Last Day in Guatemala

2 November

I did all of my lasts today.

I took my last warmish shower. I ate my last breakfast at Rainbow, where Julio, my usual waiter, gave me a cappuccino free. I bought my last cookies at Cookies Etc., which by the way are the best cookies in Antigua and only cost Q1.90. I walked through Parque Central for the last time, watching tourists take photos in front of the lactating mermaids on the fountain. The water that streams from the fountain actually comes out of the breasts of the mermaids. I had my last café and pan dulce with my first house mom, Silvia, on Calle Oriente, where I spent my first month in Antigua. Franchesco, her son, showed me all of his gifts for getting superb marks in school. I went to Fuente for the last time, which is this beautiful restaurant set in a courtyard where you can enjoy a liquado, coffee, or a pot of tea and, of course, their terrible service. It’s best just to order from the bar and take it to your own table. I ran to the market and haggled for merchandise for the last time. I love being able to haggle in Spanish, and it has fast become one of my favorite past-times here in Guatemala.

And I said goodbye to my housemates, Rosy, Sarah, Sian, and Sammy. I will miss them terribly. I couldn’t have asked for a more tranquil atmosphere to call home these past three months. Unfortunately, I’m going to miss Elmer and Claudia’s wedding on Monday, November 6. It’s been Rosy’s dream since watching Under the Tuscan Sun to have a beautiful courtyard wedding in her own home. She’s been working for years to transform her fountains and plants into her own little Tuscan villa in Antigua, Guatemala, and on Monday, her dream is coming true.

I took in my last breath of Antigua’s amalgamation of smells and hopped into Susy Alvarez’s car to the airport.
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I should have known better than to have tried to outsmart the airline conglomerate.

For weeks I had watched the price of one way tickets from Guatemala to Florida stay at a steady $623 until finally, after the advice of my cousin Sal, I decided to be clever. I bought a return ticket originating from the US for only $380. The idea was that I would just disregard the first set of tickets to Guatemala and use the tickets that were for the journey back to the United States. It didn’t work.

I got to the airport with my mountain of stuff that I accumulated over four months, waited in line at U.S. Airways for an hour before being told that my ticket was cancelled because I did not use the first flight and did not call them to change my ticket. Instant tears. There was no more room on the flight that day. I tried to talk with another airline to buy another ticket, but for all intents and purposes, my $380 was going to be a nice offering to the U.S. Airways bigwigs. The airline lady gave me a card for the U.S. Airlines reservation office in Zone 10 to see if I could recover any of my money and to book another flight, but I could feel that she just wanted me to go away quietly so she could close her flight on time.

Thank God that the Alverez’s and Susy and Imelda Ortiz were still there, waiting for me to get my boarding pass and then to say goodbye to them. The policy at the Guatemala City Airport is that only passengers are allowed in the building.

I cannot describe how incredible they are. Immediately, they formed a plan. Imelda and the Alverez’s would take my stuff to the Ortiz’s house where I could stay for as long as I needed to, while Susy Ortiz and I would hop on two buses to Zone 10 to talk to the reservation office of U.S. Airlines. I was still crying when my luggage was already being hauled away by the Alverez’s and as Susy and I stood waiting for our first bus.

I learned a lesson this day about generosity, friendship and a giving attitude. I still do not know if I have the capacity to return this kind of kindness.

Susy and I got to the office about an hour later and Maria Elena, the attendant on duty that day, dryly told us that there was nothing I could do except buy another ticket. Yeah, I thought as much. After a quick search for tickets to Charlotte, NC, Maria Elena found a one-way ticket on Saturday for only $325. I was completely shocked. I thought it was going to be $600 or more at this late hour. But then, Susy asked how much that was in quetzales and I gave her a quizzical look. Susy looked back at me and said, “Don’t worry about this. I’m going to pay for it. It’s not that much money. My job pays well.” Instant tears again. Susy started laughing and told me to stop crying because she would take care of it without a problem. It was too much.

I still don’t know how I can accept this or how I can even say the words “thank you.” They seem so empty, so unsatisfying.

What does it take to decide so automatically to pay for a friend’s plane ticket? Or to boil a huge pot of water so that she can bathe in hot water? Or to cook two eggs for a her when everyone else in your family only has one egg? That is the kind of generosity I want to have one day…

Ahh..Atitlan…

Continuing from my notes during my nomadic trek from Flores…

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I spent a grand total of six hours in Guatemala City and Antigua before hopping on another bus to Atitlan with my good friend Susy Ortiz…

Now, please understand, you can take a bus from Guatemala City directly to Panajachel, the main city on the coast of Lake Atitlan, for a mere Q25. That makes your round trip traveling expense about $6. I opted to splurge for this last route with a private transport from Antigua to Atitlan for $8 one way. Ouch… I’m not sure it was worth it, but it was a pleasant ride in a nice, clean minibus.

With each curve of the winding road around the mountain, we could see the gigantic blue lake surrounded by volcanoes and foothills. It was absolutely beautiful.

After the two and a half-hour trip we arrived in Panajachel, the largest town on the lake, and were dropped off at the docks. We quickly learned that the lanchas would be one of our biggest expenses during this small vacation. The lancha driver charged us Q20 each to get to Santa Cruz where we were going to stay for the next two days. It was about to rain and as we took the half-hour trip to our small lakeside town, the waves became more and more violent, and the lancha would smack into the water with startling force. There was steam rising at the base of the volcanoes and the clouds above us were threatening to lay waste to the lake at any minute.

We got to our tiny destination just before the rain, and found our hostel, La Iguana Perdida, directly in front of the docks. In Susy’s words, “Que gringo!” and I would have to agree with her. I’ve found as I traveled around Guatemala that hostels have begun to homogenize and to adhere to a few specific staples. Number one, there must be hammocks and a book exchange corner. Number two, there must be a vegetarian cuisine and a family-style dinner. Number three, there must be opportunities for new age, spiritual growth (e.g. yoga classes, meditation). And number four, it must strive to present itself as the quintessential bohemian relaxation spot. It’s so gringo.

