Now I know why Ms. Daisy needed a driver...

“I don’t like this going from one lane to another business” Sister Mary muttered in a gravely voice. “Because. I just don’t know how to do it.”

We were driving through Guatemala City early Tuesday morning, trying to find our way to the immigration office. Rather than going through the expensive, extensive process of procuring a working visa for my stay here, we’re skirting the system a bit. I’ve got a tourist visa, which is valid for 90 days at a time. It can be renewed once at the immigration office in the city, and after that requires an overnight stay out of the country. Sadly, since I’ve missed so much school thanks to my little tryst with Pseudamonas, we decided I should do the quick in-and-out trip to Guatemala City this time.

Sister Mary, one of the two nuns living at the mission, agreed to drive me in. For some reason a policy exist which forbids volunteers to drive Diocesan vehicles. While that may seem like a rational idea, further reflection soon proves it to be without logic. You see, Mary and Anna (the other nun) are both in their 70’s. I can remember with clarity at least a baker’s dozen worth of newspaper articles about senior citizen drivers plowing into crowds of people, bakery windows and bodies of water through the past year. Following 16-year-olds and drunken people, I think they’re one of the most dangerous populations on the road. For example, how many of my SoCo readers remember when a motor home inexplicably fell off of the straight-stretch in front of the elementary school a few years ago? It ended its open-road wanderings flopped on its side, unceremoniously dumped into the blackberry patch down the bank. How is that even possible? Old people. Harrumph.

It wasn’t long into our trip before I learned that Sister Mary is no exception to this old-age = bad driver rule. Initially, I’ll admit to appreciating our speed. Loch Ness Monster-sized potholes and speed bumps which Sheila (literally) flies over were regarded with caution. We puttered along the rough mountain roads, easing over obstacles with an appropriate level of care. However, upon reaching much smoother highways, our velocity failed to adjust accordingly.

This is not a problem in and of itself. However, it was indicative of a larger concern in driving prowess. Upon reaching the bustle and congestion of the Guatemala’s only real city, I was quickly made aware of the danger posed by septuagenarian chauffeurs.

Had I found Mary’s opening statement regarding lane changes difficult to believe, she soon proved the point. We drifted through the congestion, our monolith Isuzu Trooper oblivious to the spatial constraints created by neighboring autos.

“Can I get over?” she’d ask, peering over a shoulder and simultaneously pulling the wheel, causing us to gently drift in the direction of her gaze.

“No.” I’d firmly reply, as she continued to merge us into the next lane. We generally only avoided the seemingly certain kissing of front quarter panels thanks to the dexterity of the unlucky Peugot drivers in adjacent lanes. When I did see an opening, I’d spit out – “Yes – but go quickly!” only to cringe as Mary e a s e d into the next lane, slowly cutting off the angry businessmen behind us.
Our antics elicited the expected cacophony of honks, all of which was utterly lost on Sister Mary. We breezed blissfully through the city streets, scraping our wheels on the curbs as we turned and disregarding the emphatic wavings of traffic policemen.

My heart found a comfortable place in my throat a few minutes into our excursion, and stayed there much of the morning. Every turn had me praying that this new street not be an opposite-flowing one-way. Luckily, that fear was only realized, at most, a half-dozen times. I eventually decided to stop providing my consult in merging and lane changes. I appeared to be obsolete anyways, and I didn’t want to risk blame for any collisions.

All of this terror did, at least, serve to stimulate my tired brain. As usual, I’d gone to sleep around midnight. However, I’d been awoken this particular day around 5:30. Geez – what’s with Guatemala and early mornings? My foggy mind cleared as we circled the city; Mary-stimulated adrenaline fired neurons with an abandon as reckless as my chauffer. We passed the same street-performer children and Pollo Camperos (the Guate equivalent of Micky D’s) nearly a dozen times. Mary’s mutterings narrated through it all, of course, explaining that the immigration office was maybe down that street we’d just passed, and that we’d now need to circle the block several times before having another shot at reaching our destination.

And then, unexpectedly, we were there. After having passed the building’s front side several times, I was surprised and disoriented when Mary stopped to let me out. Somehow, we’d pulled into a quiet side street along the office. No at all sad to be de-boarding, I hopped out of the Trooper and made my way to the office. There, after a half an hour’s worth of waiting for a person who never showed up to work, another thirty minutes of line waiting, and paying the requisite fees, I learned that my passport would need to be held hostage several days. Renewing a tourist visa, formerly a same-day task, now requires a minimum of three days. What does this mean for me, and for my blood pressure? Another trip to the city, and another opportunity to reach dangerous levels of cardiac stress. I wonder if I can find some Valium before my next ride in with the sister…