September 2008
From Chetumal, Mexico to Flores, Guatemala. Crossing the border in to Belize. In Belize City the bus pulled over for 40 minutes, new passengers assembled several metres from the terminal as roads were closed, it was the day after their Independence Day from British rule. Marching bands and pickup trucks with sound systems strapped on the back wound over a bridge and down the street. By 9am the day was heating up, no air-con on the bus…okay when moving with a breeze from open windows, but stagnant on the streets of a noisy excitable Belize City. Overheated and rumbling with hunger, nothing to eat since a 6am start. A tricycle piled high with corn on the cob looked inviting but no vendor. A sulky looking youth heavily tattooed with faded skulls and an image of the Guadalupe leant against a wall in the shade of ‘The Joy Frozen Blends and Treats’, “Your frozen chocolate the way you like it”…also closed. It’s a completely different vibe, so close to Mexico where you rarely see any black people…here in Belize people spoke in warm Caribbean accents or a patois English we struggled to understand. The Mayans of the Yucatan are short in stature and usually interacted only if we smiled or spoke first, here, tall black policemen and army officers roamed with beatific faces…calling hello as they passed our open bus window; people were in celebratory mood.
After loading new passengers including a young English guy called Hadley who we hit it off with immediately, the bus pulled out and a few hours later we arrived at the Guatemalan border. Exit stamped for Belize at $30 Belizean dollars/£8 (we hadn’t got off the bus there)…and entry stamped for Guatemala $4 in a separate building on the other side of a parking area. Back on the bus for another hour to Flores.
Arriving in St Elena over the bridge we swapped to a small ‘collectivo’ minibus which could negotiate the narrow winding streets and cobblestones of old Flores. The friendly collectivo guys drove us to find places to stay. Hadley checked in to a shared dorm in a hostel for £1.50 a night, on the same street we went for the upmarket option. £18 at Casa Amelia with a big double room, immaculate bathroom, cable TV and hot water shower with stunning views over a lake which folded around a small island.
23rd September. Waking up to look out over the lake, small boats, local people swimming. I put on the dress Van made for me in Vietnam and the necklace gifted to me in Tulum by a friend of Jorge’s. We met up with Hadley next door for breakfast with a table on the terrace overlooking the lake and after filling up on huevos (eggs) we walked over the bridge to the busier part of town, St Elena, to get Quetzals from the cash machines. We wandered through the sprawled food market…washed out with heavy overnight rain. Hadley went to do his own thing, Dave and I crossed back over to old Flores in a noisy red tuk-tuk that roared over the bridge bumping and rolling over cobbles. Stopping at San Juan Travel we booked the 3am sunrise tour for Tikal Mayan ruins the next day and our bus to Semuc Champey for the day after; arranging to be on the same buses as Hadley. It’s low season moving in to rainy season, so it’s really quiet. I’ll post more information in a few days time.
Tikal ruins. 24th Sept: We had an early night to prepare for the 3am tour bus to Tikal. Sitting on plastic chairs in an empty street we watched moths dance in the sodium lights. An old American school bus pulled up at 3.20 after collecting people enroute. Hadley dozed with his iPod earphones in, acknowledging us as we found seats and opened windows for fresh air. At Tikal park we were shepherded by our English speaking guide Lewis who sounded like he’d learned English via Louisiana. It was pitch black, stupidly we’d forgotten our torches so Hadley and Lewis lit the way and we followed, stumbling over rocks and tree roots. Howler monkeys roared to life barking ferociously from the rainforest canopy. As we rounded a bend Lewis shone his light in to the trees illuminating a towering Mayan temple. As night lifted, our group climbed steep wooden steps to the summit of the main temple, sitting above the tree canopy to watch dawn break. Thick mist moved in, parrots and toucans flitted the trees calling out. Sunrise blanketed, but magical as gaps opened to reveal three temples poking out of the tree canopy…hidden again as mist drifted back. The experience was otherworldly…the strength of the Mayan people who built these incredible structures to be closer to the sun, using astronomy to predict their future.
