The lady at the laundry shop won’t give me my clothes back. The last boat to my next destination leaves in fifteen minutes, and this woman is holding my clean clothes hostage until I produce a receipt. I can see them in a basket behind the counter.
Unfortunately for me, I checked out of my hotel hours ago, and the receipt probably went into the trash. We argue for precious whole minutes before she finally calls the owner, who releases my clothes.
As she is on the phone, a very young boy teeters toward the open stairway down to the street, and I take his hand and point him away from the opening. He gives me the goofiest grin I’ve seen in weeks, and stomps toward the other children.
With my clothes in hand, I jog down the main drag of San Marcos to the dock, where I catch a shuttle to Santa Cruz. I’ve decided to spend a few days in an upscale place before I leave Atitlan behind.
Santa Cruz is a serene village on the northern shore of Lake Atitlan. My hotel, La Iguana Perdida (The Lost Iguana), sits beside the town dock, at the foot of a steep hill that rises up to the rest of the town.
After checking in, I wander around the grounds and waterfront. While I wait for the communal supper to be served, I read on the patio overlooking the lake. It is hazy and overcast, but still a pleasant view. I am glad to have a place on the lake itself.
On the patio at La Iguana Perdida. The haze has obscured most of the volcanoes, but it’s still a lovely view.
After supper I head outside to sit on a patio, hoping to see some stars. Though it is still overcast, the air is pleasant and the sound of the lake waves lapping at the docks is lovely. I retire to my room and open the window, which faces the waterfront. I can still hear the lake as I climb into bed.
The next morning I’m a tired mess: the sounds of open mic night at the hotel kept me up past one o’clock, and the boats started up around five. Even with earplugs the noise was too much for me to sleep.
Around six I get out of bed to meditate, then walk down to the docks. Townspeople are already bustling about, loading up on boats bound for other towns on the lake. The sun is already lighting the volcanoes across the lake, and soon breaks over the distant ridge reach Santa Cruz.
As the warm light reaches me I can feel the fatigue and grouchiness start to leave me. I want it to be a good day, as it is my birthday. Today I turn 39.
Breakfast doesn’t start till eight, so I wander around the hotel grounds, looking at birds and finding a sunny corner of the patio where I can do yoga. I am feeling better every minute, and fresh coffee and a plate of fruit a while later makes for wonderful start to the day.
By mid-morning I am ready to venture out into the town above, and the hills beyond. There’s not much to the town itself, and I enjoy walking through the narrow cobbled streets. I stop to watch the schoolkids play at recess, which takes place in a concrete courtyard near an old church. The girls are wearing traditional dresses, but that doesn’t hinder them from playing an aggressive game of soccer.
Feeling hungry, I walk down to a local cooking school, which occupies the tallest building in town. It’s only four stories, but on the steep hillside it towers over the other buildings and has a spectacular view of the lake. I find a place outside on the patio and order pepian, a traditional stew made from a tomato base with spices, cacao, and veggies. It is the most delicious meal I’ve had in Guatemala, and I tell the staff so after I finish.
Birthday lunch of pepian at Cafe Sabor Cruceno.
With the day turning hot, I opt not to go on a hike, and instead go back to the lakeside. The water looks too inviting, so I change into my swimming/running shorts and walk a short ways away from the docks to a small section of beach where I can swim.
Even though the water temperature is in the high 60s, it takes my breath away as I plunge into it. I swim a few yards out before darting back to the shore. I stand in the warm sunshine for a few minutes before a second round in the water, which is equally cold but even more exhilarating.
On the way back to hotel I pass a boulder that has a small nook on top, which turns out to accommodate my wet bum quite nicely. The warmth of the rock feels wonderful, and I laze in the sunshine while I dry. There’s nowhere I have to be right now, except here, and I am content to gaze across the lake and stare at the volcanoes.
Feeling drowsy, I later wander back to the hotel for a short nap in one of the many hammocks. By the time I feel like getting up, clouds have moved in, bringing the haze with them. Still, it is pleasant to sit outside and read and watch the birds in the courtyard.
Just like last evening, I have chips and salsa in the late afternoon on the patio. A young man from England joins me, and we spend the next several hours solving all of the world’s problems before we are called to supper. Though I had wanted to be alone, I am grateful for the company and the conversation.
The communal supper is delicious, though not as tasty as my lunch. Over the blaring music of David Bowie I try to talk with the other folks seated at my table. One of the couples has been living in Mexico for the past six months, and the more they talk about it the more I want to go.
