Category Archives: Guatemala

Please, Don’t Be A Pretentious Traveler Part II

03 Tuesday May 2011

Posted by in Guatemala, Opinion Articles

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Border into Panama

No signs at this border crossing

I recently wrote a post about a very pretentious traveler whom I met in Guatemala this past March. Lots of you commented, and it would seem that it was a common experience shared by most of you at some point or another. I wanted to follow that post with this one dedicated to a traveler named Martin, who was the antithesis of Miss Fancy Hula-Hoop Pants, but whom I incidentally met on the same day and at the same hostel.

A group of us were sitting down to dinner. We were having a typical conversation about where everyone had been and stayed. Sitting at the end of the table was an unassuming looking man with brilliant blue eyes freshly dreaded dreadlocks, who was eagerly tucking into his food. During the first 15 minutes of conversation, he didn’t really engage. The conversation turned to Lake Atitlan, as Arnaud and I would be traveling there next and were looking for a good hostel recommendation for Panajachel. A few people interjected their thoughts, and then I turned to the silent guy at the end of the table and asked him whether he had been to the lake, and had any accommodation recommendations?

He mentioned the name of a hostel, but pointed out he had only chosen it because it was extremely economical and was pretty far away from the main action of the downtown area. He did tell us about a great little bar that had great live music. He casually mentioned that he typically camped as he was traveling to save money, as he was on an extended trip.

Up to this point we hadn’t really noticed anything special about this person. He was friendly and trying to be helpful. Pestering him with a couple more generic questions, we discovered that he had just had his bicycle stolen. This wasn’t all that incredible either, until he explained that he had basically been cycling for the last year all the way from Tierra Del Fuego in South America to Guatemala!

This information got me extremely interested. This was a traveler with a unique story, and certainly one that a lot of people would’ve chosen to brag about. However, in a very mild-mannered English accent, Martin began captivating us as an audience as he began to explain how he had actually been traveling for the past eight years, and how his decision to cycle from the southernmost tip of South America to the northernmost tip of North America wasn’t really anything special. He explained that hundreds of guys did this every year, and so he didn’t really think he was that unique anymore.

Well. I’d certainly never met anyone doing this! I was interested!

Aconcagua, 22,841 Feet

Mighty Aconcagua, 22,841 Feet

We were fascinated and started peppering Martin with questions about what it had been like, what tools he had used to get from place to place, how much gear he was carrying with him etc. It turned out that in addition to cycling, Martin was an avid mountaineer and was climbing high altitude peaks along his journey, including the mighty Aconcagua, the tallest mountain in the continent. He was even carrying all of his cold weather gear on his bike; everything except an ice axe and crampons.

Martin was happy to answer our questions, but he never once took any credit for his outstanding achievement, and brave forays onto a truly unbeaten path on the back of a standard road bike. He told us about his bike rides through winter blizzards, his Aconcagua ascent, his malaria and water-borne sicknesses he’d endured because like the locals, he no longer treats his drinking water. One particular story stands out in my mind, and it concerned his crossing the border from Colombia to Panama, overland.

“Well, you see, crossing the border via the dense jungle on a road bike is a bit tricky,” he explained.

“I basically don’t carry any roadmaps, because they are so unreliable in Central. I typically end up following a compass, rudimentary markings in the lonely planet guide, directions from locals along the way, and my gut. I was passing through during the rainy season, when I knew it would be especially difficult to get across by bike. And since it’s considered a rather dodgy area, there are not very many road signs,”

“At one point, I think I’d been biking about two days on one small road I thought was the correct route only to find out later that it looped back to where I had started from. I was gutted as it had been especially physically demanding. Not wanting to be discouraged, I set about on a different route only to find that the rain started coming down so heavily that I had no choice but to pull over, set up my one man tent in the bog, and wait for the weather to clear.”