There are a few that follow this code, mainly due to the fact that at some point all of the owners have worked together at one hostel or the other. Amelia bought the Black Cat in Antigua in August, but previously she used to manage Iguana Perdida. Brianna and her fiance opened Earthlodge in the hills of Antigua this past spring. In Semuc Champey/Lanquin, it’s El Retiro. In Tikal, it’s Los Amigos. Rusty, a Cambridge-grad who swore to never work again in his life, will open his hotel in Livingston in just a few short weeks. Everyone knows these names in the hostel circuit: Rusty, Amelia, Dan, Bri, Adam. It’s rather interesting. All provide relatively similar service and come from relatively similar backgrounds: college graduate, quasi-environmentally conscious, and a hostile aversion to the “civilized world.” I assume this aversion would include globalization and homogenization of cultures, which is why I find it so interesting that all of these hostels are so similar. It’s like they’re saying, “Here, American/European/Asian/Israeli traveler, this is what you want and should experience when in Central America. You should come here and enjoy a nice vegetarian meal by candle light, read a book on a hammock for hours and drink tea or happy hour specials for as long as you like. Oh and by the way, we have a tour to the <insert cultural or natural phenomenon> tomorrow at 9am. It’s Q100.”

It’s all too easy to see Guatemala like this anymore. The wonder that draws so many people there (which drew me there) is almost entirely on the surface of what is actually a very boring and common traveling experience if you stick to the Lonely Planet guide/hostel travel route. Perhaps it’s safe. Perhaps it’s fun. Perhaps you meet people from all over the world. But perhaps it’s not really as adventurous as everyone would like to think it is. The entire experience is just handed to the average traveler for him or her to buy. It’s all very lazy if you think about it.

Anyway, here we were, Susy and I, at the Iguana, and she said to me, “Now what?” Hmm. I don’t know. I suppose we should pick up a book, order some tea and read on one of the couches, or at least that’s what I’m assuming we’re supposed to be doing right now. All right, I didn’t say all of that, but I was thinking it. We ended up waiting until the rain calmed down to walk up the hill and see the town. There was a beautiful spot to view most of the lake, where I took a few photos in the morning. At the top of the hill we found a small Mayan town, where the people spoke Qui’che and where their town square was a concrete football pitch. I don’t think many people from the three hostels near the water go up to see the little town because it seemed like everyone simultaneously stopped what they were doing and looked at us. Susy and I were talking in Spanish, commenting about the town and wondering how many people came here, but then Susy raised an interesting point. There might have been people even in this town, even though it was close to Western civilization, that could not speak Spanish. Most of the signs were in Qui’che and as we passed some boys playing outside of their school, they spoke a language I could not recognize.

We bought some Ramen noodles and Tortrix chips at a little store in the town for dinner and passed on the vegetarian meal.

We passed the evening playing Trivial Pursuit with a few of the other pensionistas, and I swept the floor with them.

In the morning we caught a lancha after breakfast to San Pedro (another Q15 each) and our eyes bulged by the site of stuff to do. Now, there may be more than a few people that would say San Pedro is altogether dodgy and that you should just stay out of it, but Susy and I both agreed that San Pedro was the place to be. If you don’t want to just relax and read your book, then I would suggest just staying in San Pedro. Sure it’s a headquarters for drug deals and shady characters, but that only adds to San Pedro’s charm. We found a number of amazing hotels and hostels here that trumped the experience at Iguana Perdida and cost about the same if not less. We even made it a game to find the lowest price for a hostel. We found one for Q5 or about 56 cents, and it seemed like it was worth every penny. The Iguana is fine if you want to relax, but if you want to explore a bigger city, check out hole-in-the-wall places, or just not feel restricted to one tiny section of the lake, then just stay in San Pedro. Besides with the costs of lanchas, the price to stay at the Iguana only skyrockets. Also, if you want to spend just a bit more and enjoy the feeling of slight isolation, then stay at Casa del Mundo which is just a few stops down from the Iguana by lancha. It is absolutely gorgeous.

Straight off of the lancha, swarms of merchants and tour guides overtook us speaking to us in all manner of languages, waiting until something stuck. We waved them off laughing, enjoying the attention we were getting. We spent the remainder of the day exploring the labyrinthine dirt roads and ditches that comprise the gringo part of town, which I found quite interesting. It had enough charm to thoroughly spark my curiosity. I wanted to go to their open mic nights, peruse their book exchange places, eclectic shops, and cafes. They have a truly distinct look that is somewhere between straight-up hippie flowers and peace signs and new age graffiti. I loved it. Just never mind the drugs and other rubbish.

We came upon this one shop called the Backstreet Bakery and were commenting about what it might be like behind the gate. It was closed on Monday, which happened to be the day we decided to go, but all of a sudden the door open. The most delightful, smiling middle-aged woman greeted us. Margarita, who had just opened the bakery/multifarious goods store a few weeks previous to our visit, welcomed us in after overhearing us talking about second hand clothes. She figured she let us in since she wouldn’t have to do any real work for us to look at her second hand clothes. We walked into a small courtyard and garden and found a back room packed with clothes, shoes, and other trinkets. Susy picked out about ten shirts all marked for Q2 and I found on that I like as well, but then I saw a basket full of sandals. I found a pair of leather, lace-up sandals that looked almost brand new. I thought I would just splurge this one time and buy them, figuring they would cost at least Q60, but when we came out to pay for our clothes, Margarita looked at the shirt I had in my hand and said, “Q2,” and then looked at my sandals and said, “Eh, Q2.” I bought these sandals for about 21 cents.

It was quite wonderful.