This night, there is no open mic night, so it is quiet as I retire to my room. It has not been the most exciting day of the trip, but it has been one of the most satisfying.
And though I love it here at Lake Atitlan, I am ready to move on. The main Mayan ruins are up north, and tomorrow I am going there.
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 Bunting. Photo by Stephen Pollard.
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.
The beachfront in San Marcos, looking across Lake Atitlan at Volcan San Pedro.
Right off the bat I violate one of the cardinal rules of travel: never get in a car with strangers at night unless it’s a taxi. But as the car stops across the street from my hostel, they ask if I’m going to Tajamulco, the mountain I had signed up to climb by moonlight. I said I was, and got in the back of their old Toyota sedan.
I was told that I’d be picked up shortly after 10:00 pm; it is now nearly 11:00. Alarm bells are going off in my head, as this is how people get kidnapped. I test the door handle, and it moves.
Secondly, I roll the window down. So far so good. If anything, I figure I can take the two men up front, unless they have a gun or knife.
I ask where we are going, and they tell me to pick up other passengers. But I have no idea where they might be, so I keep my right hand on the door handle in case I see anything suspicious. It is late, and I am cranky and God help them if they try anything.
A few minutes’ drive brings us to the front of another hostel, where a young couple is waiting. That makes me feel better, though after we go for another person I’m not pleased about being squeezed in the back of a small car with four other people, especially if it’s going to be for the two and a half hour drive to the trailhead.
This issue is soon resolved when we pull in front of another building and transfer to an actual shuttle bus. Two other men are already in the back, and a driver and guide sit up front. Then we are off into the night, heading for the highest peak in Central America.
Volcan Tajamulco is northwest of Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. It’s not far as the crow flies, but the road conditions make all travel in this country much slower. It’s a blessing when we leave the cobblestone for pavement, although it is full of potholes.
I speak briefly with the two men and one woman who are sitting in front of me. They are Americans, and here for a month to work on their Spanish. Also, they are all training to be doctors. I suppose that might come in handy if anyone gets hurt while on the mountain.
The other couple is from Germany and Holland, respectively. We had introduced ourselves in the back of the Toyota earlier: Elena and Frank. The Americans are Alex (the woman), Bradley, and Matt.
The ride is far too bumpy to get in much of nap, though we all try. I wince as I see Bradley’s head smack the window as the driver swerves to avoid a speed bump. It’s a long, uncomfortable ride, but at least it’s not in one of the chicken buses.
I’d watched the sky in Quetzaltenango through the afternoon, and was not encouraged by increasing clouds and what looked to be high winds aloft. But Tajamulco is a ways from there, and I hoped the weather will be more agreeable there.
Our guide turns the cabin light on as we get close to the trailhead. I take off my light hoodie and replace it with a light rainproof windbreaker. I put the hoodie in my small backpack, which also holds a synthetic down jacket, two liters of water, a beanie, a pair of gloves, a pair of binoculars, a Clif Bar, and a banana. I hope it will last me the expected 8-9 hour round trip to the summit.
Stepping out of the shuttle bus, I am dismayed, but not surprised to feel the wind blowing just as hard as it had back in town. I pull out my gloves, and put the beanie at the top of the bag. Under the windbreaker, I’m wearing only a thin t-shirt, so I feel the chill right away. I’m also wearing convertible pants with longjohns underneath.
I didn’t bring much clothing to Central America, and what I have with me tonight is most of it. I’m also wearing light wool socks in my trail running shoes, which offer no insulation but are sure comfortable and light.
After our guide Carlos introduces himself, he gives a brief speech in Spanish, most of which I understand. Basically, it’ll be windy up top, and we will hike steadily, but not fast. He then shoulders his pack, and the driver wishes us good luck as we begin. It is 1:30 a.m.
The top of Tajamulco is at 4222 meters, and according to my watch, we are starting at just over 3000. Translated into imperial units, that is 13,852 and 9843 feet, respectively. It’s going to be a long night.
The first part of the trail is actually a cobblestone road, which soon turns into a dirt two-track. I’d imagined we’d be hiking in the forest, but instead we’re in the open, subject to the biting wind. Though the full moon is out, it is diffused by the cloud cover. Most of the others walk with flashlights, though I opt not to.
We cover the first half of the elevation gain quickly. As long as we keep moving, I stay warm. But as we continue from there we go through a series of tree stands, all of which are dripping with water. The trail is wet and my shoes and socks soon are, too. The moisture does nothing to cheer me, adding insult to injury.