“After a rather crazed, mosquito-filled sleepless night, I awoke to water inside my tent, and when I peered outside, there was a river flowing where yesterday there had been a road! Some locals had come across my tent in a boat and were just sitting there waiting to see what crazy person had set up a tent in the middle of the jungle so close to the Colombian border. I think these guys were Wounaan Indians, so they didn’t speak a word of Spanish or English. It was rather difficult trying to get them to understand where I needed to go- that I need their help was, believe me, rather obvious! “

Map of No-Man's Land: Border between Panama and Colombia

“Eventually I understood that they wanted $10 for me to get in their boat and be paddled across the border; at least, I hoped that was where they were heading! I remember thinking that $10 was a lot of money because based on my best guess-work; I was no more than a few miles from the border. Turns out, I was in that boat with those two guys for the next 15 hours before safely crossing over into Panama. It was absolutely wild. I can’t begin to tell you how precious and unique that experience was for me. Being paddled to Panama by those guys.”

Martin’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and we sat listening with rapt attention. The writer in me kept asking him, “Have you written any these stories down or blogged about any of them? Seriously?!”

He just kept insisting that he’s an ordinary guy who loves to travel, loves to climb mountains, surf waves, and have adventures. He didn’t think his stories were anything special.

“People who can live in one place. Have a home, a family. Keep a job that they go to every day of the week. They are special. Not me. This is my life”.

I found him inspiring. He was the epitome of cool- because he didn’t consider himself to be.

After my encounter with hula hoop girl earlier on in the day, I can tell you that meeting Martin was a refreshing change. He had experienced so much and been traveling for so long, he even admitted that he looked 10 years older than his mere 29 years. Yet despite this, he was more than happy to discuss where I might like to stay in Panajachel. Only after probing him did he offer up this array of colorful stories of adventures into the wild unknown that most backpackers don’t get to experience.

Funnily enough, I met another traveler in Rio Dulce who had encountered Martin and was likewise struck by his tale and accompanying modesty. It seems Martin is leaving a trail of positive impacts in his interactions as he heads north. I did give Martin my e-mail address, and let him know that he had a place to stay once he got to Seattle sometime next year, but I haven’t heard from him yet.

“So… Where’s next for you? Now that you’re bike-less?” I asked Martin as I left the table.

“Well, turns out that the police in Panajachel found my bike today. Which I really wasn’t expecting. So I’ll just enjoy my bus journey back to the Lake…and then I’ll be on the road again. Maybe find some work for a while to save up some more cash before heading to the States.”

He smiled and hungrily shoveled some more dinner into his mouth, clearly content that he could enjoy some food that wasn’t packaged noodles boiled on his camp stove.

I am curious to know if any of you pretension-hating travelers out there have met Martin? Or at least someone like him that inspired you?

Please, Don’t Be A Pretentious Traveler

28 Thursday Apr 2011

Posted by in Guatemala, Opinion Articles

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Undoubtedly one of the greatest joys of travel is meeting like-minded people along the way.  I would even venture to say that whether one’s recollections of a particular place fills you with warm fuzzies or a sense of indifference has more to do with who you spent time with while there than with the location’s inherent merits.

For instance, I had an incredible experience trekking through Patagonia because our five-person team gelled so cohesively.  I can no longer separate my memories of that trek from the people who I shared it with. Likewise, sad to be parted from my new little group, I was in a bad mood for the following week that I spent in Buenos Aires on my own.

 

My awesome trekking team in Torres Del Paine, Chile

That being said, sometimes the characteristically negative interactions one has with other travelers can be equally memorable.  The loud, disrespectful guy who turns on the lights in a dorm room after coming home from the club at 3am.  The backpacker who complains about spending the equivalent of 30 cents more than the locals, on a purchase at the market.  Or, the pretentious traveler who exudes superiority whenever she opens her mouth.

I met the last example during my stay in Lanquin, Guatemala.  There was an American girl there in her mid to late twenties, admittedly very attractive, who always wore cowboy boots paired with a mini-skirt and rapidly batting eyelashes when she spoke.  She had a rather hairy, pony-tailed English guy traveling with her on a motorcycle, and they struck me as a rather mismatched couple.

George, the English guy (I have somehow blocked her name from memory), explained how they had met up in Nicaragua and how he had invited her to join him traveling the rest of Central America with him on his motorcycle.  He was very down-to-earth as he explained that they were enjoying their slow travel style, and he was obviously completely enamored, with an “I can’t believe she’s with me” look on his face as he talked about her.

I should mention that I was in a typical Mayan stone sauna at this moment, and that George and his travel companion had an audience of about eight others.  The conversation was proceeding as typically as you’d expect in a hostel full of strangers meeting for the first time: Where have you been traveling? How long are you traveling for?  Where are you from? Etc.

