Out of Guatemala

Greetings from Belize, the country in Central America that a lot of people probably don’t even know exists. That’s where I am. This morning we woke up on the city-island of Flores, Guatemala with the intention of leaving the country that had stood in as our temporary home for the past three months behind. I must say, though I’m sure I’ll miss it in some ways soon, right now it feels pretty good—mostly due to the piling up frustrations that the past few days of traveling entailed. Already so much has happened… let’s go back.

After I last wrote in Cobán, Ryan and I went to grab some cheap dinner at a place that promisingly called itself GG Burger (or GG Burguer as their other sign said). We were presented with more meat on our plates than we’d had in quite a while, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but then later Ryan felt sick.. but who knows from what. We’re just always sick. So, the man who worked at GG Burger was surprisingly accommodating and friendly, much more so than any other food-service person had been in Guatemala. And this was a burger joint. He let us pick out which straw we wanted, asked us if we wanted to listen to music or watch tv, and then if the music we were listening to was ok? He asked repeatedly if everything was ok, if we were sure, and later he told us about a special Guatemalan soft drink they produce in Quiché called India Quiché. I’d never seen it before, but he was apparently quite in favor of it. Then he told us we spoke good Spanish and that he once lived in Alabama. Ha. It was random but cool.

The next day we woke up and tried to find transportation that would take us to a small town north of Cobán called Chisec. We eventually did this after it wasn’t in the place our map said it was, and several people gave us directions. The bus terminal consisted solely of microbuses, quite a contrast to the “chicken buses” of the western highlands, and far more comfortable. In fact, we hardly saw any of our old pal buses in the rest of our time in Guatemala, nor did we ride one. But! They appear to be back in Belize, thank goodness.

So we hopped in the micro to Chisec, staring out the window at the green, green hills of the Verapaces. When we arrived in Chisec, we did not know where to find our next transportation which would take us to the Lagunas de Sepalau, these gorgeous natural lagoons 9 km away from town.

We were greeted by un-subtle, curious, amused, giggling stares as we walked through the town… I guess they don’t see too many gringos in their neck of the woods.
The only mode of transportation we could find were taxis, but they were charging 60Q for a ride there which seemed rather expensive for the short ride. Well, luckily we ran into 2 other foreigner girls who were looking to go as well. We split a cab and it was cheaper because we were now four people instead of just two. They were friendly enough, one girl more than the other, but as we began exploring the lagunas, they eventually just left, and we’re still not sure how they got back. I guess they were less than impressed after just visiting Semuc Champey, which is supposed to be just beautiful and amazing, but we didn’t have the time or funds to get there really. Next time.

My first glance of the laguna instantly recalled in my mind the limestone quarries just outside of Bloomington—except instead of being manmade these were natural and in the tropics. There was next to no one there, just one indigenous Q’eqchí family who again, just stared at us. We continued our exploration of the area, leading us to another section of the first lake, and a second lake which was a little more difficult to reach. The heat being rather intense, we decided we were ready for a swim in the first lake. It felt so good to plunge into that pretty blue water, surrounded by rock and jungle on all sides. We ate our peanut butter mango chutney sandwiches and a zapote, swam a little more, and headed back to the road after several hours.




We waited by the side of the small gravel dirt road for several minutes in the heat, and then decided to just start walking the 9 km walk… this was rough. We passed more indigenous families who were simply not used to seeing white people and they would either stare, stare and look at us suspiciously, say “buenas tardes”, and the younger ones would just giggle.

So thankfully a microbus pulled up to us on the side of the road eventually, so we hopped in and got a ride back to town, for only 2Q each. Yes. We then got back into Cobán a few hours later where we just relaxed, ate some tacos 3x10, (well I got a burrito) and then went back to the room where I saw a giant cockroach while Ryan was in the bathroom. It actually ran across the bed while I was turning on the computer and it made me jump. It then flew onto the wall by the door (yes it flew too!) and I opened the door to see if it’d like to fly out? And then I moved to the opposite side of the room. THEN! It flew straight at me, making its attack. I audibly screamed, and I think the man outside on the phone heard me, but he didn’t come to my aid, jerk. Finally, Ryan came back and I begged him to kill it while I wait outside. He swung at it with his shoe and it ran to the corner where we lost sight of it forever. Who knows where it went. It’s probably still out there somewhere, waiting for me. Sigh.


The next day we woke up, ready to continue on with our journey to our next stop: Lívingston. To do this, we had to change buses several times.. first we took the bus from Cobán, to a junction in the eastern Guatemalan desert town of El Rancho. There we basically just waited by the side of the road like hitchhikers for a few minutes, waiting for some kind of bus to pass. Eventually one came that said no, they were not going to Puerto Barrios on the coast, but we could go with them and eventually there’d be more transportation to Barrios… confused and annoyed we got on the micro and got off at Río Hondo where the road split. Sure enough, as soon as we got out, we were shuttled into a fairly nice direct bus on its way to Puerto Barrios. This was a long bus ride where the landscape changed rather quickly from desert to very tropical vegetation as we neared the Caribbean.