Plus, it’s getting later and later into the night and my mind is becoming more foggy. I feel as if I have plastic wrap around my brain. I start to question my motives for doing this, for subjecting myself to such discomfort. I knew it wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but this feels like torture.
The elevation doesn’t seem to bother me as much as the cold does. My hands grow numb, despite fleece gloves, but I still feel too warm in my core to put on another layer—I don’t want to sweat through anything else. I try to convince myself that I can’t get frostbite if isn’t above freezing, which it barely is.
And so the hours drag on. We stop periodically, to let everyone catch up, and I wonder if any of the others are as miserable as me.
The good thing about the cloud cover is that we can’t see the terrain ahead: it is lost in the fog. I can only look at the altimeter on my watch for reference, and it seems we are crawling our way up to the summit.
After what seems like an eternity, Frank asks the guide how much further we have. I notice that we have passed the 4000 meter mark, so I hope it isn’t long. The guide says it’d take him an hour, but the rest of us two. I laugh at the absurdity of it, and the guide reassures us it’s only about an hour. It is around 4:00 a.m.
I don’t feel reassured, as I am starting to shiver. I move to put on another layer, but the rest of the group starts hiking again. Oh well. The only heartening thing is when I can see some stars through a break in the clouds directly overhead.
At our next step our guide motions for us to look behind us, where we see a ring of light, a kind of rainbow made by the moonlight. It’s pretty, but in a distant way. My mind is too cold and tired to care about much of anything besides fantasies of hot beverages and warm showers.
Soon I can tell that we are getting close. The clouds are now below us, and I can see only one more small rise to go. I feel very little joy when we reach the top, and I start looking for a shelter from the wind. Our guide leads us to one along a small cliff where we huddle on the frosty ground.
It is just before 5, and the sun won’t come up for another hour and a half. I don’t know how I will make it. As I sit between the others, I am shivering, and can’t feel my hands or feet. But getting up into the wind to stomp my feet and clap my hands seems like a poor option. The guide offers me an extra pair of pants, but I tell him I don’t need them—it’s not my legs that are cold.
As we sit and shiver, Carlos scouts out the area just below us, which he says is even more out of the wind. When I climb down there, I find he’s right, and I start doing everything I can to get warm again. The three Americans and I find a rock to sit together on, and commiserate about this experience. Alex breaks out some banana bread and offers it around, though I refuse because I don’t want to take my gloves off to eat it. I’m not hungry, anyway.
Light begins to fill the eastern sky about 5:45, and quickly brightens the frigid mountaintop. If only the volcano were still active, we might find a warm place to sit.
I’ve only ever seen sunrise from one other summit, and that was Kilimanjaro. And I was much better prepared then. I can’t wait for the sun to come up, so we can snap some photos and start down. As lofty a perch as it is, I don’t care to be here any longer than I have to.
As the clock ticks closer to 6:30, I notice that most of the feeling has returned to my feet and hands. Most of the group is up and moving about, cameras at the ready. Intermittent blasts of wind shroud the summit in clouds, chilling me once again. I find a rock outcrop that blocks most of the wind, from where I can quickly pop up and see if the sun has broken the horizon.
Sunrise at last, after hiking through the night to see it.
It may be the best sunrise of my life, as it means my suffering is almost over. It quickly clears the clouds to the east, painting us in a rosy hue of gold. Carlos takes pictures of us on the summit, in turns. He frames the pictures so as to get the full moon and the shadow of the volcano in the background. It is a stunning sight, the clearly defined break between night and day.
The last of night disappearing towards the horizon.
Once everyone is happy with their photos, we start back down. The footing is tricky, being mostly sand with intermittent rocks, along with an occasional rime-coated outcropping. It takes about fifteen minutes, maybe less, to feel the difference in temperature.
To the east, a continuous bank of clouds is flowing into the mountain: one ridge protruding into it looks like the bow of a ship in a sea of foam. It is a sight unlike any other I’ve ever seen.
Watching the clouds was like watching a waterfall. If this phenomenon has a name please let me know!
As we continue to descend, I start shedding layers. The first to go is the bottoms of my convertible pants, as they are too long to be wearing with just running shoes and are tripping me. Then I put away the my windbreaker and beanie. The warmth is a major morale boost to me. I even pull out my binoculars to see any birds that might be out.
Even in the light the footing is tricky, especially in the damp parts. I hike behind the other Matt, and we seem to slip or trip every few steps. Los torpes Mateos, I think. The clumsy Matts.