Meeting fellow travelers on the hike to San Pedro

I addressed the American girl with the typical latter question.  Despite her strong East Coast American accent, she nonchalantly replied “Oh, I’m a citizen of the world”, while running her fingers through her black wavy hair.

Stifling my desired response of “Is that what you tell immigration authorities when you cross the border?” I replied asking, “Ok. But what part of the States are you from originally?”

“Oh, I was born in Boston.  But I don’t consider myself American anymore.”

“Really?  Why’s that?”

“Well, I haven’t lived there in so long. I’m location independent.”

“I see. So, how long are you traveling for on this trip?”

“Oh. I’m traveling indefinitely.  For example, when I met George I’d just finished six months in the Darien.  I never know where I’m going next. That’s why I’m a citizen of the world”.

This girl had such an air of conceit in her voice that I felt like punching her in the face but instead I just swallowed and smiled.  And then came the punch line, when someone asked her how she liked traveling by motorcycle.

“Oh, it’s so much fun and unpredictable.  We just go wherever we feel like whenever we feel like it. The only difficulty is bringing my hula”.

“Your what?” I ask.

“My hula-hoop.  I hula everyday when I travel.”

No-one likes a know-it-all show off.  Even if you’ve visited over a hundred countries and have been on the road for the last ten years, it doesn’t make you better than anyone else.  It makes you privileged. Travel should enlighten, build confidence and a sense of tolerance and community.   So feel free to share your experiences, your wisdom and your stories with those less ventured,

but do so to encourage, not to impress.

Otherwise you’ll be shunned by others and some blogger will write a nasty post about you when they get home.

From that point on, whenever I would see this girl, I would avoid engaging in conversation.  The next day when I spotted her and George inside the Lanquin Caves, I really wanted to ask her where her hula-hoop was.

Tikal: Making The Most From Your Mayan Ruin

02 Saturday Apr 2011

Posted by in Guatemala

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At the famed Jaguar Pyramid, Grand Plaza, Tikal

I took the bus from Rio Dulce to Flores and opted to make it my base for a visit to the famous Tikal ruins, about an hour and a half away by bus.  I had considered camping at Tikal itself, but felt that Flores offered more in terms of setting for activities before and after Tikal.

Overlooking The Grand Plaza

I am glad I made this choice.  Flores is a delightful little town on an island facing Lake Petén Itza, with cobbled streets and colorful houses that reminded me of a mini-Antigua.  Granted, it is very touristy, but the requisite swim and cool down by the lake in the hot afternoon sun was as memorable as it was needed.

Steep staircases make climbing the Pyramids a little safer

For Tikal itself, I recommend arriving there as early as possible, for a number of reasons:

1-      Seeing the majority of the site before the brutal heat of the afternoon

2-      Escaping the crowds that inevitably arrive on tour buses later in the morning

3-      Getting the chance to see the wildlife that makes the visit to Tikal that much more special. Our guide even “woke  up” the Howler monkeys by imitating their call, and it was amazing to listen to their cacophony in the canopy overhead.

I left Flores at the crack of dawn, after having only slept a few hours due to the noise in my hostel.  Nevertheless I thoroughly enjoyed my tour of Tikal, which was truly made special by a wonderful tour guide named Luis who appeared on Survivor Guatemala.  He had quite the character and really painted a picture when it came to giving us the history of Tikal, “The City of Voices”.

Nearing the top of the ladder

Here are some of the fascinating things I learned about Tikal that stood out and will stay with me:

  • Tikal has no natural water source, such that the Mayans created an elaborate drainage system to collect rainwater amazing when you consider this was once a city of over 100,000 people.
  • Each block of limestone used in Pyramid construction weighed over a hundred pounds, and was carried on the back and foreheads of the lower classes for several days after the river veered away from their destination.  Overland, in the intense heat.
  • The acoustics of Tikal are very impressive.  Standing in precise points before the pyramids, you realize that each structure is designed in such a way that a person’s voice and any music being played are naturally amplified across the complex in such a way that the need for microphones would be obsolete.  In this way, Mayan festivities and celebrations could be enjoyed by all.

