After my cold experience in Xela, I am eager to get to someplace warm. It takes me only a few seconds to decide on my next move: I’m going back to Lake Atitlan.
The trip to the lake starts auspiciously, but not the way I hope. I’d strapped my little bag under the top flap of my backpack, but after a block of walking it slips out. Inside are my valuables and breakables: SLR camera (which isn’t working anyway), laptop, and iPod, along with several unbreakable but important items. I pick it up from the street and keep going.
I arrive five minutes early, and the shuttle arrives ten minutes late. Its nearly full, and I sit across from an older lady from Colorado, who is in Central America to teach beekeeping to natives. She’s just come from El Salvador, and speaks lovingly of the people and beauty there (I fought the temptation to write she droned on, as a bee pun). She tells us as much as I ever wanted to know about bees, and even shows me most of her pictures. Her enthusiasm for her craft is such that I find it all fascinating, and am glad to listen.
When we get to Panajachel, the air is much clearer than the last time I was here, and the views across the lake are incredible. It’s almost like coming home again. I’m dropped off right by the docks and jump on a lancha to San Marcos, which is on the north shore of the lake.
In the fifteen minutes that I wait, no one else joins us on the boat, so the driver reluctantly unties the bow rope and off we go. They prefer full boats, but most people are headed to San Pedro this morning. Along the way we stop at any dock that has a person on it, shuttling people between villages. The terrain is such that travel by water is faster than by land.
About twenty minutes later we pull up to the docks at San Marcos. I very much like arriving in town by boat: it’s the next best thing to walking in. The main drag is a wide sidewalk here, covered in places by a lovely arbor. Art adorns the walls along they way. I instantly like this town.
After dropping my bag off at my hostel, I go for a walk further into town. San Marcos is a funky mix of about 50% yoga/Eastern spiritualistic retreats, 25% tourist trap, and 25% Guatemala. Once a quiet corner of the lake, it has become a magnet for those seeking yoga sessions, shaman training, and dairy-free pesto sandwiches. The last was a real attraction for me.
The street, if you can call it that, is filled with tourists, hippies, and locals selling their wares. The air is filled with the smell of patchouli, cannabis, and Western food. Famished after a light breakfast, I stop in a fancy cafe and order a green smoothie and a sandwich. The seating area is one of those low-slung affairs, with people sitting on the ground at tables that are a foot high. Kind of like when I sit and eat at my coffee table at home.
The food, though, is delicious. In fact, I’ve encountered few difficulties maintaining my vegan diet down here. The places I’ve been to are well-enough traveled that vegan food is nearly always an option; most of the time it consists of asking them to leave the cheese off of a dish. And to me, it’s better than eating the fried food that seems to make up a lot of the street food here. Lord knows I ate plenty of that when I visited Peru and Ecuador ten years ago.
After lunch I wander around town some more. Near the covered basketball court, a young local woman comes up to me. Her eyes are bloodshot, as if she’d been crying, and she speaks to me in a quiet voice. She asks my name first, then starts into her story. She holds my hand the whole time, though she is so quiet that I can barely hear or understand her.
Catalina is her name, and though I don’t comprehend much of what she is saying, the pain in her eyes is real. Her suffering is my suffering, too, and I give her all the loose money in my pocket, which isn’t much, but will buy a meal. She thanks me and wanders off towards the west end of town.
My heart heavy, I walk down to the waterfront, and find a place on the beach to sit and read for a few hours. Because of the rising waters of the lake, there isn’t much beach: just a few feet of sand, with rounded stones at the waterline.
I find a rock to sit on, and after a few minutes a street dog comes over and lays down several feet behind me. I reach to pet it, but it cowers and retreats another foot. I wish I had some food for it, but all I have is my journal, my camera, and a book.
Lingering there for a few hours, I read and stare across the lake towards Volcan San Pedro. I even wade into the water up to my knees, which feels good in the afternoon heat. I am glad to be back here at Lake Atitlan.
After I check into my room, I feel that I need to do something physical: I’ve been sitting on buses, boats, and the beach all day. I put on my running clothes and shoes, then head out to the east side of town. The pavement lasts for only a few hundred feet before turning to a fine dust. Tuk-tuks labor up the small hills, kicking up dust. The views out across the lake are quite nice, though, and after about ten minutes I feel much better. Down the road a bit further there’s a pullout, so I drop and do some pushups, then head back to town.