I see several Steller’s Jays up high, when we’re in the pines. They are a brilliant shade of blue, lighter than the ones I see in Idaho. Their scratchy call sounds the same, though.
We stop at a large flat-topped boulder, which is the size and height of a standard kitchen table. Carlos faces back up the trail and thanks the mountain for allowing us to climb it, then crosses himself. And he’s right: we should be thankful that we made it up safely, in the cold, windy darkness. Even though that was only a few hours previous, it seems like forever ago. It’s a different world in the daytime.
We pass several groups of hikers on their way up, both gringo and a large group of Guatemalans. The latter look they’re having a great time and I have to admire them for it. I didn’t look that happy when I was going up.
As we leave the trees I spot a new bird, a Goldman’s Warbler. It looks a lot like the Myrtle Warblers in the States, but with bigger wing bars. I also see a Rufous-Collared Robin, which looks exactly like it sounds. A Northern Flicker calls from the trees behind me. I’m now having the most fun I’ve had on the trip.
Then I fall and break the binoculars. I let my attention slip and ended up taking a hard fall onto my right side, breaking the fall with the telescopic end of the binos. It now sits cocked where it mounts into the body; luckily I am able to unscrew it. I decide to rinse the threads with the last of my water, and in my distracted state I trip again and drop the wet optic into the dirt. Now it’s muddy. I pick it up and put it in my bag, along with the rest of the binoculars. No more bird watching the rest of the hike, or maybe the whole trip. Then the strap for the carrying case literally comes off. Hmmm. Ten days in and I’ve gone through two pairs of binos and a case.
It was an unfortunate time to have that happen, as we soon walk between two hedgerows, with birds flitting back and forth right in front of me. I hear a meadowlark singing, which is a great treat and which boosts my mood considerably. I hadn’t even expected to hear one, as we are still above 10,000 feet. God bless that meadowlark.
Near the end, where the road turns back to cobblestone, we turn around and see what we just hiked. I have to admit that it is beautiful.
Bradley, Matt, and Alex on the way back down, with the peak in the clouds above.
It’s also beautiful when I see the shuttle bus waiting for us. The wind has been howling the whole way down and I’m ready to get out of it. And as we load up and head into town, I feel ready for bed, too. Soon all of us are nodding off, heads swaying with the turns of the van. I briefly wake up to take off another layer, then fall back asleep.
At a bathroom stop, our guide buys a beer. He sure earned it, too, leading a pack of shivering gringos up a mountain at night. Earlier I overheard him saying that he’s leading another trip this afternoon, which stunned me. But that’s the way it is in the tourist business: you don’t turn away potential customers.
We arrive back in Xela about 11:30, a full two hours before expected. I am the last to be dropped off, just a few blocks from my hostel. I’m glad they don’t drive me right to the door, though: after I shake Carlos’ hand and thank him and the driver, I walk down the street to a coffee shop. With that lovely hot beverage in hand, I then walk around the corner to book a trip to the hot springs tomorrow.
Though I have come to terms with the loss of my backpack and clothes, I still do not sleep well during the night. In my backpack had been my earplugs, which I badly need in a town full of street dogs. I swear they barked all night until the roosters crowed this morning.
I lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of the streets below echo up to my room. After meditation, I go out on the patio to look at the new day which is lit by a brightly shining sun. Life goes on.
I check out of the hotel around 8 and walk down the street for breakfast. I order a fruit plate and a cup of coffee and start planning my day. Samuel at the Tourist Office told me come by at 9, so I have an hour to eat.
When the waitress brings it, I think I’ll need an hour: there must be a pound and a half of fruit: slices of watermelon, banana, papaya, and pineapple fill a large plate. Then she brings toast and jam, too. It is a luxurious breakfast, and a good start to my day.
Power breakfast in Panajachel. How could I not have a good day after this?
When I return to the Tourist Office, Samuel makes some calls, but hears nothing positive. I make sure he has my contact info and decide to take a ferry across Lake Atitlan to San Pedro, where the Europeans on the bus were headed.
The docks are a short walk away, and I feel proud of myself, getting on with just my little black bag. I look more like an ex-pat than a tourist.
The ride across is smooth, and we arrive in San Pedro in about twenty minutes. From the boat it looks like a colorful town and when I step off the boat, I feel positive energy in the place. After walking around for a while, I find a nice hotel down by the lake for $15 that has a rooftop patio and an incredible 360-degree view of the lake and mountains around it. This is how I imagined my trip would be.
