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!
San Marcos is known as a bit of a draw for the new-age traveller, so I wasn’t surprised to see signs all over offering everything from yoga to meditation to healing massage to lessons in reiki to accommodations in the shape of pyramids with their four points coinciding with those of the compass. Long hair, wispy tie-dye, and bare feet was the dress code, apparently, and shaving was frowned upon, for either sex. Rooms were cheap, food was healthy, and the atmosphere one of quiet contemplation. I actually liked it.
In the mornings, I swam and sunbathed off the rocks that cascaded into the clear, calm water that lapped the shore, and spent my afternoons downing strawberry liquados and tofu burgers.
wailing voice accompanied at times by a chanting crowd. As the singing approached, I was delighted to see a procession coming my way, consisting of a large group of locals, the women in matching purple traditional dress, the men bearing on their shoulders a statue of Jesus carrying a cross. They solemnly wound their way around the lane before turning right and disappearing up the hill, the voices still resounding. I managed to steal a few shots as the parade went away.
going to, I came across an English girl, Clare, who talked me into attending a special ceremony taking place on a nearby hilltop to celebrate the eve of the Mayan new year. How could I say no? We trekked up the rocky path and soon stumbled across the bonfire ringed by Mayan priests and new-age travellers who were focused on the flames as they listened to each other make speeches that were translated for the rest of us by a greying lady in ankle-length tie-dye with matching bandana.
The onlookers were taking the event very seriously, but I became more fascinated by the fireflies that flashed like neon beacons in the grass and trees around the semi-meditative crowd. I was impressed when, at one point, one of the priests talked about the importance and benefit of having canine companions and, as he spoke, a dog walked out of the darkness and stood by his side as though to press the point. The priest seemed tickled too.
One seemingly very important priest, who had fasted for five days to protect us from the evils that abound during the shortest month that marks the end of the Mayan calendar, lectured the audience on the rituals that should accompany the coming of a new year. He suggested cutting one’s hair, shaving, and taking a shower to mark this important new beginning—not unwise words given the audience.
The last time I came to Guatemala, about thirteen years ago, I came to Lake Atitlan but only stayed at Panajachel for one night. I thought I’d seen the best of the area, as Pana, as the locals call it, is the most visited town on the lake. But I had missed the point: Lake Atitlan’s draw is it’s calming tranquility, and I wasn’t going to find that in its busiest town. So I was kind of happy this time to be forced to try some of the other villages that nestled lakeside in the volcanoes’ shadow.
I liked San Pedro. There were cafes and restaurants I could happily have stayed in for days, with colourful furnishings, natural settings, music to lounge to, and some fantastic vegetarian food. I stayed two nights, and spent most of my time relaxing in D’Noz, a popular dockside restaurant that offered not only free wireless Internet, but Marmite sandwiches to boot. Canoeists quietly paddled the water beyond my laptop screen, while lancha pilots called out their destination to beckon stragglers to board. There was no room for improvement; I had found my paradise.
I have learned from my travels so far that, no matter how much I like a place and want to stay, there is a destination just down the road that will please me just as much while also offering something a little different. But still I was quite sad the morning I decided to head out. I sat on D’Noz balcony and enjoyed the lake view, the breeze, and a flurry of cheeky sparrows who came one by one to take advantage of a bowl of sugar that was lacking a secure lid. I bade them farewell as I finished my breakfast and limonada and traipsed downstairs to the dock to haggle a ride to San Marcos, known to be the hippiest of hangouts on the lake.
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.
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.
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.
After helping Mariachi feed the iguanas and turtles and fixing up a wall to separate one iguana from some young caimans who’d attacked him during the night, I asked Mariachi what else I could do. He led me to the hammocks, explaining that there would be more work tomorrow, as we’d be rebuilding the fronded roof of the turtle cemetery. I decided to head back to Monterrico to check my email, find a lost towel, and grab a soyburger and banana liquado at Johnny’s.
For the next three hours we sat, enthralled by the performance that we felt was put on for those of us who stayed to enjoy the real Monterrico. The spouts and breaches continued across the vista, culminating in a lengthy and intensive display of fluke-smacking that had us all shouting ‘Wow!’ in unison. I ordered another liquado to celebrate our fortunate sighting, and contemplated the amazing sights I had seen in this country, and in such a short time, particularly in and around Monterrico.