Once we got to Puerto Barrios, we dragged our cumbersome bags to the where my map said we had to go to get a lancha to Lívingston. So let me explain, Lívingston, a small town of only 6,000 people is on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala, and only accessible by boat. The greater population consists of Garífuna people, a mix of African and Carib people originally coming from the island of St. Vincent. It’s an interesting history, if you’re curious to learn more. So, the boat ride to the town was probably about 30 minutes and we got more than a little wet in the process. It was finally around 6:00 pm or so when we arrived in Lívingston, and the second we were off the boat, we were of course hassled by various men, this time Garífuna people speaking in English and pounding fists with us and telling us about these hotel deals. Great. We eventually found a place to stay, calm and quaint, called, I kid you not, Hotel California. Yes. They also spoke to us in English—I think their native language was a Creole English, which is common in Lívinston. We didn’t do much at night as we were pretty tired from the long day of travel, but we did manage to get some amazing dinner which consisted of the town’s specialty: tapado—a stew of sorts full of all sorts of seafood, made with coconut milk, plantains. It was scrumptious and worth every penny. We then ran into this man in the street who was riding a bike and called himself Alexander the Great. He said he had no money and was starving and just wanted to eat some empanadas from the street so Ryan was nice and gave him a little bit of cash. The whole place was kind of disappointing to us, though, overall. People were poor and you could tell the only work was tourism and fishing. There were many tourists there who wanted to soak up the Caribbean atmosphere and drink alcohol out of coconuts. We were going to stick around one more day, but a daytrip we were thinking of taking to Siete Altares, this group of waterfalls, turned out to not be something we wanted to do, as it still wasn’t the rainy season and they weren’t too impressive right now apparently….



Soooo.. we decided to just leave Lívingston the next day as there really wasn’t much to do there apart from being lazy, eating, drinking, and being bothered by people. In the morning we signed up for a boat ride tour down the Río Dulce, the other way you get away from Lívingston. The scenery itself was stunning—tropical birds flying about, small homes around the lake and river, jungles, rocks, and lily pads. The boat made two stops to let us off at a little cooperative which was kind of interesting, and then again at some hot springs which really didn’t impress us too much after being to Fuentes Georginas near Xela. Oh well. And even though it was gorgeous, I was a little unimpressed overall with the tour itself.. the guide didn’t go into detail about anything only occasionally saying something like : “This is called Island of the Birds.”—things like that.




When we got off the boat we were in Río Dulce town, a not too special place where you pick up transit to go somewhere else. We ate our last Guatemalan breakfasts, paying with credit cards. Our bus onto Flores was supposed to leave at 2:00, but arrived nearly an hour late due to some road blockages. Then, once the bus finally did come there were no seats and we were forced to stand at the very front, even though this was a “nice” bus. But, about 20 minutes down the road, we were all forced to get off so some policemen could check everyone’s identification. Now, this made me nervous as our Guatemalan visas had expired several days earlier. Images of being escorted to the border to be deported flitted through my mind, but he just looked at the passport and handed it back to me. Either he didn’t notice or didn’t care. We were detained there for 10 minutes nearly, and eventually went back on our way, and we were able to get a seat since everyone had moved around. Yay. But… maybe another hour later the bus was forced to stop again and we all had to get out, this time to make sure we didn’t have any fruit we were taking in to the Péten department that might contain some kind of mosquito.. awesome. They didn’t even really check anyone’s bag, just felt the outside, with their magic fruit-detecting hands and let us get back on the bus, where some jerk picked up my backpack and put it in an overhead bin above him, and took our seats.. jerk. So I found some seat in the back and Ryan had to stand up for the rest of the trip through the jungle. With all these stops and delays, the ride took an hour longer than it should have, and we didn’t get into Santa Elena until nightfall, which worried us a little. We don’t like to travel after dark down here, especially when we’re unfamiliar with a place.

But as soon as we jumped off the bus and retrieved our bags, several cab drivers were in our face asking if we needed a ride to Flores. Yes, we did. He said he’d take us for only 5Q each which sounded good to us. The catch was that he worked for this hostel called Los Amigos and he kept telling us how good it was and how we had to stay there. We don’t like to be pushed into anything, so we decided to beat him at his own game. He told us it goes 50Q for one night, and then since he just assumed we don’t know Spanish even though we’d been speaking to him in fluent Spanish the whole time, he decided to say, “feefty quetzales” No kidding, thanks, bud. Then he stopped at this place called San Juan Travel and was like, here you can buy your tickets to Tikal, for tomorrow. Go buy them now. And we were like, No, not now, creep. (except not quite that mean). When we got into Flores, he again brilliantly announced “La ciudad” (the city), cause we’re such dumb tourists we couldn’t have figured that out for ourselves either. Then he drove us straight to this hostel Los Amigos where we didn’t want to go at all because I don’t trust any place that operates in such a sleazy manner. He rang the doorbell of the hostel and pulled our bags out for us. Then he told us we owed him 15Q, to which we replied, no… you said 10, to which he just stared at us evilly for 5 seconds, and gave us the right amount of change back. We then just walked away. Ha! Take that, you unscrupulous sleazeball. Like we would have forgotten how much he said the cab ride was, or we wouldn’t care cause we’re white and just have loads of money. Ugh. Welcome to Flores.

So Flores itself was rather pretty.



It’s a small town set on an island at the southern end of Lake Petén Itzá. It has an interesting history as well and I was excited to see it. Unfortunately, it was far more obnoxiously touristy than I was ready for, on par with Antigua if not worse. Everything was more expensive there. The cheapest internet we could find was 10Q/hr which was ridiculous to us as we routinely only paid 3Q/hr in Xela. They also didn’t sell bags of water, and lots of things were written in English, including the dinner menu handed to us that night at the Maya Princess Café. I had to translate it, ordering completely in Spanish. I was beginning to get utterly sick of people in the town looking at you and jumping to the conclusion that you don’t speak Spanish, but English. It’s really racist in a way and I was tired of it. This was not how I wanted to end my final days in the country, but I didn’t have a choice really. It we could go back we probably would have stayed in nearby town El Remate which has less tourists, I think.



