Monthly Archives: March 2011

Finca Paraiso: The Lesser Known Day Trip From Rio Dulce

31 Thursday Mar 2011

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Finca Paraiso

I had planned to only spend a day in Rio Dulce doing what seemed to be the one major excursion that everyone had come to do: a boat trip up the Rio Dulce river to Livingston.  So I was quite happily surprised when I learned about another natural attraction that begged for me to add another day to my itinerary.

Finca Paraiso is a series of hot, yes, hot waterfalls cascading into a cold tributary of the Rio Dulce  in a deep part of the jungle about an hour’s micro ride outside Rio Dulce city.  We were informed by the hostel owner that these were the only hot spring waterfalls in the world; making it a rather unique destination.

The falls did not disappoint.  There was a mere 15 minute walk in the canopy until the river took a bend, and there appeared Finca Paraiso.  Discovering just how hot the waterfall was and letting it beat down on your head and shoulders while your bottom half was submerged in cooler temperatures  was very bizarre.  Even more delightful was the naturally created steam bath that you could swim to by descending under the falls and standing in the naturally created cavern underneath them.

Kids riding one bike

About ten more minutes down the road you could also visit a limestone canyon called Bocaron.  Unfortunately, there were rather young kids (child labor is a serious issue in Guatemala) there ready and waiting to row us by canoe through the canyon for 20 quetzales per person.

I had set my expectations low for this outing, but it proved to  be, in my opinion, a rather pretty and picturesque spot: the walls of the canyon got narrower as we progressed and seemed to simply tower over our dwarfed little boat.

All in all, I highly recommend staying another day in Rio Dulce to explore these two lovely areas.

Bocaron

Besides, how often do you get to experience a natural hot spring falling on top of you?

Where: Finca Paraiso, about 45 minutes micro ride from Rio Dulce

When: March 23

How: Boat to Rio Dulce, then microbus

When Lying To Tourists Crosses A Line

30 Wednesday Mar 2011

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My destination for the day: Hotel Kangaroo in Rio Dulce

As backpackers, we’re mostly prepared for the harmless little lies we are told by tour operators,travel agents, and hoteliers that we book with.  “Yes, the shuttle will take you directly to the ferry terminal”, when you have to take a taxi, or, “You should arrive by 2pm”, when you know you’d have to break the sound barrier to achieve this, and “Yes, we have hot showers”, when the water is tepid at best.  We brace ourselves, smile, and reason that especially in developing countries, it’s an accepted part of the experience of being sold to.

On my journey to Rio Dulce this past Tuesday, however, the lying went a little too far for my liking.

I was debating taking a public bus to Guatemala City and then getting to the right “Zona” in order to catch a Pullman bus all the way to Rio Dulce, which was supposed to be a 4-5 hour journey.  Here’s what I was told vs. what actually happened.

What I was told: “The shuttle service will take you directly from Antigua to Rio Dulce in about 5-6 hours.”

What actually happened: The shuttle contained people only being dropped off in Guatemala City, both at the airport and at various bus stations throughout the city.  I was going to be dropped off at the bus station with a pre-paid ticket on the Pullman.

What I was told: “If you take public transportation you’ll need to catch a taxi from where the Antigua bus arrives, to the bus station for Rio Dulce.”

What actually happened: I was taken to the bus terminal for Rio Dulce and given an onward bus ticket.

What I was told: After encountering road works on the way to Guatemala city, I expressed concern that after leaving the airport, I only had 30 minutes left to catch my 11:30 bus.  “No Te Preocupes” I was told repeatedly.

What actually happened: The more I was told not to “preoccupe” the more worried I got.

What I was told: Since the other girl who was catching a bus to El Salvador didn’t need to leave for another hour and a half, I asked the driver if he could take me to my bus station first. After another “No Te Preocupes”, he explained that we had plenty of time and would make it to my 11:30 bus for sure.

What actually happened: This was the driver’s way of ensuring the fastest return for him to Antigua…I had heard him making arrangements to go out with friends on the phone, telling them when he’d be back in time.

What I was told: On arriving at my bus station, flustered and stressed, at exactly 11:30, the bus driver explained that buses here never left on time, and kindly (I thought) ran into the station to make sure the bus didn’t leave without me. “No problem, senorita, bus is here, and you need to just go inside the office and present your ticket”.  Great!

What actually happened: After frantically thanking the driver for his help and running to the station, I couldn’t see any bus in any of the departure spots marked for Rio Dulce.  After hurriedly enquiring where I should go, I was informed, quite plainly, that the bus for Rio Dulce had already left five minutes ago.