Near the hotel is a rocky peninsula that juts out into the lake. On it are some ruins possibly of Mayan origin. I don’t have my guidebook to tell me such things. I try to identify some of the birds I see, but they are too small and fast for my naked eyes. Plus, my camera is not working—there’s an error with the lens, so I can’t take pictures. What else can go wrong?
I try to stay out of the pity party and enjoy the scenery around me. I’ve wanted to come here for years, so now that I am here, I don’t want to be miserable. After the ruins, I walk around some more, then head to my hotel for a nap.
It’s about three when I wake up, and I feel revived after about half an hour’s sleep. I walk back up to the roof and admire the view once again, then go for a walk to book a hike up nearby Volcan de San Pedro.
In physics, separated particles will try to reconnect with other like particles, even when separated by long distances.
And so it goes with me: as I walk down the street I see one of the Europeans, the bearded German guy. We make eye contact and he smiles. I already know what he’s going to say:
“We have your bag!”
I laugh. It is all I can do—the idea of getting the bag back was preposterous, especially in this country. After all, another tourist stole a necklace I’d left in a shower in a lodge in Antigua. I’ve never heard of anything like this happening, much less suspected it would happen to me.
We are right by the hotel where they are staying, and I see the rest as we walk down the steps. “Hey, look who I found!” the bearded man yells to the others. They all look at me, as surprised as I am.
Roy, the man from Holland, says he has my bag in his room. In an effort to get it back to me, Roy had gone through my bag, looking for something with my name on it. He found some of my prescription travel medication (for malaria and bacterial infections) and had called my pharmacy in the states to try to get a hold of me. He’d also found me on Facebook, and left a message. What a guy!
It is so unreal to me that Roy remarks that I don’t look that happy to have it back. I had given up hope of finding it, so it will take a few minutes for this to sink in. I repeatedly thank them for finding it and taking it here—no mean feat when they had to carry their own luggage, as well as mine.
There is no easy way to express my gratitude. They tell me how bad they felt when they saw the bus drive away with me still in it, when my backpack was sitting with them.
I tell them not to worry, it was my own fault. And none of it matters now that I have it back, along with a clean change of underwear and my running shoes, among other things.
They are on the way to a nearby village, so I thank them again and tell them I’d be glad to buy them beers if I see them later. It’s such a small town that that would be likely, especially as they were staying just down the road from me.
Walking back to my hotel with my newly-recovered bag, I also wear a big goofy grin on my face. My stuff once was lost, but now is found. The hotel owner, Johanna, looks puzzled as I walk in with my backpack. I tell her in my best Spanish what happened, though I can see on her face that I’m butchering her native tongue. Still, she smiles and nods her head at me.
But it is not having my stuff back that makes me happy, so much as knowing that there are people in the world who would do so much to help another person. And a stranger, at that.
Thanks, Roy and friends.
Sunset over San Pedro la Laguna, the evening of El Milagro. Note: “Milagro” is Spanish for “Miracle.”
On my last morning at Earth Lodge, I wake with excitement. The birds are singing and I am bound for a new place: Quetzeltenango. I want to drag my feet and stay longer, as the peace and tranquility of the lodge is difficult to leave.
But ever the adventurer, I am ready to see new places, too. Last night I booked a trek to Tajamulco, the highest mountain in Central America. It is to leave tomorrow morning from Quetzeltenango, or as is more commonly called Xela (”shey-la”).
After a breakfast smoothie and coffee, I pack and leave. The hike back up to the road isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but still a good pull. In fact, I think it is part of the charm of the place: to have to walk the last quarter-mile or so.
To encourage those struggling with their luggage, the staff have placed several encouraging signs in English and Spanish. My favorite is “Maybe next time you’ll pack less.” Always good advice.
While waiting on the ride into Antigua I watch a vireo hop around the branches of a nearby tree. How I wish I wouldn’t have lost my binoculars already. I promise myself I will be more careful with my stuff in the future. In fact, I’ve packed most of my irreplaceables in my small bag: diary, camera and case, charging cords, journal, book, and iPod.
An old Toyota pickup rumbles up to the narrow turnaround and drops off two passengers. I put my bag in the back and the driver opens the passenger door for me. As we drive into town I try to understand everything he says, but it is difficult. It has been ten years since I’ve spoken Spanish, and it’s taking time to understand it again. Also, it seems to me that Guatemalenos speak faster than the Peruvians and Ecuadorians from whom I’d learned what Spanish I know.
After getting dropped off by the Parque Central, I walk to one of the travel agencies in town to ask about a shuttle bus to Xela. I am told that I have missed them, which surprises me. Xela was only four hours away, and nothing gets done early in this country—except for shuttles, I suppose.
