La Laguna Chicabal

The Laguna Chicabal is a crater lake that fills the remnants of a volcano in the small rural village of San Martin. The lake is considered sacred by the Mayans, so much so that visitors are forbidden to touch its water and are strongly discouraged from visiting during the worship ceremonies in May. The lake itself, being at such a high elevation, is often blanketed by clouds filling the volcanic crater and the town is a forty minute microbus ride from the city center. Nevertheless, the Laguna Chicabal is on many Xela-bound tourists’ must-see lists. Coming from New Jersey, the state whose biggest natural attraction is the Jersey Shore, I have become one of those foreigners eager to eat up all the nature that Quetzaltenango can throw at me. This past Saturday, five fellow students-volunteers joined me on a little day excursion to the sacred lake.

We met up at the Parque Benito Juarez where there was a massive kids’ party in the central gazebo. Piñata after piñata was hung up only to be smashed and eviscerated as we waited for the rest of our group to show up. Vendors strolled by, some with dozens of belts draped over their shoulders, others pushing ice cream carts with cowbells clanging rudely. After setting up a 9:30 rendezvous time, we finally began our journey at 10:15.

It’s funny how many things happen here – things that should be infinitely foreign to me – that I’ve simply become numb to. Why wouldn’t there be a woman in Mayan garb handlessly carrying a basket wider than her shoulders on her head? Of course people ride decked out American school buses that spew out black fumes that look like the smoke monster from lost. You mean to tell me that entire families don’t ride on a single motorcycle in the States? Oh look, there’s a man taking a dump on the sidewalk; just another Sunday afternoon in Xela.



After we were swiftly herded onto our microbus – one of those long vans you were warned to
avoid as a child – I tried looking at the city with fresh eyes once again. I realized that I’ve forgotten what enforced traffic laws are like. The only speed limit here seems to be as fast as you can go before the next speed bump – essentially a six inch curb that stretches the width of the street. We sped by a man carrying a single six inch shrimp in an outstretched arm as he walked into the street. As we left the city, there was a man driving a pickup truck with a six-ish year old boy confidently standing in the bed holding onto the outside of the cabin. Our van made “stops” along the way, slowing down enough to let whoever needed a lift to dive in. There was a “Please don’t litter” sign with almost a mound of garbage sitting in front of it.

As we drove further and further from the city, the scenery changed drastically. We were in farm country now. There were modest shacks of houses surrounded by fields of corn, potatoes, and other types of produce. There were women and children rummaging through some crops impossibly placed on steep hills. Children playfully ran across two wooden boards posing as a bridge across a small canal. As we came closer and closer to the clouds, I knew that I was about to see a very different side of Guatemala.

We were dropped off at La Distancia, a random point on the road with a street leading through a village and ultimately to the Laguna Chicabal national park. As we climbed up the 45 degree concrete incline, we passed many small farmhouses. The kids we passed gave us huge smiles as did most of the adults as they watched us struggle to walk up their street. Eventually the paved road ended and we had to continue up a wide mud path. We passed three young boys – younger than my sisters – wielding machetes and carrying huge piles of firewood on their backs. I wondered what the indigenous villagers – especially the children – here thought of outsiders parading through their town on a regular basis. We also passed a German-born Aussie named Shandor that helped out with our Kids’ Day activities. “It’s like a propah feckin’ jongle down there, mates,” he raved, clearly happy with his hike to the lake.

About fifteen minutes and six “that’s what she said” jokes later, we reached the park entrance. We paid our 15Q entrance fee and began the last forty-five minute stretch of our hike. Ascending the last chunk of the volcano, the clouds hid the surrounding scenery from our view. We reached the Mirador – the lookout point – and, thankfully, the lake was visible. The only things separating us from reaching our lakeside destination were five hundred of the most awkward, steep, and uneven steps I’ve ever had to descend. Walking through the tunnel of foliage, everything around me seemed unusually green. Leaves were bigger than my hands and there were fungi and ferns growing wherever they could. Bamboo plants sprawled out wherever they so pleased. It felt “like a propah feckin’ jongle” alright.

After surviving the steps, we emerged from our path to an opening by the lake. Annah, one of the long-term volunteers, and I were the first to emerge. Much to our disappointment, the fog had rolled in as we were walking down and we could not see more than 15 feet in front of us over the lake or along its shore. As we stood there initially, we might as well have been on the set of some Friday the 13th movie it felt so creepy. After a few minutes, however, I felt oddly at ease. The fog cleared and it was easy to see why this space is considered so sacred. Everything was so tranquil. The only noises to be heard were birds arguing in the trees, bees buzzing by, and our intrusive voices. The clouds gently came and went, and the wind softly stirred the lake’s surface.



We began walking around the lake, and scattered about were random “altars” – designated cleared areas that requested to be treated with respect through wooden signs. I wanted so badly to hide among the trees in May and see exactly what kinds of ceremonies went on here. Churches and temples can feel majestic yet always artificial and manmade; this lake just seemed so real. I caught up with Garret, another student-volunteer, to find him standing at the edge of the lake. “Check this out,” he said to us. “Hellooooooooooooo,” he shouted, and his voice bounced off the interior walls for a solid eight seconds. Woah, I thought. I imagined hundreds of people gathering here and chanting together. If you want to find a place where you can be pretty sure heaven will hear your prayers, the Laguna Chicabal is it.

The rains came to tell us that we had overstayed our welcome, and we decided to head out. After a much easier hike out, we reconvened by the welcome booth. One of the two men there asked us if we’d like a 5Q ride back to the “bus stop” in the back of his pickup truck. All of us tired and out of shape, we gladly accepted and climbed in with another man and four kids toting machetes and hoes.

As we awkwardly sat in the bed of this pickup truck, mercilessly being tossed around by bumps and clumsily sliding to and fro, I noticed the children’s boots. These kids were only about twelve and their rain boots were cracked and torn, exposing their still-growing feet to all the elements. They sat across from us, calmly alongside of us. How different our childhoods are – our upbringing, our families’ expectations, our education, our positions at birth, I thought to myself. This was one of many, many moments I’ve had here that has made me realize just how spoiled I really have been my entire life; one of the many, many moments that has made me realize how grateful I should be for what I have been blessed with by no doing of my own.

The kids got out, and I noticed that the man in the back with us was not speaking Spanish. Minutes later, he began talking to us in Spanish about the crops around there and how he learned Spanish while working in Miami for three years. I asked him what his primary language was, and he told me that it was Mam, one of the many indigenous tongues native to Guatemala. He told me very few people in his village can speak Spanish and most speak Mam like him. I came to Guatemala to learn Spanish so I’d be able to communicate the people and learn about their struggles through their own language. I hadn’t thought about it much until that moment, but I found it cruelly ironic that the language I wanted to learn was a relic of imperial Spain. The language I came to learn is, in reality, not the language of the oppressed. The indigenous have always been the ones repressed and it seems like that trend will continue for some time.

We were dropped off and almost immediately caught a microbus heading back to Xela. Exhausted from the hike and the lack of food, I didn’t feel like talking much. I put my head down on the seat in front of me and looked out the window. I saw kids working on their small crops with their families and my mind took off again. I thought back to the cracked rain boots, the kids hauling wood, the plight of the Mayans, and I thought about me, jollily strolling through the middle of it all to take a nice little day hike. It was too much for my mind to reconcile, so I did what too many of us do when confronted with these issues. I closed my eyes and went to sleep.