A Kick in the Throat

       Well there I was.  Smuggled in, hustled out of most of my cash, only 140 Quetzals in my pocket and no idea of where to go.  I look for a sign to the only destination I've heard of in Guatemala.  Guatemala City.  Unfortunately it's about a billion kilometers away through unknown territory, forest, mountains, and I have no map.  Better get started.

      I haven't eaten, I haven't had anything to drink, right now I'm running purely on a combination of anger and desperation.  So I bike.  I run through patches of burning forest that farmers had set a flame to make way for fields.  Coconut and mango plantation stretch on for miles.  The only indication that I'm headed in the right direction is the occasional road sign for Ciudad Guatemala.  I take off my shirt for some relief from the intense sun while workers chop up vegetation with machetes resembling short katanas.

    There are food stands, but with no idea of where I can find an ATM I keep what little cash I have out of fear.  Then I come to a sign to turn for the city, which leads me on a little inhabited road to a bridge.

     No.  NO.  GOD NO.

     There isn't a bridge.  It seems intense rains have literally washed the concrete away.  What was once my only route to salvation is now a skeleton of metal that could come down at the slightest provocation.  Defeated, I turn back, but I wasn't alone on this road.

    Staring at me with teeth bared is a pack of wild dogs.  But these aren't the little ankle biters I had to deal with in Tapachula.  No, these are full size, full wild, fully vicious, german shepherd mixes.  Five of them, and I'm fresh chicken.

"Nice Doggies.  N-nice puppies."

    I guess they didn't speak english.  They move closer.  One stares at my throat.  Four snarl at my limbs.  And one...  I swear he had his fangs zoned in on my balls.  My dangly bits.  My naughty parts.  For the sake of my future children, I react with a decision.  It's now or never.  VAMOS!  I burn the back tire like a cross at a KKK meeting, right through the pack with the canines hot on my heels.  They're gaining on me, fast.  I pedal as hard as my chicken legs can push but it's no match for the half wolves.  Every time they snap at me, I miss their jaws by centimeters.

    I can't run. I can't hide.  No one can help me.  It's time to fight.  I jump off my bike with it still in motion.  My two wheeled steed ghost rides without me and I don't blame it.  It goes what I estimate to be a good twenty feet before falling over like a dead gazelle.

   Now to deal with the pack.  It's a freaking Guatemala stand off.  I lock eyes with the leader, the ball killer.  Not my nuts.  No today.  It comes at me and gets close enough to nip my peach fuzz, but then...

    BAM!  My foot connects with it's throat.  The half wolf gives a yelp, then starts wheezing.  I turn, kick again, and my sandal hits air, but then connects with a jaw on the back swing.  Thank you 3 years of junior karate.  I kick, and kick, and kick.  Sometimes I connect, most of it hits air, but the point is made.  Two get a shot in the ribs.  The testicle killer, who had the hard shot to the throat isn't moving.  And the other two, seeing the pain and possible death of their comrades, just back off.

    I back away to my bike.  Pick it up.  And ride on.