The longer you spend in a country, the more you start thinking in their currency. If you’re drawing from a USD bank account, this can be an amusing mental shift—or a dangerous one, depending on your risk tolerance and number of remaining limbs.
After two months in Guatemala, I was fully thinking in quetzales. (Side note: the Guatemalan quetzal is named after the country’s national bird, which is beautiful, elusive, and 100% not accepted at any local ATM.) At the time, the exchange rate was 18:1—so around 6 quetzales to the dollar. In other words, incredibly cheap… at least by American standards.
But here’s the thing: after a while, you forget. You start getting stingy in the local currency the same way you do at home. Or at least I do.
And when that happens—when you're standing at some existential crossroads involving your safety, well-being, or basic common sense—let me remind you: spend the extra $20.
Antigua, Guatemala
I was staying at EarthLodge, a magical “hostel” (now rebranded as a boutique hotel, because of course it is) just 20 minutes outside Antigua in the village of El Hato. Picture an avocado farm clinging to the mountainside, treehouse cabins with sweeping views of Antigua and a semi-active volcano, and fresh organic meals served three times a day. Yes, it’s exactly as good as it sounds.
To give you a sense of my financial mindset, I opted to camp for $3 a night rather than spring for a $30 treehouse. Converted to quetzales that is 54Q vs. 540Q. Something about handing over hundreds of any currency just makes your wallet flinch.
While there, a guy named Marcus showed up. Marcus was riding a massive enduro motorcycle from Canada to Panama. I was schlepping around on chicken buses and tuk-tuks, so naturally, I had a lot of questions.
Now, I have a bit of a tendency. It’s called “impulsiveness in the face of adventure.” So after two days of hearing his tales from the open road, I was all in. I hitchhiked down to Antigua and asked around for a place to buy a motorcycle. Someone pointed me to a mechanic on the outskirts of town. This guy had everything—bikes in every state of repair (and disrepair).
One small snag: I had never ridden a motorcycle before.
But the mechanic was patient, my Spanish was passable-ish, and we settled on a $400 Skygo 125cc—basically a glorified lawnmower from a no-name Chinese brand. It started. I could afford it. That was good enough for me.
Then came the helmet. He kindly showed me a few used ones, obviously realizing my situation, but I splurged on a new one. Of the two major decisions I made that day, that’s the one I got right.
Soon I was back at EarthLodge, buzzing around on my new bike like a discount James Dean. My plan was simple: ride around locally to get the hang of it, then take off the next day for a 700km journey to Belmopan, Belize, where some friends were waiting.
Ambitious? Sure. But also: absolutely happening (see my impulsiveness above).
That afternoon, I rode back into Antigua. Not long after entering town, I heard a loud POP and the dreaded womp womp womp of a flat tire. I limped the bike back to the mechanic.
Diagnosis: a small tear in the front tire had likely overheated and burst the inner tube. He could patch it for $1, but recommended replacing the whole tire for $20 or it would happen again.
Now, I had just dropped $400 on a bike and made the smart choice on the helmet. Did I want to spend more? No. Why? Because I was thinking in quetzales.
Only balloon: 18Q. Balloon and tire: 378Q. I think you know what I did.
And that, dear reader, was the wrong call.
The next morning, I awoke to mist over the avocado trees, packed my bags, strapped everything to my Skygo, and took off. It was glorious.
Through the cobblestone streets of Antigua to the rush hour traffic of Guatemala City.
Then came freedom—palm forests, roadside taco stands, and hand-painted signs warning of “Toro Peligroso”. I was euphoric. Inspired. iPod shuffle in my ears (probably Kings of Leon), I felt unstoppable.
Destination: Rio Dulce. 391km down. Only 9km to go.
And then, the tire blew.
I remember flying through the air. My feet were above my head. Everything was in slow motion.
My head hit first (shoutout again to that new helmet), then my body followed. I bounced, skidded, and eventually came to rest in the dirt, dazed and disoriented.
Helmet: cracked in two. Jeans: shredded. Pride: nonexistent.
I sat there stunned, alone on a rural road… until a pickup truck full of men pulled up.
Now, this could’ve gone anywhere. But they jumped out with a medical kit and immediately patched me up. No questions asked, no money requested. Just kindness.
Then a guy on a scooter arrived. He calmly examined my destroyed tire, pulled out a repair kit from his satchel, and managed to MacGyver it back to functional. Again—refused payment. Just nodded, smiled, and went on his way.
I limped the last few kilometers to Rio Dulce—no iPod, no swagger. I pulled into the first place I saw, “Hotel y Restaurante Backpackers,” got a bed, bought a beer, and sat with my feet in the river.
But that shower? That was the real horror.
Washing road rash—real, deep, gravel-studded road rash—is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Peeling off ripped jeans, trying to soap up shredded skin while suppressing the urge to scream… rough.
The next morning, I sold the bike to someone in town who “liked a project” and caught a bus to Belize with what little dignity I had left.
Moral of the Story?
Spend the extra $20.
Seriously.
Because when you’re flying over the handlebars of a budget motorcycle on a Guatemalan highway, you realize quickly that was a really dumb way to save a few bucks.