Guatemala - The Sights & Sounds Travel is never a question of money, but of courage. Paulo Coelho #wanderlust

I had never been to Central America, I had barely ever been somewhere, that they didn't speak English, or could at least get by, and then I found myself in Guatemala. After a few days in the hills, with mainly ex-pats, looking out at the surrounding volcanoes, I was overtaken by the strong sensation, "I can do this, this isn't so bad, why was everyone so nervous for me?"

My new found bravery though would be short lived... Upon arriving in Antigua, the former capital of Guatemala, the beautiful colonial buildings and churches, in a range of colours, I'd never known house could come in, I decided it was time to go to the local market. Not the tourist artisan market, the hot, and supposed pick pocket filled locals market, that only happens three days a week.

My fear of missing out took hold, and I went in search of the market. After being given wrong directions, to a number of other tourist geared markets, I finally found my way there, with the help of an Australian ex-pat who ran the city's surf school. I was in sensory overload though, not only was I frustrated with locals that I thought were scamming me the language barrier was becoming too much to handle.

From every side there were smells of spices, sweat, and fried chicken, which in this small market seemed to have replaced the local dish of rice and beans. Add to that if you want to see true salesmanship, all you have to do is go to a local market, from every side I was being bombarded by local artisans and farmers, who seem to know the only word that this little gringo girl would know was, "Buy?"

Clutching my small side bag, and walking at a near sprint pace, I quickly walked through the market, barely stopping to look at things. I quickly learned the second you stopped if only to adjust a strap or a zipper, I'd just as quickly be asked to buy.

My journey wouldn't stop there and at the end of the market, I found myself in the local bus station, surrounded by diesel fumes, chicken buses, and drivers screaming in Spanish to sell their fares. It had seemed, I had reached my breaking point, I was moments from being on the ground in full blown fetal position, rocking myself saying, "There's no place like home."

The fried chicken smelt delicious, but all I could do to not end up never leaving my hostel again, was calming walk myself out of the market, and find my way back to the safety of the Central Plaza, for a hot coffee, and bit more Spanish immersion before returning to the market.