We climbed down and wandered the rest of the site in blazing sun. Dave climbed another temple negotiating the steep uneven steps. Local women in colourful skirts explored the Grand Plaza. We saw a White-nose Coati known as Snookum bears…a member of the Racoon family…unperturbed by our presence.
A guide found a tarantula hiding in its nest at the foot of a tree and I volunteered to hold it. Much to the amusement of everyone the tarantula squirted spider shit the length of my forearm. Flipping it over the guide showed its strong teeth, it uses venom to kill small prey (ineffective to humans) and the red hairs on its back cause an allergic reaction; all of which was explained after I’d held it.
Back to Flores on an 11am bus; tired and hungry but high on the morning’s experiences. After lunch with Hadley and others from the group we went our separate ways to chill out for the rest of the day. Later we ate an early dinner at our regular spot next door where we met Jenna and Paul an American couple travelling with their own truck across central America filled with camping gear, unfettered by bus or plane schedules. We get an early night and dream of temples in the mist.
The Flores bus to Lanquin and Semuc Champey. 25th September: The bus to Lanquin collected us at 9.30am. Hadley was in the back seat squashed against a mountain of rucksacks with a passenger falling asleep on his shoulder. Being last on the bus we got one standard seat and a pull-down aisle seat which dug in to the middle of my back. We’d been promised (shown pictures of) a full size bus with air-con…we got a battered American school bus with windows that barely opened. It struggled around bends and up hills, groaning in low gear as the gearbox screamed. We crossed the river on a small Heath Robinson ferry powered by 4 outboard motors one on each corner…it still managed to squeeze on seven vehicles and a truck.
A few hours in to our journey, a collectivo beeped at us to pull over. It was from San Juan travel agency and insisted our bus return to Flores and we continue by squashing into the far smaller collectivo, our bags strapped to the top. We all refused knowing that 16 people crammed into a collectivo would be hell. So we sat roadside arguing with 2 bus drivers for an hour in a backpackers vs travel agency stand off. Our driver was angry with the agency, the younger collectivo driver, cocky. Climbing atop our bus for a better mobile signal he reported our mutiny to the office, relaying excuses in Spanish to us. Climbing down he refused to let us continue. I climbed on the roof to retrieve his forgotten mobile, handed it to him, turned to our driver exclaiming “Por favour Senor, vamos!” Fed up with the situation, he jumped back in the bus and drove us to Coban. Delayed…but our small victory won.
90 minutes later through lush green landscape and mountain ranges, watching Guatemalan cowboys ride by in their cream hats on beautifully saddled horses covered by colourful blankets, we reached the city of Coban in the Alta Verapaz region of central Guatemala. We had a rest stop; we’d travelled for over 6 hours (including the stand off) without food or a toilet break. It was also here we had to swap to a collectivo…16 of us, 14 seats…the larger bus couldn’t negotiate the narrow road to the mountain village of Lanquin. We were told four people were getting off at Coban…no-one did. The minibus wheels skimmed sending rocks tumbling over the mountain drop. Another 2 hours to Lanquin where we finally stopped; we’d given up the idea of reaching Semuc Champey that night. A group of us had united on our journey; Christopher and Julia from Germany, honeymooners Amit and Michal from Israel, Hadley, Dave and myself.
The infamous El Retiro Lodge in Lanquin was full so we checked into Rabin Itzam where £8 got us a basic room with shower, a resident frog and the smell of damp. Their courtyard garden had its own Manequin Pis, a copy of the statue in Belgium taking a leak. Everything in Lanquin seeped water so it was rather fitting. Hadley opted for a room round the corner above a shop…sleeping next to a fridge.
Lanquin is a small town sitting under low cloud this time of year. Streets are steep and cobbled, colourful buildings peel strips of paint. The air feels clean. People reciprocate when we smile or greet them. Many are descended from the Q’eqchi’ Maya whose culture centred around Cosmos and Nature…harmony and respect to their surroundings. The growth in tourism has created economic benefits but outside influence has threatened cultural beliefs.