With so many trees, the town is great for birdwatching. After a snack, I fetch my binoculars and go for a walk along the west side of town. With the sun setting, the activity is picking up, and I keep my head on a swivel as I saunter along.
I hear San Marcos is a party town, but after a burrito supper at seven that evening, I retire to room to shower and write. In the trees above the courtyard a Mexican Whippoorwill calls—the first time I’ve ever heard one. It’s a lovely, buzzy call, much more pleasant than the bass I hear pumping from a nearby restaurant. I put in ear plugs so I can get to sleep that night.
The next morning I wake up before dawn, and eagerly listen to the birds singing outside my room. I open my door to the cool air, and sit on my doorstep with binoculars. After my bird walk around town last night, I feel ready to do some real birding again.
Even though the new pair of binoculars I got in Xela is pretty shoddy, they are still better than nothing. I still can’t get my camera to work, so I don’t have any other options.
I watch as a Grayish Saltator (my first) chews on the leaves of a rhododendron just a few yards away, which is unique behavior for birds. Most eat insects or seeds, not plants.
The sunlight filtering down through the trees makes for a promising start to the day. Eager to get moving, I get dressed to take a quick morning bird walk.
The path to the west looks like a good bet for birds, so I head that way. The usual Grackles are calling from the trees, but the Inca Doves on the ground are quite striking. The last time I saw them was on the Gulf Coast of Florida four years ago. I admire the distinct scaling on their backs, then move on.
Being so involved in the birds, I scarcely notice the passersby who are giving me a wide berth, even on the narrow path. To them I’m just another weirdo in a town full of them.
Near the beach I watch some Violet-green Swallows searching for bugs above the surface of the lake. Looking up, I see many more above the treetops, and above them, the Black Vultures are starting to circle on the thermals.
As I pass an open volleyball court, I see a small dog sitting near a wall on the opposite side of the lot. I walk over to it and see that it is chewing on the top of a pineapple, as well as a stick. As I approach she rolls over on her back, letting me rub her belly. She is a mutt of unknown breed, like most of the street dogs I’ve seen.
After a few seconds of petting, she starts to lightly chew on my hands—a puppy playing. I tease her and pinch her checks and play tug of war with the stick. Her little tail wags quickly. It occurs to me that eight years ago today I brought home a dog, my crazy Catahoula. He wasn’t too different from this pup.
I decide to head back to the hostel for breakfast, and invite the puppy to go with me. She stands up, but thinks twice and lays back down to her toys. I start walking.
In a vacant lot around the corner from my place, a motion in one of the bushes catches my eye. I’m too slow with the binos to see it, so I look around before another bird catches my eye.
I quickly glass over to it and I’m stunned by what I see: a blue head and a red breast. I inhale sharply. There is only one bird in all of North America with that coloration, and it is the bird I most want to see: a Painted Bunting.
And now I am looking at one.
Painted Buntings do migrate to the Southern United States, but aren’t especially common. I’ve gone looking for them in my brief visits to the South during migration season, but never had “the joy”, as British birders say.
So I am thrilled to be seeing one from twenty feet away. It stays still for a bit, then turns to its right, giving me a great look at its yellow-green back. Even in the shade, it is a brilliantly-colored bird. My face has turned into a big, nerdy grin.
After it flies away, I stand for a few moments, awestruck. I had hoped to see one on this trip, but had let that expectation drop after losing my nice binoculars early on. Now I feel like I’ve gotten something back.
I let out a loud “Ha!” as I turn to walk away. An older man walking by flinches away from me, but I just keep smiling and keep going. In a town with potable drugs in use every day, I imagine this isn’t the strangest thing he’s seen.
But I don’t care. I’ve seen the bird I’ve most wanted to see.
For breakfast, I walk up the main drag to find some produce. This is one of my favorite parts about this country: being able to find so much fresh fruit. I buy some small bananas and a sweet pepper for a light breakfast. I then go back to the hostel to eat and to message my wife about the Painted Bunting.
It’s after eight, but not many people are up and moving, so it is quiet in the sitting area. I take several bites of the pepper before realizing that it isn’t a sweet one: it is hot. Very hot.
The front desk clerk walks by and looks at the pepper, then at me. He asks if I know it’s a hot pepper, and tell him I know now. I can feel the blood rushing to my face; sweat is already forming on my forehead. I take a drink of water and wait to see if the heat will intensify. Fortunately, it doesn’t get any hotter, but it doesn’t cool down, either. A couple of bites from a banana and my mouth stops burning.