These were taken in Santa Cruz…

A few more shots of the lake…

Oh yes, San Pedro, that delightful town filled with hippies and tourists…

Lunch at San Pedro… Susy Ortiz and me

I’m not the biggest fan of Panajachel but there was lawn chess at least

Saying Farewell to My Kids

My last day at the colegio came upon me all of a sudden. I was not ready to leave my kids. I was not finished playing games and trying to make sense of English grammar — “Teacher, what means ‘will?’” I wasn’t done trying to come up with new ways to make the kids interested in what I was trying to teach them. We hadn’t spent enough time outside, learning about the way wind works with our homemade pinwheels. We didn’t play Simon Says using our spelling words enough — they loved that. We hadn’t earned enough chocolate and stars. I wanted to stay longer so I could hear them improve, even if it was only correctly saying, “How are you today, Teacher?

Then again, there were times during my three months with Segundo A and B that I thought I was failing as a teacher and was inches away from throwing up my hands and running out of my classroom. At times I would be thrilled at the simple fact that I had everyone’s attention and that they were laughing. I would see them perk up, sit more actively in their desks. Their eyes brightened and I could tell that I had control. But the beautiful, peaceful moment would fade almost as soon as I recognized it had been there, and the usual chaos would return. I would find myself yelling and getting short of breath over little things that kids just do because they are kids. I would lose grip on what I was trying to accomplish for the lesson and end up undertaking a twenty-minute lecture about respect for the teacher. I’ve got to say. I don’t know how much good I actually did…

Then again, it’s strange how much I miss it. I want to go back there. I want to try harder.

• With the ladies of Segundo B
• With the gentlemen of Segundo B
• Luisa and me

• Segundo B!!… notice Julio giving me devil horns…oy Julio Rene : )
• Hey Joshy! Give me a thumb’s up!!
• Jorge, Guillermo, Kevyn, and Robin

• With some of the gentlemen of Segundo A
• Alyssa and Victoria

• Manuel, Guillermo, Robin, Kevyn, and Jorge
• Maria Jose, Valeria, and Andrea
• Paula, Rodrigo, Jose, and Elizabeth

• Game time! Andrea, Ana Laura, Mariana, Julissa, Demmi, and Maria Jose
• More of my amazing students

The wheels on the bus go round and round… The ride home

Two of my best kids, Santiago and Rodrigo

It’s time I talked about the Israelis

I need to take a break from my travelogue and talk more about some of the amazing people I met in Antigua.

One of the most surprising things about my experience in Antigua was noticing how many travelers were from Israel. It was mindboggling. In The Black Cat, our oft-frequented haunt, I would hear, at times, more Hebrew spoken than Spanish or English. I would be bartending and instinctively start speaking Spanish to a customer only to get the response, “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?” But it would come with a heavy accent I couldn’t place at first. Of course I would ask, “Where are you from,” and invariably the answer would be Israel.

I had the pleasure of meeting Itai and Din in late August when Ariel’s and my friend Bart returned from a trip to Quetzaltenango. In his usual spirited way, he told us how he had met these two “really cool” Israelis and that we had to meet them. Thus began my friendship with two of the least likely people I could have ever dreamed of befriending in Antigua, Guatemala. But they added so much to my experience there.

Just like all 18-year olds in Israel, Itai and Din served in the IDF and made life or death decisions during the years when most American college kids were perfecting their beer pong techniques and/or skipping their 11:00 a.m. biology class to sleep in their beds — under sheets that probably haven’t been washed for two months.

Instead of football games and frat parties, Itai and Din were jumping out of planes, weighed down by gear and guns, and landing in the hostile terrain that surrounds and is part of their homeland. Itai would say that their story is not very extraordinary. He would say that it sounds like anyone else’s story from serving in the military in Israel. But to me, that is the extraordinary part. I have no concept of what it is like to live in a land plagued by unquenchable violence, in a situation that seems so hopeless and where no answers seem to be achievable. That is beyond me.

After two years of paratrooping, they entered officers training and tacked on another year to the already 3-year service requirement for all drafted young adults. So during the same amount of time we American kids were busy cramming for calculus exams with a cup of gas station coffee and worrying about the meaning of life during our four years of college, Itai and Din were soldiers, putting their lives on hold to fight a seemingly constant battle.

I don’t think the average 22-year old American kid can understand the weight of that.

We suffer anxiety around February or March of our graduating year plagued by thoughts of how to pay off school loans or by a gnawing fear of inadequacy when entering the tough corporate world. Hardly any of us know what it is like to hold our own lives and the lives of a dozen or more kids our own age in our hands. As officers, Itai and Din made such decisions as whether to direct their snipers to kill a target or simply to shoot a leg or an arm in order to capture the person as a prisoner.

I once asked Itai when we were eating dinner or drinking chocolate shakes at Gaia if he knew Arabic. He told me with his usual ironic smile, “Sure… ‘Get out of the house.’ ‘Put your hands on your head.’ ‘Drop your weapon’…”

After serving four years in the service, Itai and Din went to work saving enough money to travel to Central America. It is customary in many European countries to take a gap year in between high school and university to travel — something I seriously think America should adopt — and it seems the trend extends to Israel as well, but in between military service and university.

I’m failing to present these guys for the fun-loving, sarcastic, and good-natured people they are. Whether it was ATV-ing, listening to the hippest music from Israel (like Idan Raichel, Din Din Aviv, and Ivri Lider), attempting to salsa dance (hehe), making fun of Din’s thick accent that almost sounded Italian, or simply telling jokes with the help of a few tequila shots (and there is nothing funnier than a Jew telling Holocaust jokes), we always had fun and ended the night laughing like little kids…

I was actually planning to visit Israel and travel a bit for three weeks, staying with Itai’s family in Even-Yehuda, which is right outside of Netanya, but my plans were unfortunately thwarted. I forgot to mention that Israelis are required to serve 40 days every year until they are 45 years old… Itai got a call from the IDF reserve office calling him back to the army for a 25-day stint, right during the time I was planning to visit. Pesky war.