After showering we all headed to El Retiro for buffet dinner served in a huge grass-roofed barn bursting at the seams with hungry travellers. We’d forgotten our torches again, stumbled the 15 minute walk over cobblestones slick with rain and got our names on the list to eat at 45 quetzals each, just in time before they closed it. We were amazed to find it packed with 50 or 60 Israelis…calculating the exact cost of their meal. We experienced this a lot. According to Michal and Amit the Israeli travel network is very strong, with a website where they swap tips and prices. Guatemala being an easier country for them to travel, it explained why our hotel was called Rabin Itzam and the nearby local caff, Shalom. Downstairs was packed so we got the candlelit loft accessed by a vertical wooden ladder which the owner’s dog was able to run up and down more deftly than us. Striped Guatemalan mattresses and beanbags were spread around low tables. We drank beer…settled in for an evening of good food and great company, joined by Nat from Israel and Brown from Carolina. A bell rang announcing the food and lining up to check off our names we took heavy plates and loaded them with food from earthenware bowls. It’s an impressive set up, well run…vegetarian Italian pasta was excellent. We donated our second serving to an Israeli couple on the same bus earlier, too late to get on the list. In our room we crashed out to the voices of two Australians trying to pull some Israeli girls sat directly under our window playing soppy music on an iPod. Thank god for earplugs.
26th September: After breakfast next door at Shalom; scrambled eggs, maize tortillas, fried plantain and frijoles (black beans) our gang met outside Hotel Rabin Itzam for a 9.45am pick up to Semuc Champey, 9 kilometres away. What we didn’t realise was that it was 9km crushed on to the back of a Toyota pickup with 14 other people, all of us grimly hanging on to rollbars for 40 minutes on a rocky switchback mountain road. We rolled bumped and bruised our way to the first stop, the Las Marias caves.
Down to our swimming gear we skipped the part where you can swing over river rapids and jump in and headed straight for the Grutas de Lanquin, a large cave complex where 5 minutes later we were wading neck deep through cold water holding skinny candles, the only light source. For an hour we waded, swam the deeper sections and climbed steeply angled iron ladders bolted to rock…through 3 kilometres of cave system that the most hardened of potholers wouldn’t have contemplated without first tooling up in the right gear. We were doing it the Guatemalan way which is simply winging it and hoping you don’t come a cropper. Negotiating sharp stalagmites underfoot with flip flops secured with a couple of bits of nylon string handed out by the guide. All this whilst trying to keep our candles alight in pitch black. Being careful not to scrape our heads, trip or be pulled by the current in to the underground river that flowed out to the waterfall. Dave being the tallest had to hold the candles whenever Hadley and I went out of our depth. It was bonkers. We emerged over an hour later following the same route back; freezing cold and spattered with batshit….relieved but enjoying a sense of achievement; of doing something you wonder what the hell you signed up for and which would never get by health and safety back home. Personally I was pleased that I’d completed what felt like an endurance test. I opted out of being thrown down the rain swollen Rio Cahabon in an old inner tube whilst being dragged by strong currents around jagged rocks, but Dave, the boys and Julia went for it, also jumping off a high bridge. Michal and I slunk off to a cafe, the menu was coca-cola and that old staple, chicken rice and beans.
After an hour in an inner tube Dave and the rest turned up exhilarated but knackered and together we walked down to the crystalline waters of Semuc Champey’s limestone pools. The naturally formed pools run in a tiered system, one flowing in to another fed by the river. A thundering flood of water powered by recent heavy rain channeled between the rocks, swept under the pools out of sight to exit further downstream into a large waterfall. The pools dazzle from turquoise to emerald green, fringed by rainforest, hanging vines. We swam in this beautiful setting for a couple of hours crossing from pool to pool. Hadley didn’t join us as his fast food Captain Pollo experience with a dodgy chicken had finally caught up. It became a game from then on to point out to him every Captain Pollo we drove by.
This is the man whose job it is to blow his whistle if you venture too near the edge of the falls, I admire his patience…and his pink bristled brush. The handpainted entrance sign is great…we assume it’s an image of a dog and not a giant rat. We’ve seen so many guns in Guatemala but not felt intimidated by it like in many other countries.
