Far from the Madding Crowd

I caught the 6.00 am shuttle that took me and my fellow travellers on a rolling, windy road through the Western Highlands before finally descending toward the magical and mystical Lake Atitlan. Looked down upon by a ring of mountains and volcanoes, Atitlan is one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, and yields ample crops of coffee beans and corn around its fertile shores. Native Guatemalans who populate the lakeside and mountain villages maintain a mixture of Catholic and traditional Mayan customs, and many, particularly the women, still adorn themselves in traditional, richly textile costumes. The air is clean, the lake usually clear and calm, and the atmosphere one of intoxicating relaxation.

We pulled into Panajachel, the largest town on the lake, and I set about finding a cheap but comfortable hotel room and exploring the cafes and shops that lined the road leading to and along the lakeside. Panajachel was once a hippy hangout, and therefore--luckily for me--healthy, organic, vegetarian fare was easy to find, so I settled into a colourful roadside cafe and studied my guidebook over an extremely refreshing limonada.

I got talking to a British woman, Susan, who had family in my hometown of Folkestone, and I struggled to put faces to some of the relatives she named. Then she asked if I'd heard about the violent disturbances in Solola, a popular market village about 10 kilometers away over the mountains. I had heard something, but Susan filled me in on the details: apparently, four kidnappers were caught by the police there, but the locals, tired of a corrupt legal system that doesn't protect them or their children from criminals with connections, stormed the police station, wanting to lynch the accused. The police managed to contain the trouble but not the discontent, which was threatening to spill over to the neighbouring town, Panajachel, as the kidnappers were to be transferred to a jail there today. Rumours were milling among the maddening mob that the criminals were to receive a light sentence, and frustrations manifested themselves in violence once more. The word on the street was that we were to be vigilant and stay well away from the town centre.

As Susan escorted me to a cafe with wireless Internet connection, someone shouted out to me from a roadside cafe; it was Matt, the Canadian guy I had also bumped into I Antigua and Monterrico, again! I said a quick hello, promised to email some photos, and carried on towards the Wifi cafe. As I sat there, checking on my email, I noticed that people were starting to vacate the building and store owners were hurriedly pulling down the steel shutters. Mitchell, a Los Angelesean I had chatted to many times in Antigua, walked in, and I explained we may have cause for concern here. Susan came back to explain that trouble may be on its way, and as we walked out onto the street, a large convoy of police vehicles underlined her point. The corner, usually a-bustle with buses and passengers, was eerily abandoned.

As we walked back towards the lake, life seemed to be carrying on as normal, so we wondered whether we really needed to be so concerned. Mitchell headed off to his hotel and I remained wandering around the streets, but the atmosphere was clearly changing. I noticed that almost everyone seemed to be crowding around radios that were blaring out news reports of the approaching and potentially violent demonstration. An oldish man in a brown shirt ran down from the town centre signalling that people should leave, and vendors hurriedly put away their wares and began closing up shop and bringing down the shutters. Some foreigners I spoke to uttered that we should all return to our hotels and stay put as they hurried past to flag down a taxi or tuk-tuk.

There was a definite tension in the air when Mitchell returned. A couple of restaurant workers told us that probably nothing would happen, but we should keep our wits about us; other expats told us that we should really hole ourselves up in our hotels as you never know what an angry, frustrated, and intolerant mob might do. We had to make a decision.

I considered staying and taking photographs, but then I remembered how foreign photographers had been a popular target for maddening crowds in recent years, so I put my camera away and decided another course of action would be wiser. Concerned that we may be stuck in a town where, at worst, machete-wielding mobs might wreak havoc, or, at best, all the shops, bars, and restaurants would be boarded up for the rest of the night, I decided to take the lead and gave the order to run away.

We got our bags and met down by the jetties where boat owners ply their taxiing trade, and finally got one who'd take us across the lake for our price; strangely, the previously calm lake had become choppy, and the sky, clouded over. We endured a bumpy and damp ride for 40 minutes before reaching the far side of the water. So, here I am, in San Pedro, an extremely laid-back, friendly, lakeside town that smells of warm, damp, coffee beans, and also a strange, smoky aroma that seems to emanate from swinging hammocks.

I'll be touring the villages that dot the lake shore while waiting for some people to get in touch to meet up, and will stay here until I'm sure the mobs have gone back to their villages and taken their machetes and pitchforks with them. Nothing happens in these sleepy towns, so maybe just expect some images over the next few days (I'll be adding pics to my currently photo-less blog entries, so do check back for that).

Adios!