Goodbye Guatemala

It's our last day in Guatemala, and I am so sad to go. I think I'm going to miss the Guatemalan people most. I'm going to miss all of those conversations on camionetas, in parks, in the market, even in bars. At the same time, I'm really ready to be home. I've got school, family and friends, and potable water to look forward to.

As we went for the plane, we could see people streaming out of schools, churches and municipal buildings after voting. They held up their blackened thumbs, proof that they had voted. The scene was so triumphant. It was an amazing image to end the trip.

So that's all for Allyabroad the Guatemala edition. Stay tuned for Allyabroad in Bolivia, coming winter 2008.

Volcan Pacaya, the Gigantic, Hot Geological Pastry

We started today with a little hang over, our first good cups of Guatemalan coffee and a stroll around Antigua. It's is such a pretty city! It's too bad about all of the tourists.

In the afternoon, we went to climb the Volcan Pacaya. The Volcan is only about an hour outside of Antigua and lots of tour operators do very inexpensive trips, so it was teeming with tourists. When we got to the ranger station, we were greeted by a gaggle of boys selling hiking sticks for a few cents. I felt a little bad that I already had ridiculously over-engineered and expensive hiking sticks, and no reason to buy theirs.

We started up the volcano at a brisk pace. On the way up, we passed a tourist who must have weighed three hundred pounds on a tiny pony. How I felt for that poor pony! It’s a steep hike, but very short. Most trips don’t take you all the way to the crater, because it’s become quite difficult and dangerous.

After a short approach, we reached a rim, where we could see the cone of the volcano and a ribbon of lava running down the side. In the distance we could see all of the volcanoes that rim Lago de Atitlan. We descended down onto the hardened lava flows. The rock looked like frosting, gently undulating into the distance. Some of the rock was super shiny, reflecting rainbow colors. However, it was also amazingly sharp, forming all sorts of little crystalline structures. They would break off, creating tiny, super sharp rock splinters for my fingers.

As we started up the slope, we quickly realized rock was not solid. The current lava crust was four years old. Under it was a layer of lava eight years old. In between the two were tubes, some of which contained molten lava. We were careful to test step before we put our weight on anything. We were also careful hike far ahead of the heavy fellow, who having left his pony, was huffing and puffing up behind us.

As we hiked higher and higher, over lava flows, the ground got warmer and warmer. I was wearing my Chacos, the only hiking shoes I had brought. Eventually, I had to start hopping from foot to food to stand the heat. While my Chacos withstood the heat, the basket of my hiking stick melted and warped. I wished I had bought a fifty cent stick.

We hiked up to this, one of a number of terranean lava flows. The lava would slowly bubble and ooze its way out of the ground, as if the earth were a giant geological pastry bag. We hung out for a while, poking the lava with a stick and playing volcano chicken. We began to descend as dusk fell, and when we reached the ranger station it was pitch dark. We looked back up the mountain and the lava flow had expaned to four or five times its original size.

I can't believe my first experience with an active volcano was so up closed and perilous. One again, it gave me a great appreciation for the Guatemalan safety ethic.

Happy Birthday Baby!

I'm twenty-one! (And in a country where I haven't been carded once.) I woke up this morning to a giant pile of cards. Some of them were singing and some had silly baby pictures, but they were all great. Thank you so much everyone!

We decided to move along to Antigua for the fantastic Allyfiesta. Since it’s a long haul, we took the first class bus. I assumed that they boys remembered it was a long trip, and that they knew the first rule of Guatemalan bus travel: limited fluid intake.

As with all Guatemalan highway travel, there was construction. Lots of seemingly senseless and endless construction, courtesy of the Korean government. The four hour trip grew into five hours, but our bladders seemed to be shrinking. By the time we reached Sacatepequez, where we were to change busses, one of us had peed in a bottle, and the other two were about to explode. Desperate, we settled for the first establishment in sight, a strip club.

The proprietress was wearing six inch platform shoes, a dress that wouldn't have been out of place at a prom attened by Molly Ringwald, a wig, and more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. Plus, I swear she was pregnant. In the back, girls were gyrating around to 80s pop hits. We kept our heads down and paid our 1Q to use the bathroom. It was everything you would expect of a sleezy strip club sandwitched between an auto parts store and a recycling center and open at noon; there was no seat, an inch of standing water on the floor, and paper napkins for toilet tissue. But it was all worth it to see the look on Scott's face after seeing that stripper.