The sun lowered the day cooled, some of us headed back to the cafe whilst the rest including Dave went for a last adrenaline rush…to climb down and back up a fast flowing waterfall on a dubiously attached rope ladder. Dave said it was crazy…a downward torrent of water battered him, blotting his view he could barely make out where the next rung on the ladder was. The climb down gave access to a cave of stalagmites and stalactites and to where the waterfall rushed under the limestone pools joining the river. At this point all of us were knackered and soaking wet. We snacked on local cinnamon chocolate wrapped in tinfoil sold by kids…bitter, gritty and dark, a welcome sugar rush. We had the mad 40 minute pickup drive back, showered in water as hot as we could stand to warm up, met everyone to eat at El Retiro (it was fish night); all of us exhausted but happy. Being dry was short lived…it chucked it down for the 15 minute walk back in the dark.
Lanquin to Antigua. 27th September: Waking to the smell of damp again. Nothing dries in the mountains in rainy season, everything is soaked either from rain or the lingering mist. We had so many wet clothes from the day before including those from the walk back after dinner. The hotel towels hadn’t dried in two days and smelt moldy. The frog was back under our bed, at home in the soggy environment of our room. We scoffed our 25 quetzals breakfast at Shalom and tried to buy sandwiches from the English Tolkien reading baker (gets book deliveries from Amazon out here in the mountains!) but he was still closed at 8am. We packed, wrapped our wet clothes in plastic bags to fester on the bus ride and waited outside Rabin Itzam for our 8am pick up. Next stop Antigua south of Guatemala city, our tickets booked with El Retiro for a collectivo rather than travel 2 hours to Coban to connect with a national bus.
11 of us squashed in prepared for another uncomfortable journey. At least there’d be a toilet stop and a canteen lunch stop about 4 hours in. I managed to convince Thomas our driver to take the huge spare tyre out from under the back seat and strap it to the roof to give us all extra room. 7 hours later we hit the urban sprawl of Guatemala city in pouring rain, choking pollution and traffic jams. We prayed we wouldn’t be making a stop as we crawled by mile after mile of miserable slums…corrugated tin piled haphazardly clinging to the sides of deforested mountain smothered in traffic fumes. It looked irredeemably miserable. Guatemala city is notoriously dangerous with high crime statistics, the mugging and even kidnapping of tourists widely reported. We had no intention of visiting.
Less than an hour later and we pulled in to the small city of Antigua population around 45,000 and the former colonial capital of Guatemala. The capital transferred to Guatemala City after Antigua was flattened by an earthquake in 1773. Antigua is now a pretty restored cobblestoned city, a UNESCO world heritage site. Colonial buildings rub shoulders with low level shops and houses painted in soft Mediterranean colours. The city nestles between 3 volcanoes; Volcan Agua, Acatenango and Fuego. The streets are clean, rubbish is collected, the stray dog population under control and the power lines hidden or straggled less chokingly over the city. It’s a relief after damp rooms and days on buses; our suitcase soaked, strapped to the bus roof under tatty tarpaulin. Our group split up to find different budget accommodations; Amit and Michal check in to Casa Santa Lucia No 1 with us, we’re too tired to find anything more upmarket. Weekends are busy in Antigua even in the rainy season. Hadley, Christopher and Julia check in to hostels, Hadley is in the Yellow House sharing a dorm room with 6 other beds but his place looks great and becomes our regular meeting place.
The seven of us went out for evening dinner, the food uneventful apart from a starter of mushroom and cheese fondue which we dipped in to with forks, cheese stretching out like elastic strings across the length of the table.
28th September: Church bells woke us at 6am. We were knackered. The bed was comfortable, 2 mattresses but pillows were wafer thin, the room smelt musty and the shower ranged from scalding hot to freezing cold within a millimetre turn of the rusty tap. Checkout was 10am, we scrambled our wet bags together and moved to the more expensive Casa Florencia at £25 a night around the corner. Comfy beds, squashy white pillows, cable TV, an immaculate bathroom and a pretty courtyard. It was on the tv here that I belatedly learned my favourite actor Paul Newman had died on the 26th. Budget rooms for a couple of nights are fine but we’re older, less tolerant. Lonely Planet guide to Central America is useful but late arrivals in towns invariably results in last minute decisions, low budget rooms, questionable hygiene…unless we spend hours dragging bags around streets in the dark to find an alternative.