The advice I get is to hop on the chicken bus to Chimal and connect there.
“Just tell them where you’re going and they’ll direct you,” she said.
I walk over to the bus station, which is more of an outdoor market and parking lot. I jump on the first bus to Chimal, and am soon joined by a group of Europeans—German and Dutch. One of them, who sits next to me, tells me they are on their way to San Pedro on Lake Atitlan. It sounds like a beautiful place to visit, and I am planning to go there later in my trip.
We rumble slowly out of town on the old cobblestone streets, and make our way to Chimal. In the distance Volcan Fuego is spouting off another cloud of smoke—a novel, if alarming sight.
After about an hour, we arrive in Chimal, which looks busy and wholly uninviting. One of the Europeans has traveled here before, so he knows where we should get off to catch a bus headed west. We watch a French couple get off just before the Panamerican Highway. The experienced traveller is wondering why they are getting off there, and not at the next stop. As he says that, the Frenchman gets back on and looks around his seat—he was missing something.
As he searches, the driver and his helper yell at him to hurry, even starting to move the bus in the chaotic traffic. The man picks up a maroon object—his passport. Whew! we all seem to say, relieved for him. But he still looks a bit more, then leaves.
After the bus makes a left we get off in the middle of Chimal. Immediately, though, we catch a westbound bus. We all rush to the back to give one of the helpers our backpacks, so that he can put them on the luggage rack on top. I confirm with the helper that they are going to the place I needed to make my next connection, which makes me feel better. As this is my first time on the chicken bus system, I am nervous.
A chicken bus is the slang term for the buses used as public transportation. They are privately owned Blue Bird buses, most of them painted in a highly customized style. The chicken buses also pack as many people as they can on, and don’t worry about seat belts or passenger number limits. They are uncomfortable, and their reputation among travelers is understandably poor. But I have to get to Xela that afternoon to make it to my trek.
For the first 30 or 40 minutes, I stand. It’s not so bad, as the small benches—meant for schoolchildren—look cramped. Most have 3 people squeezed onto them. I hang on during the turns, and as the money collector and other passengers try to get past me.
It’s a while before enough people get off so that I can sit. I’m close to two of the Europeans, including the very tall Dutch man. He looks uncomfortable, but doesn’t complain. The other man, a bearded German of Kurdish descent, knows Spanish very well, and talks with the other passengers. When he asks where I’m going, I tell him Xela, and he asks a question to the man next to him.
“This man says this bus is going to Xela. You don’t need to change,” he tells me. That’s great news, though I have no idea how long that’ll be; I guess at least a few hours. There are no bathroom breaks on the chicken buses, at least not for the passengers.
When the Europeans get out at a road junction, I tell them I’m staying on and going to Xela. I wish them luck as they leave the crowded interior of the bus for the fresh air outside. I watch as they hand down some of the packs, and before I know it, a new rush of passengers is squeezing in from the rear. I try to move up a row so I won’t be riding on the wheel but I am beaten to it by a young couple.
Onward we go, flying along the Intercarretera Americana. We seem like we’re making good time, so I’m happy as I watch the hills of western Guatemala pass by.
About another half hour later, most of the passengers stand when the bus reaches a town. My bladder is about to burst, and I don’t know how much longer it’ll be to Xela, so I think this might be a good place to get off and go to the bathroom. Drinking so much water before a long bus ride was poor piss planning.
I ask the driver where I can wait to catch another bus to Xela. He points to the money collector (who’s walking down the street ahead of the bus, trying to catch some business) and tells me to talk to him.
I figure I’ll get my backpack off first, so I ask the luggage man/assistant money collector if I can get my bag. He looks at me strangely and asks what it looks like. We go to the back of the bus, where the steps to the top rack are, and I climb up after him. There’s only one thing tied down, and it’s under a blanket. It doesn’t look like the shape of my backpack, either.
Immediately I feel panic rising in my chest. This is about the worst thing that can happen. I try to fight off the panic as I ask him where my pack is. The money collector has returned and I ask him and he motions behind me, while yelling something. I hope he’s saying he gave it to the Europeans, but I’m too shocked to really understand him.
The luggage guy points across the street, where another bus is waiting to head back in the direction from which I came. I flip them off as I walk across the street, though they are already on their way.
A man emerges from the bus and asks me if I want a ride. I try to tell him what’s happening, but my language skills (in both English and Spanish) have left me. He looks puzzled, and I don’t blame him. I can’t remember the name of the junction where the Europeans got off, and I can’t look it up because my guidebook is in the top flap of my backpack.