After the great bathroom fiaso, we continued on to Antigua. Antigua is an incredibly pretty city. It was the second colonial capital, before a spate of earthquakes in 1773 forced a move to the current capital. But the runis only add to the city's charm. In addition to the ruins, there are all sorts of amazing restored cathedrals, convents and monestaries.

For my birthday, we had dinner at an amazing restaurant. It was so strange to eat in a fancy resturant with cloth napkins, candels, an expensive winelist, overbearing waiters and all the rest, but it was wonderful! We went out for drinks and dancing at a funky overlooking a ruined convent. But, being the party animals we are, we went back to the hotel and fell asleep after one drink!

Civic Participation at its Best

Today we decided to visit Fuentes Georginas. However, we were in for quite a surprise. Driving through the town of Almonga, we were stopped by preperations for a big election rally. It appeared that every truck in town was out for the event.

Eventually, our bus driver gave up, and demanded that everyone get out, so he could return to Xela. We continued on foot, walking downhill to the next town. We hired a pickup to the hotsprings, which were everything they were the time before.

On the return trip we caught a bus to Almonga, but by that time the parade was in full force and we were again impeded. Almonga is especially civic minded. That is, if political participation could be measured by confetti and abuelitas in attendance. As we walked through town, a fellow told us that he knew a back way through town, and that he would take us all the way to Xela for 60Q. We took him up on his offer, and away we went. But we didn’t get very far. As it turned out, his alternate route ran right back into the parade route.

Unable to beat it, we ended up joining the parade. We weren’t all that out of place, since all of the floats were old disel trucks, decorated top to bottom, stuffed full of entire families and blaring their horns. Flags, banners, giant stereotypical sombreros, horns, and sheets of newspaper were all popular acutremonts. Scott took this photo of the truck behind us. We wondered how they could see out of the windshield, but since we were only moving two or three miles an hour it wasn’t much of an issue.

As an added bonus, there was an old Charlie’s produce truck parked along the parade route. This is especially ironic because Almonga is the vegetable capital of Central America. On the other hand, many Guatemalans attribute Almonga’s soil fertility to their Evangelical Christanity, which might not jive as well with Charlie’s.

San Pedro and Yet Another Long Winded Travel Story in Which Ally Ends Up Naked

San Pedro is yet another town on Lago de Atitlan. It’s a pretty place. As soon as you get of the dock, the cobbled streets run straight uphill and the town towers over the water. San Pedro caters to a funny crowd, mixing old school hippies with new school frat boys. But it has all sorts of nice amenities, and its own organic chocolate company, which sits well with me.

This morning we woke up super early to climb Volcan San Pedro. Armed with pan tostado, nutella, lots of agua and a guide from Bigfoot Tours, we set off. The hike began in town, quickly climbing up through the outskirts and along the highway. Once we left the paved streets behind, we hiked up through coffee and cornfields, then temperate forest, and then an almost alpine summit. The trail got steeper and steeper, sometimes turning to stairs. The boys put me to shame, almost running up the track while I huffed and puffed behind. The boys also put me to shame on the way back down, where Scott did some mud skiing, using his trekking poles for traction and steering. But I had a great time. We had paid a little bit extra for a private guide, he brought his son with him, so I was easily amused talking to them about life in San Pedro, school, and soccer.

Unfortunately, it was cloudy, so there was no view to show for all of our effort. This photo was taken yesterday. But it has a volcano in it and it’s Shawn and Scott, so it’s relevant.

Just as exciting was our trip back to Xela. After we got cleaned up and had a hot lunch we inquired around about the bus terminal. Unfortunately, the last bus to Xela had left at two, and it was two-thirty. Everyone in town had a different idea about how we should get to Xela. Our tuk-tuk driver offered to take us to the next town, where we could catch a combi to Xela. But by that point, it had begun to rain, and two hours in the back of a pickup with all of our luggage seemed less than appealing.