We dropped our laundry at the local lavederia £4 for 4 kilos and spent our first full day in Antigua exploring the streets. We met with Hadley at the Bagel Barn where we ate well and connected to wi-fi for the first time in a week. We wandered the local market and bus station where colourful ‘chicken’ buses rumble over cobbles. Decaying buildings a memory of wealthier times.
Local women wear colourful woven fabrics, many are extremely poor and it’s sad to see an elderly lady begging. I gave her some money and photographed her traditional dress, a beautiful smile and gentle eyes. Two young women wanted their photograph taken on their own camera, then posed for me, happy and excited but then unsmiling because they were both wearing braces. A touching exchange reminiscent of teenagers everywhere.
We wandered into a cavernous crafts centre…among the wares a Jesus chair…it feels awkward sitting on Jesus…and a wonderful row of elderly wooden men. Striped Guatemalan trousers, bags, head wrappers, shawls…many backpackers are wearing them.
We really like Antigua, it’s a friendly easy going place of fraying granduer…but the rain…it sweeps in suddenly and pours relentlessly. It streams down streets…people run into doorways to take cover. We duck in to a cafe to eat crepes. Later in the evening a few of us gather for margaritas and mojitos at a cheap 2 for 1 pizza place. We form plans for the following day, the first pizza so unappetising the free one untouched…but it doesn’t matter…nothing really does when travelling like this.
Volcano Pacaya. 29th Sept. Call us mad, we thought it would be an excellent idea to join a small tour of people and climb the only active volcano in the area, Volcan Pacaya around a 90 minute drive outside of Antigua. Hadley, Christopher and Julia joined us on a Yellow House tour, 11 of us for once comfortably seated in a relatively new mini-bus. Things were boding well; the sun was shining, it was pleasantly hot outside and for the first day in a while we were all dry, damp free and wearing our still tumble-warmed laundry. An hour and a half later pathetically equipped, I was sitting on a horse in the pouring rain trying to make out a trail in thick sulphurous mist.
We were swarmed by kids as soon as the minibus doors slid open, selling branches smoothed to long walking sticks for 5 quetzals each. It started raining, heavily…Dave and I bought raincapes in a shop with iron security bars…a feature we’ve seen everywhere here.
Dave, Hadley, Julia and Christopher decided to take the 90 minute trek straight up on foot. At least we were wearing raincapes and had bought food, water and torches. An Australian guy was in a t-shirt and flip flops. Dave set off on foot in his long black cape and stick looking like Gandalf disappearing in to the mist. Along with some Israeli travellers and an American girl I’d opted for what I thought the easier option of covering at least 40 minutes of the trail by horse; with Guatemalan saddle and blankets and a guide called Ronald leading the way on foot, graciously carrying my stick. Only 10 minutes in on a narrow trail, my horse stumbling a switchback of loose mud and stones, scraping by trees and barbed wire fences, I realised that hiking might have been less unnerving, some of the group looked rigid with fear. I was inexplicably confident in my riding skills despite not sitting on a horse since age 14…no riding hat or even clear visibility. Going up was marginally easier (I say that loosely), as I could negotiate the steep trail by leaning forward. At points where the trail ran at a ridiculously steep angle, the horse picking over tree roots and rocks, I had to lean back. It was however exhilarating and I imagined myself as a cowboy; a fat cigar and poncho riding in to a Magnificent 7 fantasy (more like the Mortified 7). Ronald pulled us on regardless of legs scraping trees and whether we were capable of remaining saddle-bound. A relentless scrappy dog ran ahead and back, nipping to hurry the horses on. Eventually we met with the walking group knackered from their climb and soggy. I dismounted unhooking my feet from the stirrups, took up my stick and asked my sure footed steed and Ronald to wait for me in pouring rain for the ride back down.
From here our walking guide Hector urged us on, higher and with worse visibility, we could see only a few feet ahead as one shrouded member of the group after another climbed over blackened volcanic ridges and disappeared. Now sweating we picked our way through volcanic rock..a drop to the side somewhere fell into white nothingness. The view was completely obscured.