I feel helpless and stupid. But first things first, I find a toilet around the corner and take care of that before getting on the bus. In my agitated state, I try to tell the driver what’s going on, but don’t get through. I take a seat and hope I can remember what the junction looked like.
As we drive I start to reconsider staying in Guatemala. Losing my binoculars was bad—it took away one of the most anticipated experiences of the trip. But losing the rest of my clothes, my cheap but useful laptop, my running shoes, my toiletry kit (with malaria medication), and my earplugs (among other things) is pushing me towards the edge.
Driving back along the highway, I experience a whole range of emotions. I want to be angry at the bus guys, but they didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t tell them I wasn’t getting off, I just sat there. And I didn’t have the language skills to clearly communicate my intentions, nor understand them. Losing my backpack is my fault.
I really hope the Europeans got my bag, but I don’t know. And the not-knowing is driving me crazy.
But I know I need to calm down and make a plan. First off, I assess what I do have: my passport and credit cards, some cash, my camera, my phone, my journal, a book, and all my charging cords, all in my little black backpack. So I have the essentials.
I need to report this to someone as soon as possible, so I decide to go to the Tourist Office in the town of Panajachel on Lake Atitlan. I don’t know how to get there, so I ask the new money collector if I can be let off in Panajachel. He says they aren’t going direct, but will let me off at a junction.
About 45 minutes after the initial panic, we reach the junction to Panajachel and I am let off. The money collector motions to another bus stop just down the road, and nods to me. I understand and thank him.
As the bus leaves, I look around. It certainly looks like the same place where the Europeans got off, but I’m not sure. There are so many people coming and going that I’m sure if my pack had been left here, it’s long gone now.
A taxi pulls up next to me and asks if I want a ride to “Pana”. In my hurry to get something done, I accept and we take off down the road. It’s a wild, bumpy ride, but for the first time I see Lake Atitlan through the smoky haze. Even with the poor visibility, I can see the ring of volcanoes around it. I wish I could enjoy it, but I am too flustered.
The taxi driver tries to talk with me several times, but I can’t understand much of what he says. It occurs to me that perhaps I should have started my trip with a week of intensive Spanish so I could have avoided an event like this.
When we reach the tourist office, I apologize for not knowing much Spanish and the taxi driver shrugs and says he doesn’t know any English. I chuckle for the first time in a while and thank him.
Inside the Tourist Office I find a local who speaks English, so I tell him my story. I tell him that I think they Europeans may have been given my bag by mistake but I do not know where it is. I also give him what I thought was the name of the bus, in case he could track it down. In between making phone calls, he keeps reminding me that he gets off at 4:00 p.m., so he has to be going soon (it’s 3:40).
Its possible the Europeans might have dropped my bag with the police in San Pedro, since they had probably already arrived, so he calls there to check. Nothing yet.
In an effort to cheer me up, he says I am the first person in his 4 years working there that has had a bag stolen, but not a passport or money. It was a good gut check, to get some perspective.
After I thank him and leave, I try to convince myself to accept the situation: it’s gone. It is a bitter pill to swallow, having had things go to shit so quickly. But there is nothing more I can do about it today. I find a hostel just up the street and get a room.
The patio outside my room has beautiful flowers all around, and a small table has ex-Playboy Playmate Holly Madison’s book Down the Rabbit Hole on top of a stack of Bibles, next to a picture of Jesus. I swear; I took a picture:
A picture of The Last Supper, Jesus Christ, and Holly Madison’s book about being Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend.
I have to laugh as I walk in my room and set my small backpack on the bed.
All I have in the world with me here in Guatemala is in it. Talk about a gut check! I do need a long-sleeve t-shirt or light jacket for the coming evening, so I head out to one of the many secondhand stores in town. I take my bag with me, as it’s all I have left to lose.
These secondhand stores are called pacas, and are filled with discarded clothes from America. I enter the first one I see, and find a light black thermal shirt. I bargain the lady down from about 9 dollars to just over 7, and walk away proudly.
Around the corner the street goes all the way down to the waterfront, and is lined with ad hoc shops, set up and taken down each day by the locals. The traditional clothing and textiles are quite beautiful, and remind me of the bright colors worn by the traditional people of Peru and Ecuador. I picture myself going full-tourist and buying a pair of pants and a shirt, and wearing that for the rest of my trip. It’s not like I care what people think of my appearance, especially here, where I know no one.
