Lago Atitlan, a mountain lake located in the Western Highlands of Guatemala, is considered by some travelers to be among the most – if not the most – beautiful places in Central America. Only three hours away by chicken bus from Xela, it would have been a crime if I left Guatemala without spending at least a couple of days with the famed waters. So before bidding farewell to Xela and heading back to Jersey for Christmas, I decided to make one last trip by myself to see what all the hype was about.
Leaving the city, the chicken bus took the same route I had taken several times east through the mountains and the farms impossibly standing on their verdant hills. With the bus pretty unpopulated, I fell asleep comfortably hugging my bag on my lap. When I woke up, we were someplace new on a road I had never seen before. The land around was golden with drying corn stalks awaiting the harvest. Randomly scattered about the flat terrain were a few houses – some were mere shacks comprised of the usual wood beams and corrugated tin, and others were mansions, at least relatively, complete with front yard fountains and beautiful stone facing on the walls.
Leaving the plains, the scenery quickly changed as the bus started on a well-paved, but narrow and heavily forested road winding its way uphill. The chicken bus whipped around curves as verdant wall of trees, shrubs and vines stood upright to our right and dropped off to our left into a tight valley. If we went off the road, we would’ve been done for. We climbed and climbed, the chicken bus’s engine roaring as it lugged its human cargo over the final hill. And then, there it was, nestled safely in the center of a ring of mountains and volcanoes, glistening serenely in the unobstructed sun. The bus snaked itself down the sharp ‘S’ curves as my head swiveled back and forth, my eyes glued to the marvel to my left (then to my right, then to my left). In moments, I would reach my destination: San Pedro a la Laguna.
Friendly Eddy
After getting off the bus a little early, I wandered into town the back way and found the hostel Valle Azul. They offered me a room with my own bathroom, a comfy-enough bed, and a balcony view of the lake with a hammock for me to lounge on all at a price that I liked. I looked no further.
After dropping my bags off in my room, I looked out over the balcony trying to take in the lush scenery. A voice interrupted my moment saying, “Hey, d’you speak English?” I looked to my right and saw an elderly man donning a camouflage cap and a little white moustache tucked away behind a wooden table on the corner of the balcony.
His name was Eddy, and after spending thirty-one years in service with the National Guard, he was ready to spend the rest of his days with plenty of R&R. From the Smokey Mountains in Tennessee, you could say he had a bit of an accent. From the sounds of it, he had “done did” that you could possibly done do: he “done ate” this, or “done seen” that, or “done been” wherever. At 62 years young, he told me he was planning on spending at least half of each year at the lake, and at this point he was two months into his first stint in Guatemala. And with these two months, he developed an expert understanding of Guatemalan culture – or so he believed – and he couldn’t wait to share his discoveries with me. “You see that there corn dryin’ down there? They use that to make dem tortillas they got.” “You know how they wash their clothes here?” “They got their Mayan languages here, and each little town on the lake’s got its own flavor. They don’t just speak Spanish.” It didn’t matter that I already knew the answers and was finishing his sentences for him. He was the expert.
In San Pedro, the second best kept secret in town, according to Eddy, was this “little Mayan woman” who made these tostadas – Q3 a piece – covered in guacamole, frijoles, veggies and hot sauce. “She’s there every day at 3:30, and that’s what I’m waitin’ for right now. If you want, you can join me.” Hungry and wanting to see the town I thought, “Why not?”
Now some people that don’t know any Spanish shy away from speaking to locals and let the lack of language skills impede conversations; not Eddy. Every person we walked to – young or old, local or foreign, man or woman, adult or child – Eddy would greet everyone with an enthusiastic “Oh-lah ah-mee-goh!” and then remind me how friendly everyone was and how they all knew him by now. He also informed me of his quest to woo a local here. “There was life before the military, and there will be life after the military,” he reassured me. “Good luck crossing that cultural barrier,” I joked. He seemed unfazed. After grabbing his daily pre-meal soda, we walked through a couple of alleys with murals, past bamboo fences, and finally out onto a road where a young woman was standing behind a cart loaded up with a couple of pitchers, a few plates of veggies, and, of course, the crispy tostadas.