Oh yes, adventures on an ATV…

Random dinner pictures…

Salsa night at Riki’s .. Itai, me, Johnny, Ayi, Bart, Ana, and Nathan

 
Getting a smooch from Bart… The look of shock and fear in my eyes post-smooch.. at Gaia (of course)

Casey’s amazing dinner at Ariel’s… Itai and his second plate of food.. A gift from Itai

The next pictures are from Itai and Din’s travels through Mexico, Guatemala, and Costa Rica

- Caroline, Din, and Itai dipping apples in honey during Rosh Hashanah

- Bart, Itai, and Din at Tikal

Random joke from the Tikal trip: “So what if these ruins are 2000 years old. Go to Israel and you’ll see 2-day old ruins!”

Before the rafting trip… Itai brooding over his soda… look closely at the tree

Jimmy, Itai’s dog

Itai, back in the army days… with his family at Pesach (Passover)

Itai tells me what I can do with my video taping…

Basically, he’s saying, “I can’t believe you’re making a video of me. Why are you doing this?” .. or something like that in Hebrew.

El Peten

Directly from my journal…

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28/10/2006

“Adios Elizabeth!” Luisito screamed, running and waving his hand goodbye as my bus left the Santa Elena bus station…

If you don’t mind the smell of dirty and old, I can recommend the bus company Fuente del Norte. The seats go back pretty far and it feels relatively safe. Just try not to use the bathroom at the bus stations. I’m still trying to convince myself that I wasn’t standing in other people’s urine in the stall.

We’re getting close to the capital now. It’s about 5:45 am and dawn is breaking. There is a little baby looking up at me with his huge brown eyes as he plays with the edge of my paper.

The bus was mostly empty until about 2:00 am when about thirty people boarded. A Maya de Oro bus pulled up in its plush, red luxuriousness. Hrmm… Their driver wears a dress shirt and tie; mine only wears a polo shirt.

At any rate, I must get around to writing about El Peten.

I love El Peten. After miles and miles of windy hills taken at breakneck speed, Chris and I suddenly hit flat land and straight road. The heat struck me first — a clingy, damp kind of heat that soaked my A&W t-shirt within minutes. I would grow to love cold showers during this trip.

After saying my goodbyes to Chris after the shuttle dropped him off at the Los Amigos hostel in Flores, I got off of the bus at the Santa Elena bus station to wait for Hugo Juarez to pick me up.

Flores, or Tayasal as they originally called it, is a tiny island that rests on the lake Peten Itza` and instantly reminded me of a coastal town on the Mediterranean. The absolutely huge, turquoise lake is calm, and lanchas (tiny boat taxis — Guatemala’s version of gondolas) carry you from one lakeside town to the other. The Flores church sits upon a hill in the center as pink, white, yellow, and blue buildings surround it. The streets are narrow and made of cobblestone — oh , and it’s overrun by tourists.

I was in San Benito, which is the town right next to Santa Elena on the coast of the lake, at the home of Hugo and Cony Juarez Ramirez and their awesome eight-year old nephew Luis. He and I had a nightly ritual of coloring profusely in his many coloring books. It was like coming into the home of family members. The church here is an extremely tight-knit group of seventy people — mostly families and young adults. Gamaliel, my old friend from camp two years ago and a deacon in Las Cruces in Peten, arranged for me to stay with them. Just like that, I had a place to stay.

After lunch, my friend Isai, who also lives in San Benito, and I went on a walking tour of Flores. We went first to Central Park — basically a basketball court next to the white, Byzantine-esque church, and a Sarita ice cream stand, but it also offers a beautiful view of the lake and San Miguel across the lake. We took a lancha afterwards to see it. Isai could be a tour guide if he could just learn some English I think. He’s doing all right for himself nevertheless. He just graduated from university and works now as an electromechanic.

The next morning Gamaliel pulled up at 8:00 am with his wife, his two beautiful little girls, Melany and Lesly, as well as Julio and Rut who also are from Las Cruces. After picking up Isai we were off to explore some Mayan temples in Tikal.

I’ve got to say, it’s tough to be a gringa sometimes. It doesn’t matter if you can speak Spanish or if you’ve been here for a number of months, you’re still going to pay 3 times as much. So here I was, as pale as the sun is bright, standing next to seven very rich-colored Guatemalans. There was no way I could pull off being chapina. Bam — Q15 for each of the Guatemalans and Q50 for the americana. No matter, we were in Tikal.

The path may have been mostly clear and maintained, but we were still in a jungle. Spider monkeys every once in a while jumped from branch to branch, chasing each other in the canopy of leaves above us. Melany and Lelsy were going nuts.

At one point I thought Isai was pointing to a unique looking tree or another monkey that I couldn’t see, but I finally looked passed the foreground and saw the top of a giant Mayan temple peeking through the trees. My jaw dropped. We continued walking until we got to the Gran Plaza — the center of Tikal.

Two temples face each other with deteriorated steps leading to the top. On both sides are more ruins where you can see houses, beds made from rocks, and faces of Mayan gods carved into the stone.

We ate lunch in between the temples as if we were enjoying a nice Sunday picnic in the town park. Tour guides led their groups from one point to the next as we laid back and relaxed on the grass. Temple I has been left pretty pristine and no one is allowed to ascend the stairs due to a few cases of people tumbling to their deaths. However, Temple II, which faces it has a wooden staircase that modern day tourism has made available to the paying customer. Gama’s wife stayed behind with our bags and tons of food as the rest of us climbed the stairs to the top.

Standing on the top of the temple, one can imagine the Mayan king letting his voice fall upon the thousands of citizens gathered below. Little Melany merely squeaked, “hola,” to her mom sitting on the ground below and was heard.

We spent the rest of the day touring and climbing the rest of the temples.

I remember taking one look at the temple called El Mundo Perdido (The Lost World) and thought there was absolutely no way. There were people slowly climbing the actual, deterioriating steps of the temple to its flat summit — but how many steps where there? There had to be hundreds…

I had to rest first to psyche myself up, but then Isai, Rut, and I finally started to climb and to count. I’m proud to say I know exactly how many steps lead up to the top — but I would hate to spoil the surprise. You’ll have to count them yourselves.

