“He gonna win or not?” the Guatemalan bodyguard said to me in a confrontational growl and in a level of Spanish that seemed appropriate to the surrounding sleaziness of the cheap hotel. Another bodyguard brushed by me in the hallway, cleaning his well worn semi-automatic and eyeing me suspiciously. Shirtless, I was in the process of brushing my teeth, but through saliva and Crest, I managed to calm the passions of this muscled macho by observing that I had “talked with many people,” and assured him that the leader for whom he worked would surely win the upcoming election. His friend smiled and turned to reassemble his weapon.

I was on my first magazine photojournalism assignment for the Spanish language Revista Geomundo, to document the culture of one of the many indigenous peoples, the Kekchi Indians.  I would hitchhike on local pickup trucks or take beaten-up public busses here and there, and visit remote villages, stay at night in 2-dollar pensiónes, practicing some of the Kekchi language phrases and words I learned on the fly.  Although I was fluent in Spanish, as I penetrated more and more into the interior of the region, I found that language to be less useful.  A line I found myself using often was, “Tin kwe se la retrat, re ti q’am sal-in tenamít,” which translates to “I would like to take your photograph, so I can take it back to my country.”  The local population was very friendly and I never had any issues in documenting the pleasant and colorful lives of these very hard working men and women or their children.

Now, I found myself traveling with an entourage of men and women who were bent on putting men in the two highest offices in the Republic of Guatemala, but often I felt as if I were with a circus of strong-men.  I had run into them one day in the Provence of Izabal, in a good sized town fronting the large lake that dominates the region. On that particular day, I had been interviewing the mayor of the town of El Estor about his frustrations with the government in trying to get a road built through the jungle near his town.

Noise of people shouting and moving reached the second floor of his wood building, and before I could withdraw to look over the balcony, some twenty men were entering the room. In a dignified flurry they introduced themselves and some took seats offered to them. Suddenly my self esteem was lessened by the recognition that in this group were the candidates for president and vice president. I instinctively lifted my camera and thumbed on the flash, salvaging some stature as I assumed the role of gringo photographer in the midst of publicity seeking politicos. I asked an elderly and imposing man just who was who and he pulled the note pad from my hands, scribbling on it, “Coronel Enrique Peralta Azurdia – president,” and below, “Dr. Hector Aragon Quinonez – vice pre.,” pointing them out silently. I wrote, next to the names, “white shirt” and “yellow shirt,” because at that moment those were the only features that seemed to distinguish them from the rest of the group. 

The Guatemalan national elections, which were scheduled for March of 1978, had three parties contending for the two key offices: the Christian Democrats, the Revolutionary Party, and – the one which just walked in – the Movement for National Liberation. During my stay in the country (then two weeks), I had encountered some recurring political symbols painted on trees, walls, roads, and seemingly everywhere I looked. They were all the logos of one of the parties, but those of the Revolutionary party were most ubiquitous, for theirs was a representation of the map of Guatemala (with Belize included, as they have generously allowed it to become a part of the country), painted in blue, with a circular border of yellow. The symbol of the party in the room was a curious melding of a crucifix and a sword, which undoubtedly covered all bases. 

The Colonel was in his mid-sixties and spoke in a less-than rousing drawl. He wore a dapper straw hat. The VP candidate was about 15 years his junior, energetic and quick-witted, and balding. Accompanying them were their wives. The other people were local politicians (candidates for such offices as deputy and mayor) and a couple of reporters from Guatemala City who were permanent installations as the group toured the country. In addition to the hangers-on were technicians and advance staff. Most noticeable, however, were the guns, pistols, and knives belted in and wielded by the bodyguards; they were young men, some almost boys, but cocksure and wary. 

After ten minutes of pompous cordialities and agenda-setting, we departed. (“I” and “they” quickly became “we” after I heard the arrangements they had made for lunch: at the best and poshest eatery the little town had.) As we walked there, a man asked me just who I was. Here I hastily found a way to explain my responsibilities while allowing enough weight in them, by relating that I was “working for a magazine in the U. S. on an article to deal with the country” – which was true.  They naturally assumed that the tour of these politicians would be the focus of attention in the article, but sadly, however, the story I was working on dealt with the local Indians and I doubted that the passing of these people would receive major attention. 