The reason most people come to Flores, us included, is to see the magnificent Mayan ruins of Tikal which is only about an hour away. The next morning a shuttle picked us up (pretty much the only way to get there) at 6 am for Tikal, since it’s best to get there early before it’s super crowded and the sun’s rays are too oppressive. And indeed, compared to the crowds of later in the day, there were few people at the ruins when we arrived. Since the only Mayan ruins we’d seen so far consisted of Zaculeu and Iximché, we really were very impressed with Tikal, and the jungle setting made it that much more spectacular. We climbed many pyramids, sweated, and heard a lot of English from American families, (including one woman we overheard ask the water vendor if he accepted Belize dollars, in English. Yes. We hate our own kind. I really liked the Grand Plaza, the view from Temple IV, unfortunately being worked on, and our hike out to Temple VI deep in the jungle where few people were. So, here are some pictures, they speak more than I can:






There are still many more pictures… check out the flickr site. There were also fun animals about like monkeys, birds, and ocellated turkeys, Ryan stalked one for a while.

Exhausted by 2 pm, we caught our shuttle back to Flores where we relaxed, walking around the lake at sunset and eating some dinner where sure enough the waiter first addressed us in English, saying “Ready?” to which we just stared at him dumbfounded and then he said, “¿Listos?” to which we said, Sí, and the rest continued in Spanish. Ugh, so frustrating. I really didn’t feel like I was in Guatemala anymore, and I’m afraid these people that just come here for a few days to see Tikal have no idea what the country’s like either.. but maybe they don’t care. We then gave in for an expensive half hour of internet to which the guy said, “¿Hablan español o inglés?” to which I said “los dos” and then he started speaking in English! Even though it wasn’t his native language and we clearly spoke good Spanish. Ugh, whatever. It was annoying. I don’t get it. Anyway, after all these frustrations, we really realized how good we had it in Xela and in the western highlands in general..



This morning we woke up with every intention to just get out of the country that was beginning to grate on us (plus our visa had been expired for 10 days already)… so we jumped into Belize a day early. To do this we had to catch an embarrassing tuk tuk cab to Santa Elena and from there a micro to the border. The border crossing went over much smoother than I expected, the Guatemalan customs man being much friendlier than the prior one. He almost looked sad when he told us we had to pay the 100Q fine for going over our visa. The money changers on the Guatemalan side of things were also pretty friendly people giving us advice and decent exchange rates. At least we left on a last minute good note.. ha. Once into Belize, things seemed calmer, a little less trashier—people still gave us English, but it was OK this time because it’s the official language of the country and all, which is a little strange to adjust to honestly. But we won’t have to for long as we’ll only be here three days, and then we’ll be back into Spanish-heavy Mexico.

The only way to get to our current destination of San Ignacio de Cayo was by taxi, which reluctantly shelled out for. Things are a tad more expensive here with their Belizean dollars (which is just the USD multiplied by 2, easy). but we’re enjoying the change. Our hotel room has actual nice pillows and a little balcony which we’ve been taking advantage of, relaxing. We ate at this delicious Sri Lankan restaurant for lunch, where they actually gave us tiny glasses of water for free. There are also lots of Chinese people which means there are Chinese restaurants. Belize is strange yet familiar. The town of San Ignacio itself seems fairly laid back (much like the majority of the tiny country I’m guessing) and fairly cute and quaint, except midday when it gets way too hot and you have to take a siesta. Oof. So we’re going to stay here one more night, continue decompressing after this frustrating busy week, and then head up to Corozal where we will spend just one night. Then, on Sunday, we’ll be in Mexico!! (again). I had a dream a few nights ago that I got back to the US, but two weeks early and somehow we had just forgotten to see the places in Mexico we were going to visit.. so we were going to go back and see them. It was strange. Ay, if you’ve read all this you must be magical.

We accept our fate—learning gaining

Our current location is the small city of Cobán within the cloudforests of the Verapaces. Having left Xela at the break of dawn Friday morning, we have officially begun the long arduous journey back Home.

The past week went by as all the other weeks had, just with the inert realization in the back of our minds that it would be our last week as such: volunteering at trama, teaching the few students who decided to show up English. We ate our cupboards and fridge bare and turned to street food at week’s end, as all good weeks should end. (There really is nothing quite as good as a pupusa at night.) (mmm)

My last day at Trama was far more emotional than I was expecting—in a way though, they kind of became my pseudo-family here. They had a little farewell despedida for me on Thursday afternoon which included not just a pizza, but tostadas with delicious guacamole (made from 6 avocados!), refried black beans, and cheese; a hot chocolate drink, tamalitos, and pineapple. It was a really nice of everyone and I started breaking down a little and crying when it came time to say goodbye. Also the day before I’d finished setting up my second weaving, and was given a backstrap loom as a gift to take back home! I shall be a master weaver and make everyone scarves. Or at least a mediocre weaver who makes everyone pot holders.

Later at Best English, Marilu our boss gave Ryan and I parting gifts (which turned out to be a funny shirt for him that he might actually wear and a purse for me that I don’t think I’d use but might make a good gift for someone…) I said goodbye to Alicia who called the mix cd I’d made her “strange.” To finish off the evening we met up with two other teachers from the school and Ryan’s student Hiroshi. It was a good way to end our time in the city. Although, the place we went to was pretty cool and I was left feeling disappointed we’d only found it just when we were leaving, but that’s how it usually works. When we got back to our room at night I found a postcard on the floor from our housemate Sophie wishing us a “feliz viaje” Two nights before she had cooked us a scrumptious feast as a way to say goodbye… when we left we really realized how many interesting and good people we’d met in our time in Xela, which is a good feeling to have when you leave a place.