The next day, Isai picked me up early to tour more of the lake and the little towns around it. We toured Petencito (Little Peten), a small island zoo where spider monkeys run free and stick their arms out of their cages to let you feel their hands — surprisingly soft. Again I was charged double for my lancha ride.

Then we were off to a mirador to view most of the lake from a tall platform built in a tree. More and more steps…

At this point, it was getting to be midday and the heat was torturous. Isai and I learned that it was going to cost us about Q100 to get to our next destination — San Jose — by lancha, so we decided to take a thirty minute minibus around the lake instead, which only cost about Q7. I can just be grateful that I was right next to a window.

The heat was unbearable and the ayundante kept cramming more and more people inside. We must have been carrying at least twenty people inside of the fifteen-passenger van. The little kid sitting in front of me on what basically was the floor kept nodding off to sleep and hitting my knees with his head. It was crazy.

Yet, when we finally got to San Jose, I could have believed we stepped off of a bus at Cinque Terre on the west coast of Italy — but cleaner. The shallow parts of the lake shone green in the sun and slowly deepened to a dark blue toward the center of the lake. The lakeside parks were whitewashed and had colorful concrete soccer courts set up for pick-up games.

We had my favorite chapin meal for lunch — beans, avocado, tortillas, and oranges — before, at long last, diving into the beautiful, refreshing lake.

We must have stayed there for three hours skipping stones, swimming around, and just floating in the water. Isai is a long-distance swimmer and specializes in the breaststroke, or pecho. He has swum across the lake and from island to island in competitions. It was pretty cool. I had my first swimming lesson right there in El Lago de Peten Itza`.

Cony Luis and Hugo

By the lake… with the young adults from the San Benito congregation.

Isai’s adorable little nephew

At Petencito

At Tikal…

- Julio, Rut, and Isai in the back of Gamaliel’s truk on our way to Tikal

- On the trail to the temples

- Melany and Lesly and a whole bunch of ketchup

Huge tree we found off the trail

- The first temple peeking through the trees

- Temple I

- El Mundo Perdido

- The view from the top of El Mundo Perdido

- Views from the temples

Flores and Lago de Peten Itza` views

Guatemala’s poorly kept secret

How to sum up three/four days of intensive traveling…

I don’t see why people don’t do this more often. What are they afraid of? Save some money and go see the world. Just do it. Forget all of those people who come up with a million and one dangers (which often times are unfounded), warnings about bad experiences, and high costs. Embrace being uncomfortable, soaking in a pool of sweat because there is no air conditioning in the 90+ degree heat, freezing under the spray of cold water shooting out of a pipe that serves as a shower, smelling your own body after wearing the same clothes for a week and a half, trembling for fear that you will feel the dreaded disorientation when your bus arrives in a new town.

It’s amazing — all of it.

My favorite phrase that I have learned during these four months is “vale la pena.” It’s worth the pain. Do it… it is worth the pain. Settle your small debts, save enough money to cover monthly payments, hock all your unnecessary crap, and walk our your door with a backpack on your back. Vale la pena.

Okay, I’ll step off of my soapbox now.

I arrived in Coban at about 11:00 am after being on the raod since 6:15 and after desperately trying to map out a route to Flores from Coban. A word to the wise — Do NOT (repeat DO NOT) use a guide book that is five years old when you travel. At the time of its print, my Belize, Yucatan, Guatemala Lonely Planet commented that there was absolutely no direct route to Flores from Coban and that the journey would take me east to Fray Bartolome de las Casas (a no name town) to Poptun and then to Flores, which would be a two day journey all said and done. I found out later that there is a shuttle besides the buses that run regularly that makes the journey to Flores in only five and a half hours. Good to know.

This slighly important piece of information allowed me to stay an extra night in Semuc Champey, and oh, valio’ la pena.

I’m quite undecided about how much I want to talk about Semuc. It’s one of those places that I think the whole world should see, but that very occurrence would absolutely ruin how beautiful and remote it is, which make it so wonderous to begin with.

I met up with three guys who had similar plans as me from my hostel, El Retiro in Lanquin, which I recommend highly. That’s another thing some people do not understand. Even when you travel alone, you are never really alone. There are always other travelers who have similar fascinations and travel goals, and you connect on the road and see a piece of the world for a brief moment together. You learn to open up more and connect with humanity again, and realize that people aren’t that scary after all. In fact, they’re quite similar to you.

Anyhow, Tim and Chris from Holland, Mark from England, and I hit the road to Semuc from Lanquin — a mere 10 kilometer jaunt on a steep dirt road — on a non-tour day at 9:00 am. It should only cost Q30, which is around $3.60 for the trip to and from Semuc.

As soon as you arrive, you realize you’ve entered some kind of hidden Mayan paradise. There weren’t many people, which may have to do with it being a non-tour day during the off-season because its various signs give it a feel of a national reserve or state park. In about two years, I think it will be on the list of most tourists who travel to Guatemala — Antigua, Tikal, Atitlan, Chichicastenango, Monterrico, Rio Dulce, and Semuc Champey. It’s just that not everyone knows about it yet, but give it time. This saddens me. I would rather be selfish and keep it all to myself to preserve its secret beauty.

But I’ve got to share.

The boys and I first explored the caves next to Semuc with our guide Pauricio, a 5’0, 22-year old Mayan with a huge smile and an easy laugh. Before jumping into the pool of cold water, which would serve as our touring path through the caves — yes, we swam — Pauricio gave us all candles to light our way. What an incredible way to explore! One hand desperately lifts a lit candle flickering in the moist air as the other hand propels you forward in the water. We stopped every so often to look at some specific stalactites or calcified rocks or to relight a candle. It was like nothing I could have imagined. We climbed up rocks, wooden ladders, and ropes to see different alcoves and waterfalls inside the cave.