I was livid.  Not necessarily that I’d missed the bus because of the time. What I hated was the fact that he knew the bus had gone, and that he just lied blatantly to my face.

I had to wait another two hours for the next bus and pay an extra 10 quetzals for the change.  This meant that I wouldn’t arrive in Rio Dulce until after dark.

Sigh.

I know that it’s all part of the experience, but there are times like this when lying to tourists crosses the line.

Have you ever been lied to while traveling in a way that ruined your plans or created false expectations?

Where: Shuttle from Antigua to Guate, then Pullman Bus to Rio Dulce

When: March 22

How: With Difficulty

Semana Santa: Early Easter Processions in Antigua

27 Sunday Mar 2011

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After the horrendously long and arduous journey back to Antigua, the efforts to get back on the Saturday night became altogether worth it when we learned that there would be a pre-Semana Santa procession in Antigua on the Sunday afternoon.

Strangely enough, I was in Antigua on this very day two years ago, and knew just how ornate, and involved the processions during the period of lent could be.  Since this was Francesco’s last day in Guatemala, I was especially happy for him that he was going to get to see this.

After a deliriously relaxing and therapeutic massage in the morning, I met up with the boys who were returning from a climb up Volcan Pacaya (gluttons for punishment after 3 days of hiking!) for a guilt and brocolli-free lunch of non-Guatemalan origins.

We wandered the streets of Antigua enjoying the beautifully ornate carpets of flowers and colored sawdust that adorned the parade route.  Hundreds of men walked the streets decked out in their bright purple regalia.

The procession itself consisted of marching bands, hundreds of men in purple, and two giant altars carrying depictions of Jesus’ road to Calvary and of Mary’s ascension to heaven, the latter being carried by women.  All the while, giant bowls of incense are burned and swayed causing a pungent sensory accompaniment.

The whole spectacle is remarkable, especially when you witness the procession completely destroying the oh-so-carefully crafted carpets of flowers in its wake.

 

Where: Antigua

When: 20th March

If you’d like to see the rest of the photos from the procession, click here

Trekking Nebaj To Todos Santos: Day Three

26 Saturday Mar 2011

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Two of the little girls from the family we stayed with

By the third day our bruised and smelly bodies, cat-scratched faces, and shivers were not aided by breakfast.  Boiled broccoli in a broth with-you guessed it!-more tortillas. Again we said our thank-yous and miserably dug into broccoli at 6:30 in the morning, which just felt wrong on so many levels until we considered that this is what the family ate each day.  It broke my heart as the children kept coming in and out of the room just to watch us eat, their sun-burnt dirty faces watching our every move as if we were from outer space.

Which we might as well have been.

Our unhappy faces eating boiled brocolli for breakfast

What I found to be more disturbing was that the two young sons in the family were clean and well-dressed while the girls were unkempt and filthy. I thought it very sad, but a reality nonetheless.

Our final stretch to Todos Santos turned out to be entirely on main roads.  Due to the fact that we all needed to be back in Antigua for various reasons that night, we elected to cut down on the journey by taking two pick-ups that pulled over for us at various stages of the journey.

Arriving in Todos Santos was like arriving at a carnival.  Never in my life have I witnessed a town where each man and woman had corresponding matching outfits. The men wore matching red pants with white stripes!  It was market day and there were some other festivities going on as well which we were lucky enough to observe with earnest.

One of the dancers at the festival in Todos Santos

Unfortunately, it seemed that the town’s sewage and pipe system was getting a massive overhaul and the entire downtown section lay in rubbled as people were forced to pass by the ten foot deep trench on either side with wooden planks.

After a traditional lunch, we went to pick up Francesco and Nico’s backpack which they had paid heftily to have transported to the end of our trek.  Disaster: it had not arrived despite being promised that it would arrive the night before.  Francesco was not happy.

Nico, our guide, was extremely unhelpful and just muttered something about how bags usually had shown up by now, and that hopefully it would arrive at some point that day. Francesco and I headed out to the bus terminal to see if any transport was arriving that might have the pack.  We were dismayed to learn that the last bus to Huehuetenango was leaving in fifteen minutes.

Damn.  Our only connection to Antigua.

We went to find another location that we were told might contain arriving micros.  It was clear on the other side of town.  Half way there, Francesco got a text from Nico saying that the pack had arrived!  There was no time to lose: Francesco told me to run and hold the bus going to Huehue and that he would run back to Nico and get the rest of our stuff and meet me there.

