Summary

An American traveler poses as Chinese during a taxi ride to Mayan ruins in Guatemala, acting as an interpreter and bonding with his multinational companions over shared critiques of American influence, while navigating the complexities of his dual identity.

Abstract

The author recounts a personal experience in Guatemala where he chooses to present himself as Chinese rather than American while sharing a taxi with a German and two Guatemalans on the way to lesser-known Mayan ruins. This decision leads to a series of interactions where he serves as a linguistic bridge and engages in discussions about China and American cultural imperialism, all while keeping his true nationality hidden. The narrative peaks at a checkpoint where he feigns forgetting his passport, relying on the solidarity of his new acquaintances to vouch for him. The story concludes with the author reflecting on the ease of travel when identifying as Chinese and the subsequent email from the German traveler, reinforcing the theme of global interconnectedness and the fluidity of identity.

Opinions

The author enjoys the anonymity and reduced scrutiny that comes with presenting himself as Chinese rather than American.
There is a shared sentiment among the author and his companions about the pervasive influence of American culture.
The author finds it easier to connect with others and avoid political discussions by not disclosing his American nationality.
The author values the ability to blend in and adapt to different cultural contexts, viewing it as a skill that enhances his travel experiences.
The author reflects on the irony of being perceived as a double agent due to his multilingual abilities and travel experiences.

Being a Double Agent in Guatemala

It comes with the territory of being what people expect.

The ancient Mayan ruins of Tikal in northern Guatemala. Photo by Perry Grone on Unsplash

I might be misusing the term “double agent,” but I certainly felt like one during a taxi ride from my crummy hotel in Flores to the Mayan ruins next to Tikal.

Why was I visiting the ruins next to the famous ones instead of the famous ones? I was going to visit Tikal as well, but I was saving it for when my buddies were arriving the next day.

Of course, Tikal is probably not as famous as Machu Picchu, receiving a fraction of the annual visitors. When I was visiting Petra in Jordan a month or so prior to the events described in this article, I was talking to a Polish guy who was well-traveled (lived in Spain, France, and Russia; spoke all three languages in addition to Polish and English) and already had his trip to the Incan ruins lined up. I mentioned Tikal, at which point he confessed he had not heard of it.

Anyway, back to me being a double agent.

There were other people in the taxi besides me and the driver: a German and two Guatemalans. As a general habit, I milk my face for all it’s worth. As a reflex, I did not tell them I was American. I told them I was Chinese.

My American passport was in the left-hand pocket of my shorts.

The German spoke English. But no Spanish. I acted as interpreter between him and the two Guatemalans. We discussed recent events in China (this was back in 2013, so the topic was not pandemic-related), about which I was thankfully knowledgable. Then we lampooned American cultural imperialism in Guatemala, with which I heartily agreed.

What was I going to do? Blow my own cover?

I tucked my US passport deeper into the pocket.

They commended me on my linguistic prowess, and I dutifully deflected all compliments, completely playing up the supposed Chinese virtue of humility and purposely clamping down on the natural swagger that being raised in Southern California had bestowed upon me.

We were getting along swimmingly.

Then we arrived at a checkpoint. The guards asked for identification. The German cooperatively handed over his passport. The Guatemalans chatted away with the guard in their native Mayan language. For them, there was no need for documentation.

Then there was me. Mentally sweating bullets. Physically too. But it was hot and humid, so nobody noticed.

“I… I forgot my passport in the hotel,” I muttered.

A beat passed.

Me mentally in that moment. Photo by Ariana Suárez on Unsplash

“He’s with us, he’s cool,” said one of the Guatemalans.

“All right.” The guard waved the taxi past.

The four of us hung out together in the afternoon, taking pictures with and for each other. These were the days when smartphones were not yet ubiquitous and selfies hadn’t become mainstream. Imagine that. Or maybe the four of us were just behind the times. (A year later, I saw selfie sticks abound in Mexico.)

Of course, I might’ve been able to save myself the neurons if I had been fully forthright in the beginning. Who knows?

But I’ve learned time and time again in various parts of the world that telling people I’m Chinese instead of American eliminates the need for further explanation.

Less than a year later, the German emailed me and told me he’d be in China within a few weeks. He wanted to meet up. Unfortunately, I had to tell him that I was not living in China at the moment. I wasn’t living in the States either.

What else would you expect from a double agent?

Dash Ip has been imagined by his friends as a double agent due to his travel pedigree and linguistic toolbox. Instead of collecting spies, he collects stories. Sometimes he writes long ones.