At one point Pauricio told us that because we came on a non-tour day that his boss, Carlos, didn’t want us to go past the main waterfall, which we passed underneath. I asked him how much time it would take to see the rest of the things, to which he replied 15-20 minutes. I lifted my shoulders and asked, “Let’s just go. Why not?” Pauricio at this point was growing to like us during our tour, I think, because he gave in and told us not to mention this to his boss.

We climbed up and around the gushing waterfall to a different alcove where we found a big pool and a rock face. Pauricio asked me, “Quieres saltar? Me voy primero.” Do I want to jump? What was he talking about. All of a sudden like a spider monkey, he started scaling the rock wall until he reached the top and told us to watch where he went. And then, he jumped into the pool of green water below. My mouth dropped and I looked at Chris in disbelief. Tim was already on his way with a huge grin on his face — Tim was the daredevil of the group and would later make a cliff jump that had to be more than 30 meters. I followed Tim up the rocks, crouching at the top because there was not enough space to stand. I couldn’t see anything behind me, only the tiny candles surrounding the pool of water with a glow of light. Pauricio, then, directed his flashlight at the exact spot where I needed to land. There was no way I could climb back down. I could only jump. Agh — what a rush! Sure I’ve jumped off cliffs before but never in a cave in a space that demanded a decent amount of accuracy or else I wouldhave either hit my head on the rocks above or broken a leg on the rocks in front and below me. It was amazing.

After that we rappelled down the waterfall to the first level again and then slid down a dark hole through which a cascade of water was rushing. I can’t believe we did that. It was completely dark, and there was no way of knowing how much space was on the other side or if there would be enough space to breath. I was actually all set to say no and go the other way until Tim slid through the hole after Pauricio put a candle somewhere on the other side. It was just Mark, Chris and I after that. So I slid slowly toward the hole, bracing myself against the current by pressing my hands and feet on whatever rock I could find, and then like a waterslide, I slipped through the hole. I found myself in an little pocket of air, staring into the smiling face of Pauricio who told me “once more.” So I held my breath again and slid. there we were Tim, Pau, and I in another alcove with plenty of air and enough light to see the stalactites above us. Poor Chris, he was the last of us. He had to remove his glasses, carry all of the candles, and have no idea what was waiting for him on the other side. But he looked back and saw nothing in the pitch black darkness, so he too slid down the hole.

So amazing… and these were just the caves.

We left Pauricio after taking a photo with him and saying goodbye and then crossed the bridge to the actual Semuc site.

You know you’re a tourist when the sign clearly staes: Extranjeros Q35, Guatemalans Q10. But…vale la pena. We got into the Semuc Champey park at about 11:30 and found it still pretty deserted. We had about three hours before our shuttle would pick us up to explore Semuc.

There is a narrow but well-kept path along the river and to a stunning set of waterfalls. Across the stream, some of the local kids splashed in the blue-green water. We kept going until we found Semuc’s terribly kept secret, a score of crystal clear pools of water in a natural limestone bridge. We stashed our bags in between the roots of a huge tree and jumped in.

There is only one sound to describe this moment. It’s the same one you make when you wake up in the middle of the night because you have this terrible thirst in the midst of a stuffy, humid night. You make your way to the kitchen and pour yourself a big glass of cold water and drink it in a series of big gulps all at once. The sound you make after that glass of water is the same one you make after jumping into the Semuc pools.

I long to return. We spent the next few hours contemplating different places to cliff jump, (Tim actually jumped from a tree branch that was hanging over the water), climbing up tiny waterfalls to the high levels of pools, and just lying with oiur faces in the sun and our bodies hanging limp in the water. Further up the natural bridge we found Las Posas, a tunnel through which the majority of the water that runs down the mountains flow. It roars with force and volume.

Then we hiked up the hill to the Mirador to get an aerial view of the pools, the waterfall, and the river. What was so amazing was that there were workers still building guard rails and staircases to help people make the somewhat arduous climb. We didn’t have them to help us, and that was cool. We sat at the top on a kind of scaffolding, eating the cookies that Chris brought and trying to soak in the view.

How difficult it is to retain every detail you so desperately try to hold onto!

We later rented some inner tubes for Q15 and floated down the river to our hostel in the midst of an afternoon rain shower. The cold rain created this cloud of mist that lingered just above the ground in the forests around us and the mountains behind us. The sky was blue and clear in front of us.

Afterwards, we left the hostel — though it provides delicious vegetarian cuisine — to a restaurant in Lanquin called Cafeteria Lanquin for some schnitzel. That’s right, schnitzel. The whole region in and around Coban was at one point a center for German coffee growers, so amidst the signs in Qui’che — the Mayan language of the region — and the traditional decor and dress of the indigenous are faint reminders of German architecture. Many of the locals even have blue or green eyes and light colored hair.

In the morning, we parted ways as Mark and Tim headed to Rio Dulce and as Chris and I took the next shuttle to Flores in El Peten (Q75, but you can take a regular bus for around Q35). It was rather sad, Tim and Chris were parting ways after five weeks of traveling together. It’s amazing how quickly people bond in such situations. Tim goes on to travel throughout Central America, hopefully getting his diving license and jumping off more cliffs during the next year. Mark has a little while to go yet until returning to London and making good use of his psychology degree. Chris will continue hopefully to Belize before leaving in the beginning part of December to New York, unless he scores an internship with a financial firm in South America…
The view from the Mariposa Dorm at El Retiro
Giant Jenga!

Tim Chris and Mark

Tim and me at Cafeteria Lanquin

Eeek! Short shorts!



These were taken from the mirador.

If you look closely, you can see Tim in the trees about to jump

The Semuc Pools


Tim Chris and Mark

The copse of trees by the river

Asuncion Mita

20.10.2006
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I’m crammed in a bus to Jutiapa, Guatemala, sharing a seat with Susy Ortiz and Ana Mirian. Lucky sits on a banquito (basically a little bench). You’ve got to love Guatemalan buses. We just watched that Jean-Claude Van Damme Hard Target.

