Monterrico

It’s always difficult to once more pack your bags and move on from a place that you really enjoyed and are not yet anywhere near tiring of. I felt sad leaving Antigua for Hound Heights, the same when heading back, and once more when departing Antigua for Monterrico. But always I’d been rewarded with a just-as-enjoyable experience at my latest locale, and my most recent stop didn’t let the side down.

A sleepy Pacific-side village by day, the popular beach resort comes alive at night with green bellies* and foreigners alike, who descend every weekend upon the bars and restaurants in their hundreds to enjoy the fresh seafood and air, convivial vibe, and endless stream of beachside reggae, bachata, and salsa.

The volcanic beach here, like the atmosphere, heats up as the day progresses, its ashen grains absorbing the rays the way the greying Americans sop up cheap rum cocktails. By early afternoon, it’s too hot to go barefoot, and the rolling ocean appeals for its cooling-off properties more than it scares by its thunderous swell. As I hotfooted it down to the ocean, my attention was drawn to some commotion centred on a recently arrived outboard. A svelte young blonde woman in sunglasses and a tiny black bikini had also risen from her sun-soaking to see what was going on. We agreed to check it out together.

As we neared the fishing vessel, the cause of all the lively interest became very apparent as four guys struggled to lift their catch, a huge manta ray that equalled the men in height as they raised the whopper head-first from the sand. It was enormous. I was in awe of the beast, and at first pitied him, for just a short time before he was gliding along beneath the olas or skimming the sea floor without a care in the world, and now here he was, destined for the dinner table. But then I realised that, if all animals had the freedoms he had up until the moment he met his baker, there would be far less suffering in the world. I wished him well, reminded him to be thankful he wasn’t factory farmed, and bade him farewell as I escorted the bikini-clad blonde back to our towels.

Her name was Kristine, and she had just moved from her native Denmark to Antigua to set up an organisation to raise awareness about water (I’ll expand on that bit once I have clarification from the lady herself). I was very interested to hear that she had made, for her thesis some years before, a documentary about the 15,000 people living off a huge garbage dump on the outskirts of Guatemala City. I was enthralled and appalled as she told me how people built homes from the garbage, ate from the garbage, sold their bodies among the garbage, and gave birth to and raised children in the garbage. I realised the importance of what someone had explained to me a week or so before: that we had no hopes nor right to increase the level of animal welfare in this country until we had first lifted the well-being of people from the abject depths at which some of them languish.

Kristine and her friends, Casimah and Jenna, and I hung out for the weekend, along with Matt, one of the Canadian guys I spent time with when I first arrived in Antigua. It was relaxing fun, as most of our time was spent on the beach, or in a café supping liquados and scoffing soyburgers. Jenna, the mother of one of Kristine’s friends, like myself couldn’t bear to look at the seven parrots in a tiny cage and started a whipround to build them a flight cage, which the hotel management agreed to. The cage should be built this week. Bless her.

Saturday evening, we danced a little in the sand, and I did my best to teach the ladies a little salsa as the only customers at one of the quieter beach bars. Salsa makes sense here, as does bachata, and the mariachi that set the pace for Sunday night Sumpango, and the Cuban rhythms in Antigua. It matches the local mood so much better than the hectic, conservative lifestyle of Taipei. I promised I’d meet the girls for real salsa lessons in Antigua early next week if my next stop didn’t work out. I clearly needed to refresh my repertoire of moves and turns, but the women, in their naivety, thought I did pretty well, bless them. I let them keep that misguided thought.

After sharing a surprisingly tasty late night snack, with chili-soaked carrots and garlic to counter any bad bacteria, a good night’s sleep ensued. Breakfast was spent exchanging contact information and badgering other hotel guests to chip in a few quetzales for the new parrot cage. We said our good-byes over late lunch at Johnny’s, and I ventured out onto Calle Principal to watch the world stroll by while awaiting the bus that would take me the bumpy, sandy road to Hawaii ... Hawaii, Guatemala, that is.

* a translation of vientres verdes, a term Guatemalans use to refer to themselves, as lovers of the locally abundant avacados