The outfit worn by all the men in Todos Santos

I ran uphill through the rubble-lined streets as fast as my worn out legs could carry me and back to where my memory told me we’d found the bus in the first place.

It was just pulling out as I screamed “Pare! Pare! Por Favor…Me espere!” which I’m not even sure is correct Spanish, but it nevertheless got the bus attendant’s attention. He replaced the rock next to the bus’ wheels as I breathlessly explained that three more people were on their way.

The journey back to Antigua later evolved into a nightmare.  I’ve written already about a exhilarating experience I had on a chicken bus.  This was not exhilaration, it was more like a taste of a cattle train during the war.  In Huehue we tried to transfer to a bus for Antigua and were told it was full and we’d have to take the next one, which happened to the be the last one headed in that direction.

A rather unusual sight: An Albino Indigenous woman

When it arrived, my heart sank as the doors opened to reveal it already packed with not even standing room left.  And yet, the bus workers urged us to wedge our bodies into the swath of sweaty pressed bodies, using all our might to force ourselves into the human sandwich at the rear of the bus.  Francesco took a seat on the roof, only to be yelled at and forced to join us in the solid lung-squeezed crowd.

I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life.  It was impossible to even remove a sweater.  I couldn’t move my arms.  My feet weren’t even pointing in the right direction.  It was unreal.  And in all this craziness, the unthinkable happened:

The bus conductor asked us to make room for him to come through and collect our fares!  WTF?  Can you even imagine?  It was ludicrous, he kept yelling at me to move and I wanted to punch him in the face, only  I couldn’t free a hand.

How long was this going to last?  A few people said that a handful of people might deboard in Los Encuentros, but that it was a little over an hour away.  God.  Could I stand it?  Did I even have a choice?

Just as I was trying to find my inner happy place, someone yelled for the bus to stop so that he could jump off.  The only way he could exit at the rear was if Francesco and I exited with him and then re-climbed into the bus.  Which I did by climbing the ladder and jumping back up on the high platform.

Except that I hit my head doing so.  Hard.

Squeezed like toothpaste standing in the back of the chicken bus

At this point, I could feel myself losing emotional control and I begain sobbing at the pain. Thankfully, Francesco asked someone if they’d give up their ledge of a seat to me as I seemed to be hurt.  I wasn’t sure if sitting in the solid mass was much of an improvement,  but at least I wasn’t relying on the pressed bodies to keep me from falling over as the bus took bends in the road.

After leaving Todos Santos at 1:30pm, we finally arrived in Antigua four buses and eight hours later.  Mustering just enough energy to grab some food, we ate and then passed out in our three-bedded room at Casa Jacaranda.

I was destroyed.  What an adventure we’d had.

To see all the photos from this trek click here.

Where: Nebaj to Todos Santos, Casa Jacaranda in Antigua

When: 19th of March

How: Hike to Todos Santos, Chicken Bus to Huehuequetango, Bus to Xela, transfer to bus to Antigua, transfer at Saint Lucas

Trekking Nebaj To Todos Santos: Day Two

25 Friday Mar 2011

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The Cuchumantes Mountains

Day two was by far my favorite.  As we climbed higher we passed even more villages, and got the opportunity to really observe families washing their clothes, children playing with puppies and baby piglets, men at work in the fields, women carrying water in giant jugs balanced miraculously on their heads, and of course, families asking for photos and then running away when we took them.

Soon enough we were deeper into the mountains and there were fewer settlements.  Climbing over a pass called 24 switchbacks we descended into a green valley that was full of grazing sheep.  Famished, we lunched on tortillas, black beans and scrambled eggs and took a deserved nap.

Women carrying jugs of water on their heads, in indigenous clothes

Upon waking, Nico realized that we were running late for our micro and tried to make us walk an hour’s stretch of trail in forty minutes- which we just weren’t able to do.  Fearing we may have missed the last micro to the next town, we instead hopped aboard a large truck that was transporting wooden logs!  This was an entirely new experience, because not only were you standing and hanging on for dear life over the rough roads, but you were also trying to keep your footing on the logs themselves.

Eventually, we reached our destination: another family home that had a bedroom assigned for visitors.  This accommodation was of a much poorer standard than the previous night and I mentally shivered when I regarded the makeshift plastic roof that we were going to sleep under, a full 3200 meters above sea level that night.

Brrrrr.

After some rather delicious sweet black coffee and bread that tasted more like a cookie, we walked pack-free over to an area called El Mirador where its possible on a clear day to see all the way to the Volcanoes of Lake Atitlan, Xela, and Antigua.  And we were very lucky, because the sky was relatively cloud free, and one had the sense of being on the top shelf of Guatemala looking down on all else below.