It was still time to go. We didn’t even tell the so-called landlord-like people that we were leaving, fed up from days of pots and pans being left uncleaned, waking up with what I can only assume are flea bites, and coming home to the sourpuss cleaning woman Lucinda Maria responding with “Buenas tardes…” like she was a robot with draining batteries as she absently stared at whatever mindless soap opera was flickering on the TV. We just left the key in the door and hopped in a taxi with our massive bags (despite shipping a box home and throwing stuff away) for the bus to Guate. The bus took 5 whole hours instead of the estimated 4, with all the road construction. But as we’d woken up at 5 am, I was able to sleep for most of the trip. I never wanted to return to the capital, but we had to, to arrive in Cobán easily. So we spent a whole 45 minutes or so within the sprawling cesspool of a city, calling a cab to take us to the next fancy bus terminal. (We’re takin’ mostly nice buses on our way back home as we have all our belongings with us.. something about a guy throwing my bag on top of an old schoolbus makes me uneasy, as I picture it rolling down the hillside on a sharp turn.) Fortunately the next bus to Cobán was leaving in 15 minutes so we didn’t have to wait around.

This was the nicest bus we’d been on since we’d arrived in Guatemala—with the nice reclining seats, a guy who came around to collect garbage, and a bathroom stop halfway through the trip. However, it started to get hot, hot, hot and that should be how it is for another few weeks really as we continue to the lowlying Caribbean coast, up through the jungles of the Petén and into Belize and the Yucatán peninsula. Eesh. Here’s to hoping I get used to it. Though the scenery was quite varied from the landscape we’ve seen thus far in the country—green, wooded, lush, and misty, our traveling time yesterday totaled a grand 10 hours, and in true form we were quite exhausted upon arrival. All we were able to manage was dragging ourselves minus burdensome bags to some nice street food which consisted of empanadas argentinas and papas fritas. Mmhmm. Oh yes.

Today we woke up refreshed from our sleep and decided to spend the day in the city. First we went to this coffee farm which was started in 1888 by a German family. (Cobán has had lots of strange influences including those from Germany: there were many Nazi sympathizers living here during WWII apparently. Also the women’s traje is different here than I’ve seen elsewhere in Guatemala with baggier, lighter white cloth and gathered skirts, somewhat inspired by this European influences.) So, we asked for the tour in Spanish, but because 3 more people showed up who understood little to no Spanish except for words like “Gracias” we took the tour in English too. The little farm was rather beautiful and fairly interesting and we got to sample various coffee beans and coffee. We also saw banana trees, avocado trees, pacaya, and sugar cane. We also saw cardamom and allspice. Very nice.



Afterwards we spoke to the New Zealanders and Denmarker. We are officially backpackers I guess, without the giant turtleshell backpacks. We accept our fate. Also we were handed a gorgeous little brochure about the farm which featured three old white people taking a picture of the same dull building on the cover and some botched English (“A maya-kekchi guide will invite you to wear the workers hat and to see the coffee plantation through their eyes, learning gaining from them technical knowledge and explanations.”)

Following the tour we headed down to a big park right in town which was also very scenic. We walked to a little laguna and through some woods where we marveled at the ants carrying leaves on their backs in a little line like tiny migrant workers.



Then we headed up to El Calvario on top of the hill and looked at the mist-soaked mountains and city in the distance as little Mayan altars were filled with offerings and burning candles and a wedding proceeded in the church on top.



Lunch was at a good little comedor and we discovered we can buy water in bags for only 50 cents in quetzals. Wow. New levels of cheapdom. And now we’re relaxing in the hostel. Tomorrow we’re probably catching a microbus up north to the town of Chisec supposedly an hour and half away from where you can get to the Lagunas de Sepalau which are supposed to be really beautiful and swimmable. I am quite looking forward to swimming in this heat. It’s funny how in Xela you really don’t realize you’re in Central America due to the altitude. In less than a week I should be out of this crazy country and in less than a month back in the US of A. Okay, I’m going to take a cold shower. (not like I have a choice in this hostel.)

Ryan’s addendum about the coffee tour:

The New Zealanders were quite the talkative pair, telling us about their current travel plans and about their homeland. The husband, Nick, even brought out a small picture book that he carried around in his large backpack. They told us about their travel plans, and after I realized that they planned to be in Lívingston (a town of only six thousand or so) around the same time we planned to be, I decided to pay more attention to them. They were on a two-and-a-half week trip that involved more or less incessant bussing and the occasional flight. When Nick told me that they had to catch a flight out of Mérida (which in his amusing Kiwi accent was MIH-ree-der; he also pronounced Maya as mayor) on May 4, I told him that I thought it remarkable that they would be so close to spending Cinco de Mayo in Mexico but managed to not join the party. He asked what it was and I told him how it was a big Mexican holiday celebrating an important military victory. He then, in all seriousness and with a straight face asked me when it was.


PUPPY

Tema: Tomar el Taco

So as you loyal readers know, Ryan and I went to Mexico this past weekend. We return today with pesos, bellies full of sweet, sweet Mexican street food, and an unrenewed visa complete with a new disdain for humanity—but more on that later.

Flashback to last week… Tuesday we went to Salcajá to visit their local market, and to our surprise it was much larger than we expected it to be. I kept asking about prices of cortes (the fabric used for traditional Mayan skirts), but they cost way more than I was prepared to pay. It was a fairly interesting market though, and it was kind of neat (kind of) to stop in a town we always pass through whenever we go anywhere else.