Sunset at beautiful Lago Peten Itza

  • The Jaguar complex and each of the pyramids are aligned with the stars in such a way that the sunlight at noon on the spring equinox casts a shadow that points directly to the exact center of the Grand Plaza.  Being there only a few days afterwards, you could see the shadow was already a few degrees off.
  • Tikal is on a precise trajectory with all of the other Mayan sites to the north, south, east, and west, in such a way that you could draw a straight line, once again, through the sun’s path and its shadow from, for example, the top of El Mirador, directly, once again to the center of the Grand Plaza.  The scientific, and astronomical precision that this requires is mind-boggling even in light of today’s technology.

Where: Tikal & Flores: Hostal Las Amigos

When: 25-27 March

How: Local bus from Rio Dulce to Flores/Santa Elena, Tuk tuk to Flores. Private shuttle to Tikal.

How NOT To See Livingston In A Day

01 Friday Apr 2011

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Lillipads over the lovely Rio Dulce

Deciding whether you should stay a night in a place you haven’t seen yet can be difficult.  Especially if you’re short on time and you need to come back to the point of origin anyway to get an onwards bus. I knew I would be experiencing lots of Garifuna culture and cuisine in the Cays of Belize, and the only other attraction I was interested in was the Seven Altars: a series of 7 freshwater pools cascading through the jungle into the ocean.  I decided that the extra 60 quetzales for two one-way tickets might not be worth it.

Turtle sunning itself

I opted instead for the return day-trip which gives you just over three hours to explore Livingston.

The boat ride itself along the Rio Dulce was far more interesting than I had imagined.  We saw abundant bird life, turtles and thousands of lilies decorating the river’s inlets where locals still had their homes built on stilts.  On the approach to Livingston, the river narrowed with 800 foot cliffs covered in lush vegetation stretching up from the river’s edge on either side.  The brisk wind as we sped along on the power boat made the journey very refreshing and enjoyable.

Once in Livingston, knowing these vital facts would have allowed us to actually enjoy the Seven Altars in the limited time that we had:

  • Getting a box lunch the night before and taking it with us.  Even a “quick lunch” took over an hour to serve, eating into our three hour window.
  • Making sure we had enough cash withdrawn from the ATM in Rio Dulce, as the ones in Livingston were not working.
  • Knowing ahead of time that the Seven Altars is privately owned and therefore cost 15 quetzales per person entry fee.  Not having any money after paying for lunch left us with only enough to pay for the taxi ride there and back!
  • It’s a 45 minute walk each way, NOT 20 minutes as we were assured by our taxi driver, from the furthest point out of town that a taxi can take you on the way to the Seven Altars.

Finally at The Seven Altars

Needless to say, we didn’t get to enjoy the Seven Altars very much.  Arriving breathless, with barely 5 minutes left before we had to turn around to make the taxi back in time for the boat, I tried to explain how we didn’t have any money because the ATM’s were broken.  The entry guard did not buy our story and refused us, until we started walking away dejected and he realized we were telling the truth.

We dashed in to see the pools and were sadly denied the chance to dip in the inviting cool water because of time, being left only the chance to snap a few pictures.  Practically running back along the, I hate to say, litter strewn beach path, we arrived about 20 minutes late at the taxi awaiting our return.

Incredulously, the taxi driver was irate with us, berating our tardiness and complaining how long he’d had to wait.  Explaining that it was he who had given us inaccurate information with which to base our time estimate of the walk upon fell on deaf ears.  I was seething silently on the drive back to the boat which we made just in time.

However, getting out of the cab, I really lost it when the driver insisted we pay him more because we had taken 20 minutes longer than we should have.  I couldn’t believe it, and unfortunately my mouth let fly with the best Spanish expletives I could muster to sum up just how I felt about paying more because of his error.  I suggested that he go and take the walk himself and time it, because we would have had to do 7 minute miles, across trash mind you, for it to have taken what he’d said.

Awful litter situation all along the beach in Livingston

With a slam of the door, I was happily back on the boat, resolved to write this post to save future day-trippers from having the same experience.

Where: Rio Dulce to Livingston for the day

When: March 24

How: Boat

Finca Paraiso: The Lesser Known Day Trip From Rio Dulce

31 Thursday Mar 2011

Posted by in Central America, Guatemala

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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

Posted by in Central America, Guatemala

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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

Posted by in Guatemala

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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