Girl tending her sheep

Dinner that night was a reflection of what the family ate, and what they could afford to prepare: cabbage soup and tortillas.  Though relatively tasteless, I ate what I could and then tried to set about making my bed as warm as I could for what was to be a very cold night.

Hitching a ride on the log-carrying truck

The room was quite filthy and I was uncertain as to the last time the sheets had been washed, so I elected to sleep in my clothes.  I wished I had my zero degree sleeping bag with me- the boys had brought theirs.  Even under four woolen blankets, I couldn’t feel my extremities and eventually asked if Francesco wouldn’t mind getting in the bed with me for some needed body warmth.  I started shivering uncontrollably and just couldn’t sleep as I listened to the howling wind outside.  Eventually, I warmed up and fell into a slumber.

Our room that night

This was abruptly disturbed by the sound of shrieking.  A cat had somehow “fallen” through the plastic roofing and landed on Nico’s sleeping face.  Next, it panicked and leapt over to Francesco and proceeded to claw him as it attempted to jump back out of the room through the ceiling.  The whole thing was experienced in half-dream half reality and I had to verify what I’d seen and heard in the morning, but the story was corroborated.

Again, Nico the guide, after we told him what had happened, was happy in his strange and determined state of denial when he responded “No. A cat could never get in here.”

To which I thought: “Seriously?”

Pictures from this trek can be viewed here.

Where: Trek from Nebaj to Todos Santos

When: 18th of March

How: On foot/truck

Trekking Nebaj To Todos Santos: The Real Guatemala

24 Thursday Mar 2011

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Nico, Francesco, Me and our Guide Nico, setting out

After having read this wonderful post by the Globetrotter Girls, I was further intrigued when I discovered the availability of a three day trek through the remote Western Highlands of Guatemala from Nebaj to Todos Santos, staying with local indigenous families along the way to eat and sleep.  After a much needed day of rest in Antigua after  saying farewell to Arnaud, I headed out to Nebaj via three chicken buses and a six hour journey to meet up with Nico, the Swiss traveler Arnaud and I had climbed Volcan San Pedro with.

Schoolchildren both scared and enamored with our cameras

The journey was surprisingly smooth and quite joyful. I met up with another Polish couple on the bus to Chichicastenango and had a lovely conversation with them in a mixture of Polish and Spanish (Spanish because the locals on the bus kept asking us what we were talking about!) before bidding them adieu and continuing north to Sacapulas where I’d have to change buses a second time.  I happily jumped onto a micro, happy because I was offered the front seat as opposed to having to cram in the back.  Funnily enough, the local guys sharing the micro started talking about me in Spanish, not realizing that I could understand what they were saying. They called me a  “gringasita”, which I thought was particularly cute.  After only ten minutes or so of winding up the steep narrow mountain roads, the engine of the micro gave out and the driver kept trying repeatedly to start the ignition, to no avail.

Crap.

Long hours of sitting on the bus had numbed my ass and now I couldn’t get to Nebaj on time to pay for my trip leaving the following morning, and I had no way of getting a message to Nico.  So, we waited on the side of the road.  And waited.

Local woman in her kitchen preparing our first lunch

Finally, another ride came by and picked up the majority of the people, however the last few were literally pushed into the micro to allow the door to shut, like too many socks in a dresser drawer.  I had no desire to spend over an hour like that.

Waiting a while longer, I finally decided to try and hitch a ride.  A pick-up eventually pulled up with four workers already in the flatbed, and I threw my backpack in and climbed aboard.  It was actually a very pleasant alternative to a bus, one was able to see the passing scenery much more easily, and the breeze was refreshing.  On arrival, I thanked my helpers and made my way to El Descanso where Nico and I had arranged to meet.

There was a message for me letting me know that a dorm had been arranged for me at the adjacent hotel, and on arrival I was greeted by a familiar sight: a large backpack that I recognized as belonging to Francesco, an Italian traveler Arnaud and I had met while in Semuc Champey.  I had randomly remembered that Francesco had also been staying in San Pedro, so I had sent Nico a text asking him to please invite Francesco along on the trek in the event that he was able to find him at his hostel.  Amazingly, the two of them had connected and Francesco jumped at the opportunity!  I was so happy- our hiking team of three was complete.

Famished, I ordered a beer and a burrito at El Descanso and chatted to the local owner.  After ten minutes or so, the boys showed up and warm hugs were exchanged.  I was happily surprised to see that both Nico and Francesco spoke fluent Swiss German and already seemed to have bonded.  I could feel that this was going to be a good trip.