Once we got back into Xela, we decided to check out the Casa de Cultura, assuming it would be open that is. For once it was, and we walked on in. The sign said we were to pay Q6, but there was no one to collect said fee, so we continued on into the museum of sorts. This had to have been the most sad, pathetic, random museum I have ever been to. You walk up the stairs into the first room and are greeted by various Mayan artifacts in display cases (some of which have big cracks taped together with masking tape), which in itself is fairly cool, but what little information cards and labels there are, are printed on small index cards full of typos with what must have been an antique typewriter. Then another room featured plants and Guatemalan beverages, while the prize-winning room next door contained freakish stuffed animals—including a row of giant squirrels, a four-horned goat, a goat with eight legs, cow, pig, fish, human, and dog fetuses in jars, and last but not least, hawks wearing bowties. Yeah, this is Xela’s most well-known museum. Welcome to Guatemala’s second city. And then out of nowhere one of the workers approached us and asked us to pay while we were looking at some exhibit. Other rooms featured a stuffed quetzal and some stuffed peacocks (which had a card that says it would be more attractive if it hadn’t been killed by a shotgun blast!) and a room dedicated to the marimba!

Awesome. I also got my first haircut in Guatemala, and it didn’t turn out too bad. At the same time, the city decided to give me a sneak preview of what the rainy season holds in store for us. It had hardly even drizzled in this town since we’ve been here, but this day the skies opened up, and it poured, poured, poured, until the street was a river and the beauty shop women advised me to wait. It didn’t stop though, and I eventually ran through the streets with my wimpy little umbrella, splashing through the streets, returning home looking like a stowaway who’d been kicked off the boat. That’s when we found out that our bathroom ceiling also has a small leak in it. The gods of fun just keep on giving here.

Even so, come Wednesday morning we were rather ready to embark upon our international Semana Santa adventure. We quite literally woke up with the dawn at 5:30 in the morning and headed to our friendly neighborhood bus terminal (ha).

We got on, what we thought, was a bus headed directly to La Mesilla, the border of Guatemala. We thought this because we paid for a full fare of Q30 to La Mesilla. Hmm, silly us. When the bus pulled into the Huehuetenango bus terminal, we quickly learned that the bus was in fact, not going to La Mesilla, but to Soloma. Cool. But we already paid. Confused and rapidly becoming more frustrated, we ambled about the terminal trying to figure out what was going on, while being hassled by ayudantes trying to convince us to get on their bus to La Mesilla. Ryan exploded at one point which prompted one of these guys to say in cool, cool English, “Hey, don’t get mad.” We went back to the first bus though, where another woman who had also paid was confused and angry. Thankfully the workers told another bus we paid, so we didn’t have to pay twice. We were on our second bus to the border now, proving once again that Huehuetenango just kind of sucks.

Eventually, we reached the border of Guatemala at La Mesilla. You just kind of get out and walk across to Mexico. But then, you have to take some kind of taxi to get to immigration in Ciudad Cuátemoc because there are 4 km between the two places. Remember this later. Also, no one really forces you to walk into customs. Anyone could easily just walk from Guatemala to Mexico or vice versa and no one would stop you. But anyway, part of our reason for going to Mexico was to renew our Guatemalan visa, so we dropped into the Mexican immigration office and got our passport stamped.



We were in Chiapas and on our way to the city of Comitán. The difference in the level of comfort and space between Mexican and Guatemalan transport was already painfully evident. The seats in the little colectivo van that carried us to Comitán were so comfortable. People weren’t hanging out of the door while we were driving, either. If Mexico feels luxurious to us after living in Guatemala, I don’t even know what it’s going to feel like to get back to the US.

Unfortunately it started to rain again, and essentially didn’t stop raining for the rest of the night. Boo. We decided to stay in Comitán for the first night because it was supposed to be a pleasant city that few travelers stopped in, and also so we could visit the Lagos de Montebello the next morning, but mostly because we figured it would break up the trip a little. Thankfully, it ended up fulfilling all of these things.

The city was indeed very pleasant, in spite of the rain. We took to the streets, exploring the center which had a very pretty main plaza. We went into the free museum of archaeology, and were once again amazed at the tremendous difference in quality between the museum and Xela’s Casa de Cultura that we had just visited the previous day. And this one was free and looked like a real museum and stuff.

We later took advantage of a 2x1 pizza deal where I also was reunited with my long lost friend Manzana Lift. Mmhmm.. Viva México.

The next morning we caught another colectivo van and headed out for the Lagos de Montebello, a series of beautiful lakes of varying sizes and hues scattered throughout the forests of Chiapas. As soon as you get to the main parking lot, 4-5 men approach you and ask if you want to rent a horse or a cabin or have a guide, etc. etc. They’re persistent little devils. The main lake we saw was Lago Bosque Azul, and it was really very tranquil and lovely.



We then avoided the horse renting men, (deciding that if they asked us again we would say that Ryan was scared of horses and could you please stop suggesting it) and started on a forest trail that eventually led to two grutas (grottos). The first one was stunning, so massive, with the sound of running water trickling through the rocks.





We hopped across the rocky river to the other grotto which was mostly a very dark cave that we didn’t explore to thoroughly due to not having adequate lighting.



We saw one more little lake while we were at the Lagos, which I believe was Lago Encantado, if I remember correctly. I’m too lazy to look it up. Sorry. It was pretty too, with less people there.


The only other thing we did was order some quesadillas at a little comedor and listen to the sounds of marimba in the air, before catching our transportation back to Comitán, and from there immediately to San Cristóbal de las Casas.

The monotony of the van ride to San Cristóbal was broken up by an animated 14-yearold girl named Dora Heidi. When we stepped inside, she asked us where we were from. When we told her, she asked if she could sit next to us and chat for a bit. I was afraid she worked for some kind of tour company or something, but we soon learned that she was just 14, curious, and very lively. I learned that she is from Tonalá on the coast, that she works with some kind of Christian organization who would be looking for funds in San Cristóbal who apparently rescued her from her messed up family life, that it was her first time to the city, and that she really liked the music of one Anet Moreno, and would tell me to listen everytime one of her songs came on the radio. She wants to study marine biology.