There is no air. There is only the slightly sweet smell of cinnamon-flavored gum mixed with sweat, Tortrix chips, and Pepsi.

How strange to think I have less than two weeks left in thsi beautiful country. I’m so sad to leave it. I really don’t want to.
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We’ve arrived in Jutiapa where we finally have our own seats. The bus unloaded like a balloon losing air, and at least we can breathe. I smell meat cooking on the grills outside on the street.

Jutiapa reminds me of Xela but it is ten times hotter. Sweat is streaming down my back and my hair clings to my neck.
==================================

Ansuncion Mita was such a welcomed break from Antigua’s fast pace of life and the general and contant preoccupation of danger in Guate. Mita is just a small town where people leave their doors open because of the insane heat and say “Buenos Días” to passersby.

We stayed with Ana’s uncle Milovan and his wife Mary in their four-story house, which is currently still under construction. It stansd behind Milovan’s private medical practice.

What a family! Their children Milovan (Milito) and Lesmary were two of the happiest kids I have ever known, wreaking havoc all over their house, having water fights with their towy dinosaurs and climbing all over just like jungle gyms. They’re simply beautiful.

Milito, only 8, has a deep love and passion for the care of animals and plants. He sat diligently ever day in his mini-lounge chair, bottle feeding the eight new pups taht their dog Pookie just birthed. Lesmary is a tough little girl. she falls down, she bumps into a sharp point on the wall and it doesn’t phase her.

Susy, Milo and I were playing Tag and as I was hiding behind wall, I could tell that Susy and Milo were on the other side. Lesmary came, galloping down the stair, saw me as I put a finger to my lips to signal silence, and smiled. Then she looked over to where Milo and Susy were waiting and simply turned up her bottom lip and shrugged, “I don’t know.” She’s only four-years old.

We visited the Avilas — Eleodoro, Linda, Herbert, and Esly — at the Palacio as Susy calls it. It is gigantic and I don’t think there are any doors save for those on the bathroom. It’s that hot there.

We woke up early on Sunday and went to the community pool. It was basically just part of a lake that was blocked off by concrete walls and normal pool decor. One end had a huge concrete staircaseleading to the water, yet the bottom was made of mossy rocks. Fish nibbled at our legs.

           

Pictures from the Feast of Tabernacles

The feast was superb. I just wish my family was there for the week. Thankfully Kathleen flew down to keep my company.

Mi Serenita

It’s now been about a month since Ariel left Antigua. I can’t believe how long it has been especially considering that we’ve only been friends for about three months now — feels more like three years.

Writing that I miss Ariel would be a terrible understatement. Antigua hasn’t been the same since she left. I actually go to bed at 10:00 PM. I sit at the table in my house after school wondering what on earth can occupy my time now. I go to Rainbow Cafe with a book and clap by myself as I listen to Sol Latino or those two guys who always play “Pink Panther” — aaahh, love those guys. As I eat guacamole and chips with a glass of white wine, I smile and wave at Mario, the new owner of Rainbow, who, by the way Ariel, has shaved his head. I go visit the Black Cat by myself to bogart their wireless and say hi to Bart.

I think what ultimately happened when Ariel left was that I realized how limited my time was here in Antigua and in Guatemala in general. I sit here in my little room listening to Tiziano Ferro “Stop! Dimentica” — check him out, he’s quite dramatic even for an Italian — and also trying to drown out the little dinner party that my house family is having right outside of my room. [Not that I don't enjoy the company; I just kind of want to write at the moment. ] My mochila rests against the wall in front of me filled half way with a pile of clothes and shoes. My journal, books, and travel guide lie next to it, awaiting any final items to go into the backpack before I put them on top. I leave in one day to go on my final excursion around Guatemala, and it is giving me such mixed emotion.

My journey will first take me to Jutiapa and possibly El Salvador where I can visit some friends from church for the weekend. Then, after I return to Antigua I’m off on a bus to Lanquin and Semuc Champey to see the once unknown paradise in the northeast. From Semuc, I’ll travel to El Peten and most importantly to Tikal to see the Mayan pyramids with Isai. After Peten, I’ll come back to Antigua before heading off to Panajachel and Lago de Atitlan with my friend Susy. When I return to Antigua, I’ll have only one and a half more days to pack and have a bit of a going away party before flying home.

Flying home. What strange words to be writing!

Yet at any rate, I’ve been wallowing in my mixed emotion for long enough. This post is supposed to be about Ariel.

When I first met Ariel, I never though we would be friends. It’s true. She was such a name dropper! All right, that’s unfair to write because it is an inside joke. Nevertheless…

Our circles of friends from Ixchel Spanish school one day just happened to join together during a Ladies’ Night at Mono Loco when Tom from England decided that we would have an English Night and got all of us English jerseys. We had Dutch people, Australians, Germans, Americans, and actual English all gathered around in white and red shirts, chatting, singing, playing “Never Have I Ever” and just enjoying the sheer tomfoolery of it all. Somehow in conversation Ariel and I found out that we were the only ones staying in Antigua for a long term.

Great. I didn’t know this girl, and I sure as heck didn’t know if we would be friends. In truth I didn’t think I would see her the rest of the time I was here save for a few chance meetings on the street. I love how wrong I can be.

Over the next couple of months, I gained a sister.

Together we caused more trouble, had more fun, and talked about more things than I have done with some people I have known for years.

I have a theory that Antigua draws a certain type of person. I can’t say it is a perfect theory because there are obviously exceptions. There are the stuffy, snobby, and generally rude yuppie retirees (see pictures below). There are the creepy American guys that are searching for a new start in Guatemala — or so we gathered. But then there are the generally laid back yet somehow motivated twenty-somethings that come from all around the world in search of adventure, of volunteer opportunities to help change the world, and of following their sense of wonder for new cultures and experiences. Antigua is incredible in that sense because this place is brimming with people who hunger for life and thirst for new adventures. It’s hard not to get along with everyone around you that is like that.