I don’t know how high we were. Pacaya Volcano is recorded at 2,552 metres but I knew we wouldn’t be going to the top. It’s the only active volcano in the region and attracts the most tourists and allegedly the most bandits. If bandits can be arsed to climb up here in these conditions and stumble on us by groping torchless to rob us of our bags of marshmallows, then bloody good luck to them. After 30 minutes of trekking (stumbling around) and Dave asking how long does it take to climb an hour and a half up a volcano (he was delirious at this point) we reached our highest point which must have been over 2,000 metres. We were finally and gob-smackingly rewarded. There in front of us, a very active lava river burning molten red through volcanic crust.
Lava unfolded and oozily slumped. A surreal sight, standing soaking wet only feet away with faces burning from intense heat. Rain sizzled, danced off lava, powerless to dampen the furnace below our feet. The gnarled pumice crust steamed and heated the soles of our shoes. The Australian who’d raced ahead in a show of macho bravado, melted his flipflops and scorched his feet. Realising the danger of standing on top of a giant barbecue…we ripped open our bags of marshmallows and toasted them.
A grim descent digging in with sticks, sliding back on a mudslide. The rain got heavier, plunged us into darkness. A funny moment when my torch wouldn’t work, I called to Dave invisible in the mist…”Dave my torch won’t come on!” His disembodied voice trailing back “What the f**k do you expect me to do about it?”…raucous laughter from everyone else. Dave and the rest started the downward hike whilst back on the horse I headed on a separate trail with Ronald. 11 of us came up on horses only 2 of us on the return. Ronald didn’t have a light, he stumbled over rocks bumped into trees before borrowing my LED (now working). He’d kindly cloaked me in his thick yellow horse-riding cape, it covered me and spread over the horse so I was warm and dry. Ronald wore a bin bag and was drenched.
Leaning flat along the horse’s back on the steepest downward sections, avoiding trees and grazed legs we squeezed through narrow gaps. Ronald encouraged the horse, I concentrated hard to stay on it. At times my feet were forced out of the stirrups as we scraped around a tree, I pulled on the reins calling “Uno momento” to put my feet back in, nudging the horse forward. In a dense thicket of trees it dawned on me that the other rider, a young Israeli girl following behind, had gone very quiet…she’d slid straight over her horse’s neck. Ronald went back to help. We realised then we’d strayed off the trail as Ronald muttered Spanish obscenities and I saw my light randomly bouncing around. I felt strangely calm, complete confidence in Ronald…he did this trek regularly and though he hadn’t come best equipped, he was wearing a sturdy pair of wellies. Some minutes later after asking me where I came from and why I didn’t have babies (was this a test to see if I deserved to be taken back?) we were back on the trail and eventually saw the lights of the mountain town where we’d first gathered. We got back 10 minutes before the walkers. I felt quite smug in my yellow cape as I watched them straggle in drenched, covered in mud. The kids pounced on us for our sticks, raincapes, torches, anything and we all fumbled foolishly checking our pockets were zipped closed. I gave my stick to a boy, failing to find the girl I’d bought it from knowing they’d be re-sold. The kids have found a niche market in stick-hire…and we couldn’t have completed the trail without them. We made good progress back to Antigua despite heavy rain and low visibility, I don’t know how the driver could see but after a couple of near misses we were back in our rooms leaping gratefully into hot showers. Dave and I were asleep by ten, exhausted, emboldened by the adventure and eternally grateful to Ronald and Hector for an incredible one-off experience.
Spent the next two days recovering from the volcano trip, my legs were killing me from gripping the horse. We bumbled around Antigua in more heavy rain, made forward travel plans to escape it. Reunited with Michal and Amit back from San Pedro. Said goodbye to our gang as we went our separate ways. Hadley to Los Angeles for a road trip before heading to Asia, Amit and Michal to Cancun Mexico to enjoy the last days of their honeymoon, Christopher and Julia to San Pedro near Lake Atitlan before heading to Costa Rica…leaving Dave and I with tickets for the Yellow House day trip to the market in Chichicastenago which Hadley found hilarious (Dave isn’t fond of markets). It was excellent, even Dave enjoyed it…and it didn’t rain all day.