She told us that she always saw these backpackers walking around and was curious what they thought about, so she decided to talk with us. She was tired of everyone being silent on transportation and didn’t understand why people weren’t more open. She asked us many questions, one being what were artesanías (handicrafts) typical of the US. I told her wooden rabbits sitting on swings wearing flower hats, but really nothing. When we parted she introduced us to her comrades and we parted ways.

Into San Cristóbal. We arrived at the city slightly tired, and headed towards the center of town and our hostal. We stayed at a place called Rincón de los Camellos which seemed nice at first, mostly because our room was bright and cheery, with flowers in a vase, and pictures of smiling African people on the walls—a welcome contrast to the gloominess of the majority of the places we’ve stayed in. However, we later were to find out that the hostel was inhabited primarily by loud, incosiderate French people who thought it was cool to shout and sing with a guitar until nearly midnight. (Oh we’ve become such morning people, ugh.) Anyway, they were fairly rude and didn’t seem to care that they might be keeping people up. I’m not sure what’s wrong with these people anyway. They never seem to ever leave the hostel, when there were exciting and interesting things going on around them in the city that weekend. No, they’d rather stay in the hostel and be French and annoy people. (end of long rant)

Anyway, on Friday we mostly just got acquainted with our surroundings, eating some wonderful street food, drinking some ponche de piña with little bits of cake in it (as we would do every night). Actually Friday was a bit of a food fest for us. We ate the following: tacos de tinga (chicken tomato combo mix), huaraches con nopal (this was my first time ever hearing of huaraches, but they were good—a oval tortilla bottom topped with refried beans, some cheese and cream, and cactus paddles.), a bean tamal, churros, fried plantain, spicy cut up corn in a cup, and these pastries that looked like cannoli but were filled with melted marshmallow—so good. Man, Mexican food is better than Guatemalan food. At least there’s more variety and we surely took advantage on this trip.

It was so nice to be in a city full of people, out late at night, enjoying themselves. I wish there was more of that here in Xela, but things tend to wrap up fairly early here. It was also more lively being the Semana Santa. The city was full of tourists, both foreign and Mexican. Vendors carrying loads of bracelets, shawls, and belts took to the streets in hopes of making a sale. There were many free events, music, theatre, storytelling, etc. It was a good vibe.

Friday and Saturday we spent entirely within San Cristóbal. We played around with the idea of visiting one of the nearby villages or the ruins of Toniná, but we were kind of tired of travelling and knew that Sunday would be very travel-filled and tiresome. There was thankfully lots to do. We ate lots of great Mexican food (soups like sopa azteca, tlalpeño, chilalingo), more street food, more ponche. We visited the museum of trajes regionales that is really only open by appointment one hour of the day. It’s this man named Sergio’s personal collection which is just vast. He was a very interesting man who was quite knowledgeable. I learned a little and now feel refreshed and inspired to start writing my history of Mayan weaving for Trama.

The artesanías market was also very big and not as obnoxious as Antigua’s. The vendors were far less pushy and there were products I hadn’t seen before, and with different designs. Let’s just say I picked up a fair amount of gits for people. (Yes, you.) There was also a small book fair going on, where we picked up “El Gran Libro de las Tortas” which speaks of sandwiches around the world and how to make them! For a measley 10 pesos. There was also a cool weaving cooperative, but the prices were very expensive, much more than Trama. Eek.

We sat around a lot in plazas and watched people and said “no no no”to the pushy vendors. I think it would be cool to follow around one of these vendors for a day and make a movie about it. Could be a neat concept. Anyway. Friday was also Good Friday and we saw a total of 5 different processions with Jesus and co.



Saturday was Ryan’s birthday. To start the day off, we dropped in on this little paper making group called Taller Leñateros. It was pretty awesome. They make their own paper out of different leaves, fibers, plants, and then sell things in their store. They also publish some books and magazines. I picked up a few more little gifts here for people I think will appreciate them.

We also wandered into the free museum of popular culture where a small little band was starting to play while men and women did a little simple dance while shaking maracas. It was pretty cool but soon got repetitive.

Ryan didn’t want anything fancy for his birthday, of course, but I bought him one of the typical maroon Mexican sweater poncho things he had his eye on, and treated him to a nice simple Mexican meal of huaraches and tacos. The huaraches were huge!



We later ate a tres leches cake outside that we’d picked up in a panadería

.

The highlight of the evening was to come later when the city had its “burning of Judas” celebration. It was much like the Fallas of Valencia, with effigies made of papier machiere, (and firecrackers/fireworks) were made and strung up on a wire. Each one was some kind of criticism about a problem in the world, most either Mexican issues (graffiti, president, gangs, tacos), worldwide issues (drugs, pollution, abortion), or bitching about the US (immigration, Bush, corn).

The little plaza was packed a half hour before the burning was to begin. A highschool marching band wearing leopard print was playing songs, including the Mexican hat dance! Ha. The announcer talked about each little falla and talked about the theme. There would be a contest for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place. I still don’t know who won.




Anyway, there was one float thing that featured a person eating a giant taco, making fun of a holiday Mexicans have called day of the taco, and how it’s wrong to celebrate such a thing when a lot of people are starving in the country. But when the announcer mentioned this float, he said, “El taco, tema: tomar el taco” (The taco, theme: eating tacos) It was funny and I think it summed up my theme in Mexico as well. Partly. So, slowly each float was doused in gasoline and lit on fire. Some burst into flames and fireworks would shoot off in various directions—into the air, into the crowd, until the crowd would quickly begin backing up, out of fear of being lit on fire. It was quite a sight.



