiriguá and Copán were on the itinerary. To reach those sites though, we had to take a bus back to Guate (nickname for Guatemala City) and connect on an eastbound bus there. It was 6 AM and we had just avoided getting on the wrong bus. We accidentally got on a bus that was loading for Quetzaltenango (better known as Xela, pronounced 'sheh-la'), which is not far from the Mexican border. The bus was headed west, which was the wrong direction.

Luckily, we jumped off the bus as soon as the bus driver and his helper started loudly whispering 'Xela...Xela'. Right when we got off the bus, a Maya man asked us where we were headed and we told him, 'Guate.' He directed us to the correct bus and we hurriedly thanked him and hustled over there.

It was still dark when we departed. The cold air of the mountains was still heavy and at least three or four hours from burning off. Bundled up and crammed into the seats like sardines, we started the bumpy route, passing through Maya towns on our way back to the capital. Riding chicken coop buses in Latin America is a life altering experience. You get to see how the 'common' people travel and witness their highly efficient system of filling the bus to at least double capacity - OSHA would have a coronary - and yet collect a fare from every single passenger. As Americans, we really have it too easy in our 2.5 vehicles per household. Here, twenty miles can mean 15 minutes on the highway. In Latin America, it can take an hour or more to travel that far on a third class bus...a lifetime by our standards.

Really though, riding chicken coop buses truly is life altering because it's usually a miracle if you survive the trip. Whether it's a fanatical driver who takes hairpin turns at 50 miles an hour (honking the whole time) or the tiny seats that are built to fit children younger than 10 (if you're 5'0", you're too big for the seats), you are downright thankful and praising God/Allah/Buddha the second you get off the bus, intact.

This bus was no different. I still recall seeing the capacity number at the front of the bus - 36 people. Ha! I'm positive that there were at least 80 people stuffed onto this bus, which lurched every time we rounded a curve. It wasn't too bad though. All the bodies crammed together made us forget about the chill outside. Occasionally, some cold air would sneak in every time the defective window towards the front slipped its notches and fell down. There was one mighty pissed off (but groggy) man who repeatedly pushed it back up. Ironically, the defective window was actually a saving grace; some of the odors of the locals' clothing, reminiscent of a cow patch, especially in close proximity, were starting to get to me. At one point, my eyes nearly bugged out of my head when I realized that a child who was strapped to his mother's back, two inches from my face, needed to have his britches changed - big time.

At that moment, I KNEW I was in for the longest three hour bus ride of my life. We chugged along the road, stopping in five or six towns, squeezing in just a few more people. Upon arrival in Guate, the number of passengers was starting to thin out. Small waves of people would shuffle off each time we stopped near a market-type place. Soon, the passenger count had dwindled to about twenty; we could finally stretch out a bit.

While Lois and I were idly chatting about a preliminary itinerary for the next week, I heard, "¿Japonés?" After fourteen of years traveling Latin America, I have become accustomed to being incorrectly identified as being Japanese. No sweat though. I know all Asians look alike and that only we can distinguish the different (Asian) races. Maybe it's in our blood. Asians, African Americans, and redheads are tourist novelties in Latin America. They make up the minority of the minority population, both in tourist numbers and citizenship.

Smiling, I looked up and saw that it was the little Maya man in Panajachel who directed us to the correct bus. I told him that I was Chinese. Looking sheepish, the man quickly apologized and explained the only reason why he had asked if I was Japanese was because he had heard about the massive earthquake that struck Japan and left five thousand people dead in its wake. We were a bit surprised because we hadn't heard anything about it. Of course, unless you're in Guatemala City or constantly buying a newspaper (if available), world news is not so up-to-the-minute in Guatemala. In some towns, the breaking news may involve two drunk men crashing a barn and sleeping with the livestock. You know, small town 'news.'

We mentioned to this man that we hadn't been near a newspaper for at least a week, but thanked him for the info. By then, only about five people were on the bus and it looked like we were all getting off at the last stop. When we exited the bus, we waved to the man and set out to look for a Rebuli bus, which would take us to Chiquimula.

On the way to Chiquimula, Lois and I discussed the surprisingly high number of fatalities. After all, the majority of earthquakes in Japan in recent years usually had death tolls of less than 200 (although one in 1923 did kill 140,000). Moreover, we were a bit stunned because Japan builds some of the world's most earthquake-proof structures and highways.

Although we still had another week in Guatemala, we made a mental note to look for news in the upcoming newspapers. We casually picked up a paper here and there, but Chiquimula is not even the center of eastern Guatemalan news, let alone world news. We didn't see anything in the news about the Kobe earthquake for the next week. In fact, it wasn't until we returned to the United States, when we finally got some news on it...and tons of it.

See, we got back to Denver in the late afternoon of January 16th...AROUND THE EXACT TIME THE EARTHQUAKE HIT. Our little Maya acquaintance on the bus had told us about the Kobe earthquake and provided a fairly accurate death toll figure ONE WEEK BEFORE IT HAPPENED...

To this day, this eerie encounter still haunts me. Did this man pass this information on to other people in casual conversation? Am I the only one whom he told? If so, why me? What good does it do to have a prognosticator who speaks the truth but isn't heeded? Or is it something else...something fated. Perhaps it's better that I believed that the quake had already occurred. Who knows if anyone would have believed me. All I know is that I will probably carry this as a guilty burden for many more years. I'm just hoping that one day, when I experience the epiphany that makes everything fall into place, this unreal (if not downright, frickin' surreal) encounter will be explained to me.

You know, some days I just wish I had dreamed the whole thing. More than a decade has passed and the torment has subsided little. Ugh.

Linda Blair? Saw II? Nightmare on Elm Street? Carrie? Friday the 13th? Please...