Little Local Girl

After a decent night’s sleep on what was no more than a wooden plank of a bunkbed, we headed back to El Descanso to be united with our guide, also named Nico.  At one point, an elderly man dressed rather oddly appeared hanging around the bar entrance, and I commented to Francesco, “Oh, I hope that THAT’s not our guide!”

Turns out, it was.

Nico was a local Mayan Nebaj resident, 64 years old, with the mildest voice that never changed its volume or rhythm for any given situation, so much so that it was akin to mumbling. This made it difficult to understand.  He wore a t-shirt under a polka dotted polo shirt, covered by a multi-colored sweater that was then layered with a heavy denim jacket and really rapper-style baggy jeans.  He never changed this outfit for the next three days, not when it got really hot, and not even when he went to bed.  In addition, he wore a different hat each day.  An odd, yet endearing character.

We took a micro for about an hour to the start of our journey.  Approaching the very first village we encountered for the first time what was to be a continuing theme on this trek: our new-found celebrity status.  School was just getting out, and all of a sudden, we were swarmed by throngs of children who squealed with delight and genuine fear when we took pictures of them.  It was as if they’d never seen a camera or a white person before.  This was to continue over the next few days and was quite a reminder to just how unique and remote this place was.

Our lunch stop was with a local family and we got to watch as the mother, complete in her traditional dress, made us hot drinks made from corn, and grilled fresh tortillas on her wood-burning stove.  The home was extremely basic and I was humbled by their generosity and hospitality.  Our business must have meant a lot to them.

A deserved beer at the end of Day One

All was well until I noticed that my camera was missing.  I distinctly remembered placing it on top of my pack, and since the guide was sitting in the room, I didn’t give much thought to its security.  I knew I hadn’t lost it on the road, and the only explanation was that someone in this Mayan family had taken it.  We asked the guide who muttered that such a thing would be impossible. After further searches proved fruitless, Francesco, bless his heart, requested that the father of the family petition his kids to see if they’d taken it on an impulse. I assured them that it was more about retrieving my memories than it was about the camera itself, and that if they just returned it, I wouldn’t say a word about it to the agency.  No response. I was beginning to lose hope when Francesco insisted on being permitted to search the rest of the house, which he did together with the help of the younger of the two brothers.  The brother found my camera stashed away at the back of a shelf.

I was so relieved to find my camera but I was also dismayed that any sense of security about my belongings, now that I was so far away from tourist-developed areas, was now gone.  What was worse, was that when Francesco asked the other brother if he in fact had done it, the young teenager responded in English saying “fuck you, idiot”, to all of our amazement.

It was time to leave.

Nico showing the kids their pictures

I did wonder what happened to the boy after we left.  Preparing meals year round for travelers was a substantial source of income for this family and the kid had just jeapordized it.

The rest of the day passed without any further incident and we were pleasantly surprised by the high standard of our accommodation when we arrived at our first night’s destination: it was a cabin that could have been in the Swiss Alps.  Very clean, basic, but pretty.  We ate soup with chicken and tortillas for dinner and turned in very early.

Where: Nebaj to Todos Santos, Hotel Melia Sol in Nebaj

When: 16th to 17th of March

How: Chicken Bus from Antigua to Chimeltanango – Sacapulas.  Micro/Pick-up to Nebaj

Lago Atitlan: Laking around San Pedro La Laguna

23 Wednesday Mar 2011

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Arnaud on our bike ride to San Marcos

Lake Atitlan, at 1573 meters/5238 feet, is a volcano fringed high altitude lake that is dotted around its shores with a series of villages that contain largely indigenous populations. Arnaud and I were very fortunate to have great weather on the morning we awoke at Gran Sueno, and we decided to forgoe the extremely expensive guided bike tours (at $55 a person) and just rent a few bikes and make our way along the northern “road” towards San Marcos where we planned to stop for lunch. The bikes were not the most modern, but they worked ok. What was a little cause for concern was hearing a grave warning about the road between San Juan La Laguna and San Marcos. Apparently there was a stretch of this route where tourists can be targeted and robbed by bandits. We were given two options: either get a pick-up to drive us through that section, or, if we saw shady looking characters, we could just ride extra fast to get by them.

Hmmmm…?