I seemed to be a welcome addition to this group of campaigners, what with my fancy camera equipment. Some of them struck up conversations with me; others just smiled. “Hey, why don’t you take my picture,” joked a member. At the lunch I made sure that I snapped a few photos with my Canon FTb to prove that my camera worked and before the group began eating, knowing that after all had eaten, their settings would be in disarray. By now, I could estimate the true size of this entourage: they were about forty men and ten women, all important parts in the campaign machinery. 

While they were touring a big nickel plant outside the town, technicians were setting up equipment for the speeches to the town, scheduled for five-thirty that evening. A well worn amplifier and a pair of speakers were positioned near one of the only cement structures on the corner of the main street. A dump truck starred in a rags-to-riches role as it was called to serve as the platform for the men who were to make their salutatory bid for votes. 

As the sun set, the speeches commenced with an address by an important town citizen in the language of the Kekchi Indians, descendants of the Maya; Indians seemed to make up the greater part of the townspeople gathered in the streets. Small boys interrupted at untimely intervals by touching off strands of deafening firecrackers. Then, rather belatedly, the candidates arrived (preceded by repetitions of an announcement noting that, “In precious few moments, what you have all been waiting for, Colonel Peralta Azurdia will speak!”)

Dr. Aragon, the candidate for vice-president, was the opening speaker. Quickly gathering steam in rapid-fire phrases which perked up recently restive ears, he was halted by the crackling of a malfunctioning microphone and the subsequent muting of his booming voice. Fuming with momentum, with beads of sweat studding his baldness, he spun around to his technicians and sputtered, “This microphone doesn’t work,” then swore. An audio engineer, uncertain of his punishment, pinched the microphone wires together, returning the connection. After completing his opening speech, the Dr. turned to the side of the truck opposite the crowd, grabbed a glass of rum handed to him, and downed it victoriously.

As the event continued, at what everybody had assumed would be the climax of the evening, it was time for the for the presidential candidate, but Colonel Peralta instead proceeded to bring the crowd to a state of boredom, owing to his dry monotone and lack of original rhetoric. (Later, a local citizen asserted that the Colonel was senile.) Because his speech was twice interrupted by long fits of firecrackers, an aid took the microphone and begged the children to wait. Darkness came before all the speeches ended. 

And where were these people heading to after this town? I had pondered this earlier and was told that they had a “yacht” waiting at the town dock which would take them across the vast lake to a port town, near where they were to make a speech the next day. I sorely wanted to take this trip with them, not just to see the lake and the other towns, but because these people seemed so friendly and intriguing. Additionally, for me, as well as for the towns they visited, these people were the most exciting event witnessed in quite a while. 

Armed with a toothbrush peering out of my Levi jeans jacket pocket, a tube of toothpaste, and a small box of wet-wipes, I walked with the group down the street to the dock and onto a large passenger boat, unsure of whether or when I would return. I sat down with both of my cameras around my neck (an attempt to appear more official, thereby prompting fewer questions) and tried to blend in with the walls as best I could. 

“Who are you?” a portly man snapped at me as he loomed over me with arms akimbo. Startled, I stammered out my previous response, but he had never heard of the periodical I named, GeoMundo, and waxed more suspicious. He wanted to know what I “was doing here, anyway?” I searched the faces of the people on board, but none of the men or women I had talked with earlier were visible. He walked to a man who had seen me photographing earlier, who apparently okayed my presence. The suspicious gent returned and apologized, and immediately we cast off. 

I maneuvered through the clusters of people, heading toward the bow, which was under the open sky. Here I could evade any glances and questions. The stars emblazoned the sky with a penetrating clarity and I tried to enjoy the cool air running fast in my face. The motor hummed with its burden. Nearby, a trigger was squeezed and – click, the owner of a large pistol laughed at the reactions of a fellow guard, as he stared at the barrel facing him; then he, too, laughed. I tried to ignore them. 

