
We were robbed in Guatemala City.
Well technically, we weren’t. My Aunt and Uncle were. I got lucky. Or maybe it was my moxie, or possibly the vestige of my mid-‘90s Washington, D.C the-only-zone-free-parking-is-across-from-a-crack-house tendency to have eyes on the back of my head.
The warnings were all there. Get out of Guatemala City as quickly as possible. Do not stay in Zona 1. Don’t ride the public busses. A gracious Guatemalan woman called Roxanna even offered to have us at her home in a “safe” area when we met her on the luxury bus from San Pedro Sula to Copan. It’s funny how the look of a place doesn’t always belie its hidden dangers. But when we arrived in Guatemala City it didn’t look so bad.
Then things started to go downhill. The driver from our booked hotel, Posada Belen, didn’t show at the bus station. Interestingly, the family-run Posada Belen, which appeared to be a welcoming small inn, bills itself as safe for women traveling alone. After about an hour we flagged a cab and headed to the Westin in Zona Viva for a budget-busting overnight.
The next morning we took a taxi to the Linea Dorada bus station back in Zona 1. Not only was this “luxury” bus station a sty, but confirming my suspicions, there was no bus to our destination, Panajachel, on beautiful Lake Atitlan.
Soon after, a cab driver offered to take us to the “Pana” bus station, which turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall “chicken bus” station, so called because these exhaust belching decommissioned U.S. school busses often carry baskets of fowl, among other things, on their roofs. But a sense of whimsy and expediency overcame us and we decided to go with it. Besides, there was an armed guard outside to protect us from thugs and a nice looking Indian family waiting with us.
As we left the station, we were told to lie down in our seats to avoid the nosy police. We thought this kind of quaint at the time, but, then, at the first of many stops, still in Zona 8 in Guatemala City, the driver cut the engine and he and the attendant got off the bus while assorted hawkers got on, flanking us from front and back, selling their goods.
A kid got on with a rolled package and a man with a cell phone and another man in a denim jacket who took a seat next to my Aunt on the nearly empty bus. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable I immediately took the seat next to my Aunt when denim coat man exited the bus. Something was going down. Then it happened fast.
The man with the cell phone, talking quickly, muttered the words “Pana” and “gringa.” Another man, presumably an attendant, came on board and told everyone to put their bags on the upper rack. (Mine was already up there, tied tightly to the metal bars.). A truck pulled up alongside the bus to load cargo; someone knocked on my Aunt’s window. Then, denim coat man tapped me on the shoulder, threw money on the floor at my feet and demanded that I pick it up. I immediately and instinctively called him a thief and kicked his hand away while I held tightly to my bag. This, after all, was the oldest ruse in the book.
No sooner had I told my Uncle these men were attempting to rob us than my aunt noticed her bag was missing. They ran off the bus, the men were gone. Instantly the bus driver reappeared, started the engine and began to drive away as I yelled “Alto! Alto!” He stopped. My Aunt and Uncle caught back up with the bus.
Brilliant, I thought! It couldn’t have been clearer at that point. We were set up – from the minute we walked into that chicken bus station, by everyone from the cab driver to the bus driver. But we were in Zona 8 and there were no police to be found, so we stayed on board and rode all the way to Pana, the bus driver eyeing us the entire way through his rear view mirror.
As bad as we felt, it got worse. Our bus ran over a dog less than an hour later – a piercing yelp and a thump – and I felt like I was going to vomit. I hadn’t been that on edge since 9/11, but I still had my head about me. Our luggage was still, presumably, on top of the bus and we decided it was best to remain where we were.
I lost nothing, but my travel companions were taken for $1,000 USD, a digital camera, U.S. passports, credit cards and Honduran ID cards. As expected the thugs used the credit cards immediately and we suspected, although couldn’t immediately prove, that they used one of the cards to fill the very bus we were traveling on with diesel.
I have since learned that, much like taxis, chicken bus operators pay a fee or commission to a central authority. So, it makes sense that a certain number of unscrupulous operators would fund their enterprises by ripping off the gringos who skip the private shuttles for the ambiance of public transportation.
Later that day, we reached our destination: a beautiful inn with private cabins perched on a hillside overlooking Lake Atitlan, and we reflected on our day from hell and back and the lessons learned. Private minibuses only and avoid Guatemala City at all costs. Of course all of this information was readily available online, posted on resources like TripAdvisor.com, a haven for travel “mavens.”
Maven is a Yiddish word for someone with special knowledge or expertise – an information connoisseur, in other words. Malcolm Gladwell, in his best-selling marketing tome, “The Tipping Point,” describes these special and sometimes “profoundly weird” people as absolutely essential to successful word-of-mouth marketing campaigns. What makes these people so important is not only that “they know things that the rest of us don’t,” but how they pass that information along. “The fact that Mavens want to help, for no other reason than because they like to help, turns out to be an awfully effective way of getting someone’s attention,” Gladwell writes.
He uses the example of Zagat’s to illustrate the essential and growing influence of mavens. According to Gladwell, the real power of guides such as Zagat’s “derives from the fact that the reviews are the reports of volunteers – of diners who want to share their opinions with others. Somehow, that represents a more compelling recommendation than the opinion of an expert who job it is to rate restaurants.”
Gladwell refers to these volunteer-powered guides that allow mavens to gather and share their knowledge as “maven traps” – a way of efficiently figuring out who the mavens are in a particular world. He posits that in a world where influence is migrating from those with the most wealth to those with the most information, how to set maven traps is one of the central problems facing the modern marketplace. This, indeed, is where the idea of thought leadership comes in. Information can provide a crucial edge in a crowded marketplace.
The other thing about maven traps is this: They attract other mavens. In fact, because my Aunt and I planned virtually our entire trip through TripAdvisor.com, we both vowed to go back and share our knowledge with others. Because, while we chose at one crucial point to ignore the good advice we received, we hope we can save others the trouble. Famous last words, right?