The "Las Rocas" Jumping Platform

As it turned out, we didn’t see any shady looking characters, just a bunch of farmworkers and locals walking between towns. Maybe they were bandits, but what exactly do bandits look like? More importantly, however, the road was full of very steep inclines that I struggled to push my bike over, sometimes being forced to jump off and heave my bike uphill on foot. If I were a bandit, I’d pick a nice spot at the top of one of these inclines, and then robbing me would be a piece of cake.

“Ride fast through these sections.” Yeah, right. This person had obviously never ridden a bike to San Marcos.

We made it  without any issues other than being exhausted and a little sunburnt. Dropping our bikes and our daypacks off at a hostel for an hour, we set out in our swim wear to find a spot on the lake where we were told it was possible to jump off the rocks into the lake. It was called “Las Rocas”- and it doesn’t appear in any guidebook. Sure enough, just to the right of the boat jetty, we found several wooden platforms, one of which had a “gate”, that you could open if you dared make the easily 30 feet/10 meter jump into the Lake. Arnaud jumped with no fear; I needed some more time to work up the courage. It was a long way down! After Arnaud made his second leap, he waited in the water below shouting encouragement. Someone said to me: “You can’t look, you just have to do it”.

So I did.

The road to San Marcos

What a rush! Not to mention having to re-assemble my bikini after hitting the water. After buying some yummy empanadas on the street, we elected to continue heading east to the last town accessible by the “road”, Tzununa, and then take the boat back to San Pedro from there. Cycling back to San Pedro was not an option for me, I was spent. The next section was unpaved and made the ride a little more fun and challenging. Plus it was mostly downhill. Score. On the boat back to San Pedro I was pleasantly surprised to meet up with a group of travellers from Poland, and I happily chatted to them in Polish about their trip. It always astounds me just how I always run into another Polish person no matter where I am in the world.

On our second and last day, we elected to climb Volcan San Pedro. We paid 100 quetzals each including entrance to the National Park and a guide. We were told that it was a 3 hour steep ascent, however, that didn’t include the hour it took to walk steeply uphill through San Pedro La Laguna to the park entrance! The climb was primarily in forest and it was unrelentingly steep. After 3 hours since departure, I was seriously feeling pain and hunger (especially since we hadn’t had a substantial breakfast). However, once emerging onto the rocky outcrop at the summit, the pain became all worthwhile as the vista revealed itself. The shining lake and surrounding mountains, thankfully free of clouds. We stayed on the summit until clouds rolled in about twenty minutes later, and completed the knee-jarring descent to the park entrance in two hours. Having adopted another hiker to our group, Nico, from Switzerland, we opted to pay for a tuk tuk directly to the Zoola restaurant to down some seriously needed nosh. After a quick shower, it was time for Arnaud and I to grab a shuttle and head back to Antigua in time for his flight home (sniff sniff) the following morning.

At the summit of Volcan San Pedro, 3020 meters

When: 13th and 14th of March

Where: Hotel Gran Sueno, San Pedro La Laguna and Casa Amarillo in Antigua

How: Shuttle from San Pedro La Laguna to Antigua.

A Shuttle, Three Chicken Buses, A Boat, And One Lost Lunch

18 Friday Mar 2011

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Another great Guatemalan mode of transportation, The Pick-Up

Wanting to cram as much as possible into the short week that Arnaud was traveling with me in Guatemala, we decided to try and get from Lanquin all the way to Panajachel on Lake Atitlan in one day.  It’s a long journey.  Though it was one that made me reconsider my earlier opinions about shuttle buses! They are not necessarily faster or more comfortable than chicken buses.  But more importantly, they are far less entertaining!

I was happy to note that we didn’t even have one cocky ex-pat hostel owner running his errands on our shuttle for the return to Antigua.  There was, however, one extra person on the shuttle already present when the other twelve of us piled in from El Retiro.  This was of no consequence until we reached Coban.  There, we were approached by a hostel owner and was told that the shuttle had been overbooked, and since he had two paying customers waiting to get onboard, would the person who bought their ticket last please own up to it and get off the shuttle?  His question was met with silence at incredulity.  I mean, come one! How is it that person’s fault that their hostel took their cash for a seat when there weren’t enough?

Just when I had visions of having both of my butt cheeks slammed by a fourth person in our already crammed three person row, Francesco, a lovely Italian traveler we met, piped up and set the owner straight: “No, nobody is getting off of this bus.” Surprisingly, the owner relented.

My travel mascot, Quatchi, on the Chicken Bus to Solola

After nearly 2 hours on the road and not having eaten anything since waking at 5am, I am not even the slightest bit guilty to tell you that I have never been happier to stop at a McDonalds as I was when we subsequently pulled into its parking lot.  In Guatemala, the drive-thru is called “McDrive” which I thought hilarious.  The quality of the food is also much higher than back home, and I thought it was apt that they also had “Desayuno Tipico” on the menu!