Afterwards they had a little ceremony for the new queen of the fair which was kind of amusing and strange. Students with guitars sang for her and everyone watched on attentively. And that concluded the night.

Sunday was a day marked with strife. We got up around 6:30, which is 5:30 Xela time with ambitions to head all the way back to Xela. We did this but not without compications. We were informed at the immigration office of Guatemala that we needed an “exit stamp” that we did not receive when we left for Mexico. We were not aware that we had to go through customs of the country we were leaving and the country we were entering. Also there was no sign saying this and Mexico didn’t say anything about this!!! I started to become frustrated and angry. He told us we had to pay a fine of Q300 which was outlandish and we simply didn’t have it. He said our other alternative was to just keep the visa we already had that runs out April 16th, and then we have to pay Q10 for every day we go over that visa. So we decided to do that for the time being… ugh. One of the main reasons we went to Mexico was to renew our visa and that didn’t happen so, needless to say I was pretty bent out of shape about it. We are going to look into all our options to see what the real deal is behind these fines and nonsense. Either way we will be leaving Xela no later then April 21st to begin our trek back home.

THEN, we had to go back 4 km to the Mexican immigration office to get our exit stamp that we didn’t know we needed to avoid trouble with Mexico when we come back. We also learned we had to pay an obnoxious tourist tax of 237 pesos. At least we could pay with credit card. I hate customs people. They’re so robotic and quick with you. Just like people who work in airports. Loads of fun. So we were back in Guatemala, but with a newfound bitterness for everything and everyone around us. Our time here has been great and fulfilling but it’s also starting to wear on us, and we’ll be ready to start heading out of Xela in a little under two weeks (or sooner depending on what we find out about these fines and visas). The bus to Huehue and then Xela was packed and uncomfortable as usual. Our bitterness wore off some as we arrived back home, ready to start this next week. In spite of the shadow that Sunday cast on everything, we still had a great trip.

Like an Indian Toilet

And now, a guest entry from Ryan, because I’m nice:

In which our heroes mistakenly take the road less traveled and find themselves content and refreshed at journey’s end

It had been a joke for us for some time now. Every weekend that we’ve stayed in town, except of course for that weekend we took the exhaustive and debilitating hike up to Laguna Chicabal—if you speak Mam or think that k’s and apostrophes make words look awesome you could call it Chikab’al I guess—we’ve said the same thing. “Well, we could see if a movie’s playing at la Pradera, maybe buy some non-processed cheese (seriously, our cheese choices in town are queso fresco, queso duro, or the frighteningly plastic queso amarillo) at HiperPaiz, or maybe we could go to los Vahos.”

El vaho is el vapor, but less the idea of something steamy as something with fumes and odors. Los Vahos is a sauna, described by my ever-so-pithy guidebook as “rough and ready”, which capitalizes on the geothermal steam that seeps out of vents on a mountainside rather than on hot embers doused with water (various Maya groups bathe in smaller saunas like this, calling them either chuj or tuj depending on the peculiarities of their language) to produce the hot, humid air.

This Saturday our quickly vanishing time here finally built enough of a fire under us to make us set out early to follow my book’s ambiguous directions to the site, of course after stopping for a desayuno típico (I could write two hundred words on how this place has made me reconsider my previous opinion on all-day breakfast places)to give us the strength we’d need for the climb. One thing we learned from the Chicabal ascent was the disadvantages of hiking while hungry.

Walking south along Trece Avenida we passed the crappy Despensa Familiar grocery that frequently plays loud high-energy reggaeton for its clientele and mechanics’ garages each with their own dog lying languidly in the entrance. In no time the flatland portion of our trip ended and we started climbing up the mountain that looms over the south of town with the CRISTO VIENE sign of Santuario Monte Sinai. We ran in to one of the few mutual acquaintances that Ilene and I have in this city—how many people are interested in both organic gardening and backstrap loom weaving?—and chatted with her for a while. In true Marin county fashion she advised us not to get “sketched out” by los Vahos, since it “looks and smells like an Indian toilet”. Luckily for us, we have no idea of hygiene standards of the subcontinent and we started walking up the switchbacking road up the hill.

The bubble of prosperity and comfort that covers most of the city center quickly faded away and we were hailed on the road by a strange man who felt it important to repeatedly tell us “No se preocupen”, a sure sign that we should preocuparnos. I listened to what he had to say, paying him just enough attention to keep him from getting angry with us while Ilene pointedly stood far away and admired the view. After telling me how he used to live outside Los Angeles and how some dudes threw him off an exit ramp and how all the Super Chivos know who he is, he got bored and moved on, and we stayed gazing on the city below trying to pick out the places we know from the bird’s-eye view we had.



You can easily see the newly-repainted white domes of the cathedral fronting the Parque Centroamérica, the area obscured by the Casa de Cultura and a clump of trees. The yellow building to the left is the Despensa Familiar which I mentioned. Running down the middle of the photograph is Doce Avenida which we walk down to get to the school where we work, located on the block just south of the Esso gas station. A Volkswagon’s parked in front.

Moving on once we figured that the strange man had moved on, we went beyond where the irregular cobblestones of the street gave way to the worndown grass of a path. Already we were outside of Xela, though we wouldn’t know exactly where we’d be for some time. The land on either side of us was grassy hills and forested mountainside, broken by fallow fields and their stone enclosures. This scene reminded me of what my mind paints the landscape of northern California or Normandy to be, though with volcanoes in the background.