Once breakfast is done, I go to Cerro Tzankujil (a park on the west end of town) to look for more birds. Even though it’s only nine, the air is quickly heating up, sending the birds to perch quietly in the shade.
The park has a nice loop trail that takes off up the hill. There’s an overlook at the top that is supposed to have the best view of the lake in town, so I slowly work my way up there while glassing the trees.
At the spot is a small carved rock, a relic from Mayan Times. There is also a fire ring that looks well-used. I can see why this spot is used for ceremonies: the view is indeed fantastic, with the volcanoes to the south clearly visible, as is much of the rest of the lake.
I stand off to one side as I group comes up the trail. They have a guide who explains the significance of the site. I take a break from watching swallows to glance over at the group: one of the guys in kneeling by the fire ring, his head on a rock. I am equally impressed the sincerity of his act as by the ridiculousness of it. It seems so fitting in this town, though.
And that’s why I can never go full hippie: I just can’t take myself that seriously. I have to have one foot on the ground, spiritually-speaking.
I return to birdwatching for a few more minutes before heading down the trail towards the lake. As I look for a dove I hear calling, I look up the hill to see a flash of blue and green. I lift the binos just in time to see the red breast catch the sunlight, and for the second time today, I am looking at a Painted Bunting. Now, it is shining brightly in the sun, and I am excited once again. What a day this is turning out to be!
I meander along the lakeside trail, stopping to watch some other tourists vault themselves off a twenty-foot high platform into the emerald water of the lake. I am tempted, but not enough to do it.
With the day heating up and my belly rumbling, I return to town for lunch and to read for a few hours.
Around four that afternoon I decide to go for a run. I need to run. I put on my faithful running shoes, which have run three Spartan races, been to both Idaho’s and Central America’s highest peaks, and many miles in the Boise Foothills. I run the same route as the day before, preferring to stay off pavement as much as possible.
It has been overcast all afternoon, which makes the air much more pleasant. At the edge of town I start into a trot, and gradually build up to a comfortable pace. I pass a few people along the way, but have the road to myself for most of the time. I stop to admire a Rose-breasted Grosbeak and a Blue-gray Tanager in the same tree, birds I had never seen until I came to Lake Atitlan. As I continue on, a Blue-and-white Mockingbird calls from a nearby bush.
A local dog joins me for the next several hundred yards, and for the second time today I think of my dog. I wish he were here to run with me.
After the dog–some kind of Golden Retriever Mix–leaves me, I reach a good turnaround point and start back towards town. I’m feeling warmed up, and pick up the pace. I’m getting hungry and the thought of the bananas I have back in my room are suddenly appealing.
I slow to a walk as soon as I reach the edge of town and the pavement. As I walk down the main path, a gringa smiles and even laughs at me. With my long hair, beard, and skimpy running shorts, this is a common reaction for people who see me, but I don’t mind. I smile back and keep going. At the turnoff for my hostel, I opt to go straight, down to the dock.
Violet-green Swallows are swooping over the water, putting on a show for the folks waiting on a boat to Panajachel. I watch their aerobatics for a few minutes, then jump down to the beach. Skeletons of old docks extend out into the water, and the remains of tree stumps stand as silent testimony to the rising lake level.
Soon I reach the stretch of beach I’d been to yesterday. Several couples are scattered along its expanse. The beach itself isn’t particularly inviting, just some gray sand with shingle. I watch a Great Egret pose elegantly on a stump, as it looks over the water. A Green Heron, perhaps the first I’ve ever seen, takes flight to the east as I walk.
Beside my feet is a salmon-colored rock that really stands out against the sand. Although a rock hound of only the most amateur kind, I pick it up for a closer look. Despite the volcanic peaks around me, it is a sedimentary rock, filled with tiny bits of other rock. It is simply beautiful.
It occurs to me that this rock was shaped by pressure over a long period of time to be this striking. And it’s helps me put in perspective all the pressures and stresses that have shaped me to be the man I am right now.
As I stare at the rock in my palm, I think of all the fears and anxieties I’ve had on this trip, then all the ones from my life back in the States. When it’s all there, I throw the rock as far as I can into the lake. I laugh as I hear the small splash, and watch the small ripples disappear into the waves.
Then I head to my hostel, taking the back way.
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