Instead, we decided to take a boat back to Panajactel, and catch a bus from there, So we waited, and waited, and waited for a boat. First we got in one boat. Then we switched to another. And after argument about the fare with the captain, we finally get situated and set off. Unfortunately, the tarp that the ayudante had tacked over us was poor protection from the storm that was brewing. Between the rain and the spray we were quickly soaked. We were wet and miserable, when the boat stalled. Or was propbound. Or swamped. Or all of the above. Or whatever it was that the boat was doing to keep us from progressing. Instead, we were adrift, beam to and beginning to get a little bit seasick. I wondered if we would be having Gilligan’s Island Guatemala style, and if I would be more Ginger or Mary Ann. But the captain eventually got the boat moving and we docked in Pana as dark was falling.

In Pana, we caught a tuk-tuk, and then a bus to Solola, and then a bus to Los Encuentros. Los Encuentros is one of the major road junctions in the Guatemalan highlands, where you often have to change busses. Usually, it’s incredibly busy, but it was about eight when we arrived, so all the little roadside stands were shut up and there weren’t a lot of people around or busses passing. It was dark, and after three or four hours of travelling, we were hungry, exhausted, wet and cold. After fifteen minutes of shivering, I decided that I couldn’t stand my wet skirt any more. Hiding behind the boys, I tried to change clothes. The very second I took off my skirt, the bus pulled up! I was half-naked in front of one of the most crowded camionetas I’d seen in all of Guatemala, with an impatient ayudante and way too much luggage. A good laugh was had all around.

When we finally got to Xela, we ended up at Casa Argentina, which was nice, because it feels as much like home as anywhere in Guatemala to me. Mama Argie took one look at me and laughed and laughed that I was back. I think Shawn was also a little relieved, as he got to offload the twenty pounds of industrial grade zipper that he had brought down for Quetzaltrekkers. Talk about being generous!

Ponies, Paintings and Prayers to San Simon

The town of Santiago Atitlan was a little short on suitable accommodations because it's usually just a stopover on boat tours from Pana, but I was glad we stayed the night. The town is the center of the indigenous Tz'utuhil population. It was also particularly hard hit by the civil war. In 1981 a priest and US citizen was murdered there. In 1990 one of the last major massacres of the conflict occurred outside of town.

Plus, we finally got to go horseback riding. It was Shawn and Scott's first time. We had to ask around a lot, but eventually we found a tuk-tuk driver to take us out to a private estate owned by a couple of expats, where we rented horses and hired a guide. Both the guide and some of our horses were a little green, and we found ourselves in some funny situations trying to keep the horses out of people's fields and from eating their crops while passing on the narrow dirt tracks.

It was an amazing ride, up through corn and coffee fields and into the foothills of Volcan Santiago Atitlan. From there, we could look back on the lake and the entire valley. Unfortunately, we were running low on time, so we had to turn back before the summit. On the way back we rode past a bizarre, burnt-out and abandoned country club that was built in the 1980s, but lost much of it's appeal with the conflict. It was hilarious to see cows grazing on overgrown tennis courts and chickens pecking the bottom of an empty pool. Our hosts, Jim and Nancy Matison, bought their estate at a bargain basement price under similar circumstances, and have developed it into a tourism destination.

After our ride, we went back into town to shop for paintings. Santiago Atitlan is known for its oil painting. There are a number of unique styles, from massive portraits of inigenous people to the unavoidable Diego Rivera rip-offs. (Although I'm not afraid to admit that I bought one.) My favorite style was create by fellow from the area who was enlisted as a helicopter pilot during the conflict. When the war ended he began painting the scenes he saw from the air. His paintings depict fields of flowers, produce or coffee, with the faces of the campesinos peeking out, baskets in hands, babies on backs in amazing explosions of color and texture.

After we had made a few painting purchases, we set out to find Santiago Atitlan’s San Simon, or Maximon. As I explained earlier, San Simon is part Mayan idol, part Catholic saint. Hes the bad Saint, particularly popular with prostitutes. Santiago Atitlan’s San Simon was even more fantastic than San Andres Xecul’s. His ayudante was far more attentive, and he had been offered way more liquor, cigarettes and other stuff. When we were there, an indigenous fellow was making an impassioned request in an indigenous language. All I understood was that he wanted a tuk-tuk or a combi so that he could get to Santa Cruz. I began to wonder if we should start making offerings, for all of our transportation woes.