On our approach to Guatemala City, Francesco suggested that it might shave an hour or two off of several of our journeys if we elected to transfer to Chicken Buses for the rest of the journey to the Lake.  The driver kindly agreed to drop us off in Santa Lucia because it was more “seguro” than Guate for a bus change.  Since my McMuffin was but a distant memory at this point, I decided to run over to the market and grab us some street food, which consisted of corn tortillas, guacamole, pico de gallo, and chicken.  Standing with two backpacks and one purse attached to me, I tried to balance my tortilla sandwich carefully as I took a bite.  Delicious.

Not one minute later, but Francesco’s bus to Chichi pulled up and we all yelled our goodbyes and see you in Pana’s! As the bus pulled away, one of the luggage workers yelled at us for our destination, which we’d already told him three times, and when we replied “Panajachel” – a whole bunch of Guatemalans started yelling for the bus that was pulling away to stop while the worker started yanking at my backpack to throw it up on the roof.  Unfortunately, my purse was wrapped over my mochilla’s straps, so no matter how hard he yanked it wouldn’t come free.  My plated lunch subsequently flew in the air destined to become the best meal a stray dog had eaten in weeks on the street.  Amidst the chaos we managed to get aboard while running alongside the bus and being dragged in by a flapping arm.

Approaching Lake Atitlan on the Bus

Once inside the bus, we relearned the meaning of “packing them in tight”.  Just getting past the conductor required bodily contortion, and then once standing happily in the aisles, we were ordered to sit on one of the people who were seated two to a seat. So the next two hours or so consisted of balancing half of my rear end facing out toward the aisle on the seat, trying to ignore the pain in the other half, listening and smelling the drunk guy next to me who kept swilling corn liquor and talking to me in Mayan, holding onto the seat bars in front of me like my life depended on it while the driver cranked the engine to maximum tearing around sharp bends at such velocity it was more excitement than Space Mountain.

Yes, this was far more entertaining than a shuttle.

As a whole, Guatemalans are a relaxed people and they usually operate on Guatemalan time.  Well, this societal norm was given a strict kibosh on this chicken bus.  It was hilarious the way people would squeeze their way to the front, yelling at the driver that this was his or her stop, and then watch in amazement at how the driver would slam on the brakes, the doors would open, and the person was literally flung from the bus mid-air so that the driver could begin accelerating once again.

After having only had one bite of my lunch I eagerly bought a bag of papaya from one of the many vendors who board the bus for a couple of stops to sell snacks.

The boats of Lake Atitlan

The hurrying bus paid off, and despite having to change buses two more times, we arrived in Panajachel in about 1 ½ hours less than the scheduled shuttle.  Sore asses and blistered hands (from holding on for dear life) aside, I’m committed to mass public transit moving forward!

On arrival in Pana, Arnaud and I walked the streets looking for a hostel.  Upon observing the crowds of backpackers and seeing the souvenir-lined streets, we looked at each other and we both knew that we were heading for the lake to catch a boat to San Pedro instead.

As if our butts had not received enough punishment, the boat across the lake this late in the afternoon proved to be rather choppy, and we had stupidly decided to sit at the front of the boat where we could see all the pretty scenery.  Dumb decision.  The front of the boat lifted clear out of the water and smacked back down taking us with it on a seat-losing agonizing 45 minutes during which the wooden benches continued to whack us in our pained rears.

We were so relieved to fall down on our beds at the lovely Gran Sueno guesthouse that evening, a full twelve hours after leaving Lanquin.

And despite the long journey, turned out the only bad thing that happened was that I dropped my lunch.

 

Where: Gran Sueno Guest House, San Pedro La Laguna

When: March 12

How: see above!

Semuc Champey – Guatamela’s Garden Of Eden?

17 Thursday Mar 2011

Posted by in Guatemala

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At the Mirador, Semuc Champey

Our long and arduous journey to Lanquin turned out to be completely worth it.  Semuc Champey and the surrounding area is simply beautiful and we couldn’t have a had a more invigorating and relaxing time here, staying at the El Retiro Lodge.

The day in Semuc Champey itself started with a visit to the K’anba Caves.  This area is primarily limestone and is a cavers paradise with thousands of unmapped miles of cave to explore: it just so happens that two main caves are open to the public.  This first one is the “wet” cave, so aptly named because you get to crawl, climb, and even swim through them, all the while holding a candle.  How do you swim with a candle?  Very carefully!