Two girls, certainly less than twenty years old, came and sat near me. The nearer one began a conversation that led to her greatest attributes: her pride in being chubby and a cockeyed logic as to why it was “healthy to smoke.” Then she proceeded to quiz me on popular songs of the Guatemalan hit parade, asking over the engine noise, “Do you know this one?” and then singing the words for more than fifteen songs, with remarkable preservation of each verse. I replied in various ways as she completed each tune, such as “Yes, very familiar,” or “I heard that one a while back,” so I wouldn’t insult her. But when I realized to my horror that she had an unlimited repertoire, I stopped encouraging her. When she noticed that I had lost interest, she and her friend played a round of kissing with a young guard. These two girls must have been tough enough to last the rigors of the campaign, as they had been touring with it for all its five months. I never asked what their responsibilities were. 

Three hours of water later, we berthed in a well-lit marina by a small village. I followed a group of men off the boat to a restaurant. Two of the men that I talked with on the “yacht” had promised that they would find a place for me to sleep for the night. They treated me to a plate of sandwiches at the little restaurant. Of the two village hotels, the one with finer accommodations was reserved for all of the group, except the technicians and bodyguards, who drove a mile down the road to a two story structure of dubious cleanliness. I was to sleep in an unoccupied cot. There were five other cots in the room, and judging from the luggage strewn on each one, they had been occupied earlier in the week by men of this group. After the encounter in the hallway with the two guards, I returned and bedded for the night, trying to convince myself that these hard characters were generous and well-meaning. 

Rain and mud met us in the morning as we left our hotel and prepared to drive to Puerto Barrios, a town on the eastern coast of the country. Driving in a convoy of nine pickup trucks, including the one in which I sat in the back, we signaled our passing to every cluster of huts by an explosion of sound emanating from the lead pickup, which, unfortunately for my ears, was the one I was riding. It was a taped version of “The Stars and Stripes Forever “and another tinny military march piped over two loudspeakers mounted on the cab’s roof. Passing the dwellings, a man inside the cab grated, “Attención, attención: this is the great caravan of triumph of the future president of the Republic!” I am not sure if the roadside inhabitants understood the message, but people ran out to the edge of the road, attracted by the spectacle.

About this time, I realized that I should return to the town where I had met this group of colorful characters. I had seen enough, and, besides, I had left my baggage at the prior town. I reckoned that I would make my departure at the town coming up and catch a bus to a motor lancha, which made a daily trip across the lake. 

Then, unexpectedly, our truck lurched to a stop and the ones behind followed suit. Our driver jumped out and ran around to the back, shouting to me, “the bag, the bag,” and pointing to a small case which I hurriedly passed to him with a puzzled look registering on my face. Another man, a rotund and perspiring deputy candidate, waddled around and was handed a roll of toilet paper; he ran into the screen of jungle foliage alongside the road and I met the driver’s glance with understanding. The driver began laughing at the expense of this hapless man and, down the road, laughter rose from the rest of the caravan, as truck by truck they heard the reason for the unexpected stop. “Take a picture, now,” the driver begged, with tears of laughter in his eyes. 

Later, after we arrived in Puerto Barrios, I walked away from the speech-making scene that I had already seen in the town we met in and in another town near Puerto Barrios an hour earlier. I realized that this was a performance which these marvelous actors had played out more than a hundred times: the traveling, the joking, the preparations for the speeches (which they always referred to as “el meetin”) and the progression of new towns. Sometimes, apparently, the scheduling and planning broke down. Earlier that day, an electrician complained, “If we can’t organize fifty people, how can we organize five million?”

I wished luck to these optimistic people. They reminded me of Pancho Villa and his troops, but at that moment, I believed they had a good chance of achieving their goal.  I was wrong, for they all lost in the elections.

Some pages from my two small journal books:

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