Our directions told us to follow the road past a dairy and a school. Well, as you can see, we found the dairy, and following the advice Naomi had given us that we should keep moving uphill we took the road straight past the dairy, leading us on a long walk through the mountain. It was the wrong way, and though the main path we were on looked as though it had been tread by trucks or fourwheelers in the recent past, all of the branches quickly became half-overgrown footpaths leading straight up the mountain.

This was the monte. We saw no one for a long time. We heard no one. All the noise that was around was the cracking of the dry leaves under our feet, the occasional rustling of a critter quickly getting out of our way, and the constant whoosh of the air through the tall pine trees that dotted the mountainside. We kept going uphill, until the path started to head downhill. Then we noticed that we were on the other side of the mountain, our view now showing the valleys and plains around what Ilene and I believed was Almolonga, the first town we visited during our stay here.

Since the path was now dropping considerably, we retraced our steps. Ilene expressed her amazement over the sauna’s owner’s failure to adequately mark the path to the establishment. At this point, you might think that we’d’ve been quite annoyed with not finding the vahos, but we felt so rewarded by the views that we actually didn’t care if we just walked back down into the city center sweaty and unsteamed. I even mentioned aloud that we should go on more hikes and such when we return to the States.





Once we got back to the dairy, we noticed the other branch of the path heading across fields and looking rather obviously like the correct path. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and everything.

The walk across the fields was pleasant, watching cows rest in the surprisingly cool breeze and chickens squawk and fuss about. Then Ilene stopped to take a picture of some dogs playing by a house and an opportunistic young boy ran out to meet us from behind a house and greeted us with “¿Un quetzal?”.

The rest of the path went by quickly with our knowledge that we were definitely on the right path and the knowledge that we were in a place that was populated enough to have a name, Cantón Xetuj. Ilene said that she believed more gringos see this part of the city’s periphery than quetzaltecos. She’s right I bet.


Eucalyptus trees guarded the road leading up to los vahos. Two dogs also guarded the road. At first, Ilene was wary of the dogs, since they barked as we approached, and since she had been lunged at rather surprisingly by the dog accompanying a group of teenagers heading downhill with loads of firewood. These dogs were actually among the most inquisitive and playful and just the happiest dogs I’ve seen in a long time. They quickly upgraded themselves in our book from mean dogs to friendly chuchos. They even stood guard while I used the bathroom at the sauna.


Well, we had arrived. We paid for our hour of sauna use to the proprietor, a man in a baseball cap and teeshirt who infuriatingly spoke to us in pidgin Spanish the entire time. We went down to the rooms below to change into our swimsuits and enter the very hot sauna.



Neither one of us had been in a sauna before, and we enjoyed the experience. I didn’t enjoy hitting my head on the low concrete lintel of the doorway, and Ilene didn’t enjoy seeing a pair of roaches, but all in all, we’re glad we got to experience it. The sauna wasn’t just plain steam either as the owner had placed eucalyptus leaves, perhaps leaves from the trees we had passed on our way up, over the vents, making the sauna feel like a cross between a hot shower ad vaporub. Our lungs which have been plagued by the smog and dust of Xela felt cleared out and simply wonderful. Naomi said that she found the vahos cleansing, and we had chalked her choice of words up to her being more than a bit of a hippie, but I think she spoke accurately.

Our hour up, the proprietor came to the door tapping his watch and saying “Tiempo, tiempo”. No Spanish speaker would use that word to say that our time was up, they’d instead tap their watches and say “la hora”. Then as we finished getting dressed, reluctantly putting our dusty socks over our clean feet, he stood in the doorway being creepy.

The chuchos came along with us as we walked back down the road, the air feeling comparatively cold and the breeze drying us off. Then they stood at attention in the road and then happily ran after the SUV driven by who we can only assume was their owner that came up the hill.



Once back in town, our tired legs demanded to be relieved of our weight, but first we stopped to buy some wine for our attempt at making charoset, and some beer for good measure. The wine was cheap and suitably oversweetened, and by the clerk’s inability to do math, we got four bottles of Brahva for the price of one. We also followed up on our boss Marilu’s suggestion that we pick up some paches from the Hotel Americano. Given the name of the place, we’d never have gone their by ourselves, and befitting their name, they actually had Budweiser on the menu, making it the only place that I’ve seen an American beer offered in Guatemala. They don’t even have a reliable selection of Mexican beers, even in Tilapa which is a handful of miles from the border.

The paches were big tamales made with rice to which raisins, olives, and what we think are dates added to the mix. And there was also a sizeable piece of chicken which had been steamed in the corn-leaf wrapped tamal. We were so surprised that this only cost us Q7.50 each. Between this and the cashier’s failing to note that four beers should cost much more than Q7.75, the Gods of Cheap Food were smiling upon us. Too bad we probably won’t have any more Saturday nights in this town, because this could easily have become a tradition of ours.

Then we went home and made some charoset for dessert and listened to some Beatles while our Lutheran landlords sat in their small room below us and sang hymns. What a day.


Okay, this is Ilene again. I would just like to add that
1. the cockroaches were huge!
2. I have finished weaving my scarf:



It is pretty.
3.There is a fruit here called the zapote. The inside is orange and doesn’t look unlike pumpkin.
4.The week’s work is pretty much over since the Holy Week is upon us. We’re headed to the little town of Salcajá tomorrow for a day trip.
5.Wednesday we’re headed north of the border to Mexico (crazy that it’s north and not south, huh? I’ll say.)—staying the first night in Comitán and then onward to San Cristóbal de las Casas, all in Chiapas. Ay de mí.
6.Happy Passover… and April!