In the K'Anba Caves

I loved the experience inside the caves: it was rather unique and reminded me of the caves with glowworms I visited in New Zealand, except there you tubed the entire way through the cave on the water. Swimming through this cave made you feel like a first-time explorer, and the candles created a lovely ambiance such that I didn’t really even use my headlamp, even though I’d brought it.   This kind of excursion would never be permitted back home because some of the access points and narrow footholds meant that one wrong step could result in serious injury.  But this is Guatemala- and there are no liability waivers to sign here…yet.

After the cave splunk, our guide showed us a plant that the Maya used for cloth dye, and proceeded to mark our faces with the bright orange paint.  It certainly made us look strange for the rest of the days pictures.  We crossed the river to the National Park of Semuc Champey, which is essentially an area of pristine mountainous forest where the river cascades through a series of crystal clear and surprisingly warm emerald green pools.  A stiff uphill climb took us first to the Mirador to snap some aerial shots. Later it was an afternoon’s agenda of basking in the sun, diving in the pools, whooshing over rock slides and enjoying the peace of the location.

Arnaud diving into one of the pools

Having said this, it was obvious that tourism at Semuc is growing rapidly: the lodge we were staying at was under construction for an entirely new wing of accommodation , and the “tour” to Lanquin is heavily advertised in Antigua and Lake Atitlan.  I would suggest you come and visit before you are forced to share these pools with busloads of tourists.  Because it just wouldn’t be the same.

The following day we relaxed at the lodge, took a longer tube ride down the river, and then decided to visit the “Dry” caves in Lanquin.   I recommend visiting here in the early evening when you’ll have the opportunity to marvel at the thousands of bats emerging from the cave entrance, flying into the night sky in search for food.  Just make sure they don’t fly into your hair.

Bats emerging from the Lanquin Caves

When: March 9-11

Where: El Retiro Lodge, Lanquin

How: Shuttle bus from Antigua. There are shuttle from El Retiro to Rio Dulce, Lake Atitlan, and Flores.

Photos: You can see more photos from Semuc Champey here.

Ten Stereotypical Things I Love About The French

15 Tuesday Mar 2011

Posted by in France

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Could these guys BE any more French?

1 – They eat cheese with almost every meal.  Not a slice, a giant hunk of cheese. And the smellier the better. Even children; I watched as Arnaud’s 3 year old niece happily munched on a lump the size of her head.

2 – They drink wine with almost every meal.

3 – They accomplish 1. and 2. without getting fat.  How they manage this should be the subject of boundless scientific study so that we may apply their methods in the States. I gained three pounds in six days.

4 – They make a dish called Raclette.  First you have special cheese, and you melt copious slices of the stuff which you then pour all over your “charcuterie” – a vast array of cold meats and hams that represent at least one entire animal per person at the table – and a giant bowl of mashed potatoes.  It’s like eating joy.  And for me, it’s like pouring fat into my thighs.  Because I’m not French (see number 3.)

Raclette. The first of many plates' worth

5- Meals are long drawn out affairs where the whole group/family gets together, eats, laughs, shares stories. It is started by the nearly religious Apéros – Cocktails with nibbles to warm up the stomach. Dinner can easily take two hours to complete, and that’s at home, not in a restaurant.

6 – They don’t believe in queuing.  You could easily lose an eye as some old lady rams her elbow in your face as she barges past you to get on the metro first. In an emergency, the French die from trampling each other in a mass exodus where everyone is for themselves.

7 – The abysmal service in restaurants is actually quite entertaining if you pay attention.  Not caring, and being able to master an indifferent shrug on demand if your patron’s meal arrives cold or very late is part of the waiter’s job requirement.

The Gredin Family, dining together

8 – Kissing.  Not French Kissing per se, though I am grateful they gave the name to that loveliest of pastimes, but the required two to four kisses you give to everyone in the room each time you enter and leave it. The sweet panic you feel each time you forget how many times you’re supposed to do it.  And how a conversation between two people never commences prior to kissing.

9 – Strikes.  The French are very adamant about their right to work only required hours, their right to reimbursed health care, their right to retirement at 62 provided by the state, their right to go on vacation for six weeks every year, and of course, their right to strike if any of these expectations are not met or promised.  I love that.  In the US, we just expect to, well, get nothing.

10 – They’re not afraid to show they don’t like you. Forget the polite veneer of tolerance, you’ll not be left wondering if someone is genuinely interested in you, or is just pretending.