Atitlan, Where the Rainbow Gets Its Colors and Panajachel, Where the Gringoes Go

Today was our first day on the amazing Lago de Atitlan. As Aldous Huxley once wrote of the lake, "It really is too much of a good thing." Rimmed by a number of volcanoes, sparkly and startlingly blue, the lake is absolutely beautiful. I’ve heard Atitlan translated as "the place where the rainbow gets its colors", which is understandable once you’ve seen it.

The lake lies in a gigantic volcanic crater, formed in four stages over the last 11 million years. The lake was created during an eruption 1.8 million years ago, which was detected from Florida to Ecuador. The lake fills the bottom of the caldera, reaching a depth of about 2,000 feet. It has no surface outlets, only underground outlets to the Pacific Ocean. Interestingly enough, some Mormons believe that the Lago is the lake mentioned in the Book of Mormon, which is probably a powerful selling point for all of the evangelists who live around the area.

The most popular tourist town on the lake is Panajachel, often affectionately referred to as Gringotenago. It used to be a huge hippie town, but during the civil war it cleared out pretty quickly as the army terrorized the local Kaqchikel and Tz'utuhil populations. Fortunately (and unfortunately), the lake is so beautiful that tourism was soon revived. Panajachel has a huge assortment of international restaurants, bars, artesania and New-Age practitioners.

In the morning we went to Reserva Natural Atitlán, a preserve a little way out of town. It was a nice walk around the grounds of the historic Hacienda de San Buenaventura, through the forest, up and down stone stairs and across suspension bridges. While there wasn’t much in the way of animals, (except spider monkeys!), there were a huge variety of plants and a wonderful butterfly garden with glasswing butterflies, among other things.

In the afternoon we went for a temazcal, or Mayan sauna, at our hotel. The temazcal was much like the one I had on my hike to the lake, but with a higher ceiling, no tar, and the ability to breathe. As it turns out, with oxygen and drinking water, temazcal is actually a fantastic experience.

After our temscal we moved on to Santiago Atitlan, another town across the lake. While we all wished we had a bit more time in Pana, we were also ready to go. The gringofication was exemplified when the lancha captain charged us twice as much as the local passengers. While this particular captain explained that it was because the others were frequent riders, a fair explanation, other captains would insist that the others were paying the same price despite my protests and profanity.

Chichcastenago, the Commercial Heart of Central America

Chichicatenango is a tiny town, nestled in the mountains to the north of Lago de Atitlan. That is, except Wednesdays and Sundays, when it it morphs into the largest market in Central America. It had an especially different feel for us, because we had been a little off beaten track and its such a tourist destination. And with tourists come all sorts of scammers about, which made us a little wary.

We woke up early this morning to get a jump on the market. When we started shopping, there were only a few stalls open and we were unimpressed. After a bit, vendors began to arrive from other highland areas. First a trickle, then a flood of people and goods arrived in busses, cars, trucks, handcarts and on backs. As the day went on, we realized exactly how mistaken we had been. The market had grown up around us into an almost impenetrable labyrinth of stalls and street vendors hawking every imaginable household and artesianal item, food and drink. The indigenous and tourists shoppers rubbed shoulders in a mad rush to get the best possible deals. It took us over an hour to get a few city blocks, from one side of the market to the other. Around the edges of the market, the religious cofradias were worshipping, politicians were stumping and borrachos were drinking, adding to the ambience of utter chaos.

I’m not one to haggle. I hate the feeling that I’m being taken advantage of, but I also hate arguing over a couple of dollars with someone far worse off than me. On the other hand, Scott is an expert haggler. I’m sure his parents love knowing that his expensive UPenn econ education is being so well utilized. He would just walk away during negotiations, forcing the vendors to follow him, lowering their prices. Or he would get them to agree on a seemingly low price for a single item, and then ask them to lower it if he bought a second. He would always consult with us in English, to make himself seem unsure. The prices got better and better as they day wore on and the vendors wanted to get home, sans their wares, and I got better and better at haggling.

At the end of the day, we had purchased every imaginable sort of artesania: Some of the brightly colored and exquisitely embroidered textiles that stretched as far as the eye could see. Masks and musical instruments from shelves and shelves of smelly, but cool, carved wood. Jade, coral and silver jewelry from vendors with innumerable necklaces over their arms, tinkling as they walked. And tons of tiny, brightly colored trinkets from little indigenous children that crowded around us like ants wherever we walked. Worn out and with substantially lighter wallets, we set off for Panajactel.