Chichicastenago. A 6.30am start for our daytrip a 3 hour drive through highland mountains. We took the slower road as the Inter-American highway was blocked by rockslides, rain loosened chunks of mountain. The scenery was stunning as we rattled along winding roads, rolling precariously close to the edge and climbing higher towards a view of Lago Atitlan. The driver stopped so we could marvel at the vast lake, an impressive sight surrounded by villages and volcanoes. Back on the bus we descended through forest losing 500 metres in elevation as we headed to the town of Panajachel. This is a dramatic region. The highlands stretch from Antigua to the Mexican border northwest of Huehuetenango. The traditional values and customs of Guatemala’s indigenous people are strongly adhered to here. The first language is a Mayan dialect with Spanish their second. There’s a lot of agriculture including the staple crop of maize from which Mayans believe humans were created in the third cycles of life…the first two being from wood and mud. We watched as men women and children walked the roadside carrying bundles of firewood for heating and cooking strapped to their heads with leather straps.
A short stop in Panajachel then to Chichicastenango arriving around 11am. A pretty town in a mountainous region with narrow cobblestone streets, red tiled roofs and a colourful hilltop cemetery. The locals are know as Mashenos and have pre-Christian religious beliefs and ceremonies. Shamanism is also still followed. Thursdays and Sundays are market days, packed with indigenous people in traditional clothing carrying bundles wrapped in brilliantly coloured cloth on poles or balancing them on their head. Many sell straight from the ground on rolled out cloth whilst others use the poles to set up temporary stalls. The outskirts of the market trades in tourist stuff; blankets, bedcovers, carvings, masks, silver jewellery, pottery. With new travelling companions Uri, Gali and Idan, all from Israel, all on our bus, we headed in to the bustle.
It was hard not to be seduced by the riot of colour, so many stalls and good quality meant most people from our bus loaded up with souvenirs. Dave bought a Marcos/Zapatista t-shirt (actually Mexican) I bought two decoratively woven purses, easy to pack in our bags. Hand-tooled leather stirrups would be a great but bulky souvenir (didn’t see any), old keys another, but with more travelling ahead, better not to load ourselves down. The centre of the market is dedicated to food, local needs like vegetables, soaps, candles…also embroidery and sewing stalls, plastic toys, clothing. So much colour and life…listening to traders barter in Maya, Spanish, English…even Hebrew for the many Israeli travellers.
The church Inglesia de Santo Tomas has flower sellers on the steps. Burning copal incense smoulders, drifts around the women shaded from the sun under umbrellas. Local prayer leaders or shamans called Chuchkajaues swing burning balsam incense in silver thuribles…chanting magic in honour of the ancient Maya calendar and their ancestors. Many of these ancestors are buried under the church floor…much as the Maya kings were buried beneath their pyramids.
We ate lunch in the courtyard of a handsome colonial hotel, parrots perched near tables squawking and grooming among vivid tropical flowers. Local musicians played xylophones. We got back on the bus just as the first rain clouds rolled in and started to break. The market was already packing up, traders wrapping what they hadn’t sold back in to bundled cloth.
We were the only non-Israeli travellers on the return bus to Antigua other than a Spanish girl who’d bought loads of stuff. We chatted with Idan, Uri and Gali the latter two whom we’d met briefly back in Flores at our hotel Casa Amelia. Fun people with a dry sense of humour, Uri at 6 feet 5 the joker of the group. If we hadn’t been so knackered we’d have spent the evening with them. (Uri/Idan if you’re reading this get in touch…I emailed the photos to Gali). Instead we ate fast food and paid the balance of our flights…off to South America on Saturday to escape the wet weather blowing across Central America…sadly ditching our pre-booked flights to Panama but the rain is getting to us. Back to the hotel for an early night; worn out from 7 hours on the road sliding and bumping through the last 3 in even more rain and mudslides on the re-opened highway.
So our next stop will be Lima in Peru then on to Cuzco. We aim to see the ancient mountaintop Inca city of Machu Pichu, spend around a week or so in Peru before flying on to Argentina. We’re both excited as we hadn’t originally planned for South America.
The Travel Diarist 