“Oh-lah!” he practically shouted in her face. “Ooh…Ooh-no por favor,” he said, putting up one finger to make sure his point was clear. After a few minutes of waiting, we were finally served the loaded up dessert-plate-sized chips on Tupperware lids. Eddy inhaled his and tried telling his tostada-serving friend how good the food was – in English – taking his time with each syllable as if the emphasis might transcend the language barrier. She looked confused. I repeated what he said in Spanish and she seemed relieved. “Every day he comes here and talks to me and I never know what he is saying!” she joked with me. So that started a new game. Eddy would say something in English to one of the few gentleman also eating tostadas. When they didn’t understand him the second time he said it, I would have to play translator. We all found it funny and light-hearted, but Eddy didn’t seem to laugh so much with the rest of us.
After seconds, we headed back to the hotel. I decided to lounge out on the hammock and try to read some short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Two minutes after finally making myself like I wouldn’t fall off the hammock, Eddy came over. “I got the bus schedule here to Nicaragua, if you wanna have a look at it.” I had told him that I’d be traveling through Honduras and El Salvador while I made my way to Nicaragua (where I’ll be spending eight weeks with Las Casas de Esperanza), but made it clear earlier that I would be taking local buses the whole way down. I re-explained my plans and said “No thanks,” and he walked back to his corner. A minute later, he came back with his Mexico travel guide opened to a section we were talking about before. Then he returned to his lookout point. He came over two minutes later asking if I wanted to go to Panajachel – a larger city on the lake – on Friday morning. I felt bad brushing him off, but I really just wanted to relax and read outside before the sun set. Suddenly, however, he stopped seeming so quirky and funny. He seemed like he needed a friend. I noted earlier that he mentioned nothing about a family and I was too scared the broach the subject.
I didn’t spend much time with him after that day, just the occasional “Hey, how’s it going” or answering a couple questions about my camera and what kind he should look for. Most of the times when I saw him he was just sitting in his corner, his nose buried in a book or in his travel notes. It seemed like it had been that way for weeks before, and it seemed like it would be that way for weeks after.
Tom vs. Nature Round One: Hiking the Indian’s Nose
So the plan was to show up to San Pedro on Wednesday, get settled and relax. On Thursday I would hike up the Indian Nose mountain in the morning and after, well, I guess I didn’t really have a plan for afterwards.
After lying in bed from 10 until 2 unable to sleep, I finally passed out only to wake up at 5. I lied there, nauseous from being overtired and frustrated that I couldn’t sleep. At six, I walked outside hoping to catch Eddy in one of his favorite lakeside activities: watching the local women washing themselves and their clothes in the shallow waters. This morning they were only washing their clothes, but Eddy watched intently nevertheless. More impressive, however, was watching the rays of the rising sun illuminate the clay brown and forest green faces of the mountains across the lake.
I headed out with my lightly packed bag toward San Juan, the town where I’d start the hike up to the Indian’s Nose. I don’t really feel like going into details about the hike. It wasn’t that exciting in itself, but the views were breathtaking. So instead of rambling on here, I’m going to put up a punch of pictures.
After two hours of leisurely uphill walking and drenching myself completely in my own sweat, I made it to the top to find a “Private Property” sign and a barb wired fence blocking the summit. Out of breath and panting, I almost turned around thinking there was a different path I missed. A man came out, and asked me for 10Q to access his property and, confused, I paid him. He led me to a two level wooden cabana fully equipped with a hammock and some straw furniture on the second level. I passed out on the straw mat in the shade for an hour as my shirt dried off in the sunshine.
After another hour of writing, relaxing, and enjoying the view, I decided to head back down the trail. Throughout most of it, minus the steep rock steps, I was able to jog down comfortably in half the time it took to climb. And for the first time in months, my ankle didn’t even hurt. Though in terms of man against nature, this would be the equivalent of me playing a toddler in basketball, I’m still going to chalk up a victory on the scoreboard. Tom 1, Nature 0.
The Language
In Latin America, it’s easy to forget – like it is in the States – that these lands were inhabited for centuries upon centuries before the coming of the European colonists to the “New World.” Lago Atitlan is surrounded by Mayan villages and every local there speaks a Mayan tongue primarily, Spanish is second. And so it is for 40% of the country who are primarily speakers of one of the twenty-one Mayan languages that survive in Guatemala. In San Pedro, you will hear the locals talking to each other in Tz'utujil, a language that sounds like some odd combination of Hebrew and Swahili… or at least I thought so.
More to come soon... Merry Christmas!
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