Ariel was here for almost four months for an internship with a non-profit group called Alas/Wings. Alas attempts to educate mainly Mayan woman in family planning in order to thwart the endemic tendency for many woman to have an excess of children. Ariel met some women in their 50′s who had 16, 17, even 20 children because they lacked any kind of family planning or contraception. This creates a great burden on women especially, not only for their bodies but also due to the amount of work it takes to provide for the children. Most live in poverty. So Ariel basically interviewed and spoke with priests in the outskirts of Antigua to encourage them to introduce family planning to their congregation and to let Alas representatives educate the women. I’m including some photographs from her work .

I don’t even know how I can fit two months of adventures with Ariel in this little post. I don’t think i want to try. Let the pictures explain.

At some point, Ariel and I are hopefully going to return to pursue our one thousand awesome ideas for Antigua businesses, such as publishing a really good travel guide for bohemian tourists to rival the yuppie Revue and opening up a great bookstore/cafe with free internet…

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This was at the opening of La Pena de Sol Latino wearing Jan’s glasses.
I never knew rich, old people could be so mean. This was at a benefit concert for Alas in which Ariel and I collected the Q75 donation/entrance fee. “Yes, but she’s still just as much of a person.” At least we had Clos wine in a box.

Random photographs.

Pictures from Ariel’s work in Mayan communities

Thought I should update…

How do I sum up a month’s worth of adventures, mischief, and injuries…

I suddenly find myself alone now that all of my closest friends and travel companions have either moved on to different countries or have returned to their own. It’s an odd feeling, having time for oneself. I’m almost not certain how I can fill my hours after teaching my inspiring future Che Guevaras at the colegio. I come home and make myself a “pura chapina” breakfast/lunch — eggs, black beans, tortillas, perhaps some plantains — before deciding if I will check my mail at Funky Monkey where I know the connection is good and where it’s cheap or if I will go to Bagel Barn and get a cup of tea while I bogart their Wi-Fi connection. It’s usually the latter. In fact, that’s where I’m at right this moment.

It’s close to 7:00 pm and the place is empty because most of the foreigners are eating dinner or walking in the town square. I’m blasting Idan Raichel Project and Ivri Lider in my ears to drown out the reggaeton streaming from the cafe’s speakers. If I’m going to be honest, I really hate reggaeton. Each song has the same drum machine beat, the same one-note rapping style (which I think is some music form of water torture), and, ugh, I can go on.

At any rate, I recommend “Rompe” by Daddy Yankee for anyone who is interested in having a tast of the phenomenon that is reggaeton.

So, yes, alone.

Like I said at the beginning of this blog, this will most likely be a story that relies on characters rather than the adventurous plot. So I suppose I will have to pick up the story with the people I have since met and of whom I have become incredibly found. I’ll try to dedicate a post to all of them over the next few days. For now I will tell a tiny story, the most adventurous one I have had all month, in which I was nearly disfigured by a freak yoga accident. You read it right.

I decided to take a Saturday night off one weekend. I had thought to myself, “Self, you have been working for one whole month straight without a break to enjoy the nature and world around you, not to mention to spend some time with your friends.” Yeah! A Saturday night all to myself. How fun will that be!

The night was soon prepared. I spoke to Gato to cover my shift at Mono Loco, persuading him with a promise of phenomenal tips, which he was sure to get on a Saturday night. The date and place was already chosen. Ariel had been going to Earthlodge nearly every weekend for a month and her boyfriend, Casey, and friend, Ben, would be in Antigua visiting during this particular weekend.

It was all set. I could enjoy a beautiful weekend at the scenic avacado farm in the northern hills of Antigua, stuffing myself full of gourmet vegetarian food and reading by the light of candles at night.

We arrived at around 8:30, and decended the steep path to the lodge from the road in the dark. That was fun. Adi, the Israeli guy who works there, would every so often say something like, “Hey watch, there’s a big hole right here or hey this rock right here is kind slippery, oh and don’t step too far to the left that’s the cliff.” The adventure had begun.

Dinner had already started but Brianna, who owns Earthlodge with her fiancee, had saved our dinners for us. Oh and what a dinner it was. I would recommend going to Earthlodge solely to try the dinner that Brianna, Adi, and everyone else who works at Earthlodge makes. And then, Adi, the fun-loving guy that he is, broke out the Flor de Cana Rum.

It is a well known fact that I like to do yoga when I drink alcohol. It does not matter how much, in fact, just enough to make me think, “Yeah, I really want to do a headstand right now.” This is usually about after two and a half drinks. So it came to that point in the night in a conversation I was having with Casey, who also studies yoga, about waking up early to have a yoga session, that I decided to do some yoga.

I’m not sure what possessed me, but the pose I chose on this particular evening is called crow. It’s a mildly difficult posture that requires a bit of concentration, balence, and strong arms. So placing my hands on the ground, bending my elbows, I put my knees on top of my elbows and commenced balencing only on my hands. I could not have been in the posture more than five seconds, when that fun-loving Israeli, Adi, decided that he would make everyone laugh by pushing me over with his foot.

I fell flat on my face on rock-hard concrete. I don’t remember much except for sharp pain on my forehead and my nose. I was sure I broke it, but Jon, the tattoo artist and all around lovable guy, told me it was just bruised as he put ice all over my face.

I woke up the next morning without pain but a huge scab stretching across my forehead. My nose was huge. The first words I heard was Marlene saying to me, “What happened to your face!” Thanks, Marlene. Leave it to a Dane to be brutally honest.

At any rate, the rest of the day was quite relaxing and I hardly talked to Adi. I’m sure he’s a great fellow, but I just can’t seem to think of him fondly.
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Notice the huge gash on my forehead and the bruise on my almost broken nose.