When I reach the waterfront, I close my eyes so I can simply feel the sun and wind on my face. I’m searching for some calm, but can’t get there. It’s better not to force it. I note some coots in the harbor, but they look just like the ones in the States, so I head back up the street.
Back in my hotel, I take off my pack and place it on the bed. All I have in the world right now. It’s a sobering thought, but not so negative now. All I really need now, today, is a toothbrush and toothpaste. And hell, I could even do without that. I have food (and can buy more), water, and shelter: check.
I go out for supper, wandering back along the main street to find a place. An open-air restaurant has some veggie options, so I go in there and sit facing out towards the street. Only one other person is in here, an older woman who looks American.
I order food and some herbal tea. As I sip on my tea, a three-legged dog hops into the restaurant. My heart drops. It comes up to me and sits at my right side. I look down at it, and it stares back. If it still had it’s front left leg, I imagine it would be pawing me. I don’t have any food to give it yet, so it goes over to the woman’s table and looks at her, then lays down facing me.
Again, it stares at me. As a dog owner and animal lover, I’m drawn to it. And the look it is giving me is one that seems to be saying: Why are you so sad? I’m missing a leg and here I am. And if you could give me some of your supper I’d appreciate it.
I notice that it doesn’t even look skinny, like many of the street dogs around. And the fact that it had it’s leg taken off means someone took care of it at some point. I’ve seen other dogs here that are walking around with game legs dangling uselessly.
As I eat, I can’t help but throw it a few scraps from my plate. After all, it was making me realize just how much self-pity I’m feeling.
Another dog comes in, and the three-legged dog squirms through the chairs and tables into the next-door restaurant and hops out into the street.
I finish soon after, and walk back to my hotel, feeling free. I have so little to weigh me down now. I am flooded with joy at this gift, this freedom from a lot of things. How many things does one need to be happy?
My life is not a series of things; it is a wealth of friendships and experiences. There was nothing in the backpack that can’t be replaced.
The lights along the street seem brighter now. I walk along, feeling the happiest I’ve been all day. I stop in a farmacia and buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, and sunscreen. Little things that can fit in my little backpack.
Just as the dullest blade is sharpened by the coarsest stone, so will this experience benefit me. With so little to carry around, I have that much less to worry about. If freedom is, as Kris Kristofferson said, “just another word for nothing left to lose,” I am very close.
And I am starting to think that can be a good place to be.
The driver smiles as I hand him my backpack and get in the shuttle bus. Two younger women sit in the front row, and a young couple in the back. I take the middle row all for myself. We are now headed to Antigua.
Right off I discover the other man is a firefighter, from Austria. Even though I imagine our jobs are very different (he’s a volunteer), I am glad to meet another member of our worldwide fraternity. We shake hands and make introductions, and I ask more about what he does. He introduces himself and his wife: Hans and Stefi.
The talk soon switches to our respective trips. They had arrived the day before and are also in the country for a month. Like most travelers, they had wanted to get out of Guatemala City for Antigua. Not because their lives had been threatened (as they lady on the plane had warned), but simply because there is more for tourists to see and do in Antigua without the pollution the capital city has.
The two women up front are from France, and just arrived as well. Marie and Madeline are sisters, and are traveling for three weeks in country. All six of us are excited to be some place new and exotic.
The drive takes about an hour. As we enter town, the road surface changes from asphalt to cobblestone. Even in the smooth-riding van, it is terrifically bumpy. It makes some of the potholed roads back home seem like the Autobahn.
We are dropped off in the center of town, with several hostels a short walk away. The one I’m interested in is right around the corner, so I walk over and get the last private room. A nice American gentleman is working the front desk, and lets me drop my backpack off there while my room is being made up. I then go for a walk around town.
Antigua is a colorful town full of falling down churches and American ex-pats. The earthquake-prone town had its cathedrals destroyed in 1773, and were never rebuilt after that (several had been previously destroyed and rebuilt before). Volcan Agua stands to the south of town, and to the southwest are Volcans Fuego and Acatenango. When I check out the view from the roof of my hostel, I can see smoke coming from Fuego—the first active volcano I’ve ever seen.
I decide to do a circuit through town, heading south for several blocks, then to the east to check out Parque Central and several ruins east of there, then heading north to the road we drove in on. I’ve got my sandals and shorts on, and the balmy air feels lovely as I head into the street.
Guatemalan cities are laid out in a rather logical fashion: numbered avenidas run north to south, while calles run east to west. Though that simple design didn’t keep me from getting lost this morning, I have a picture of the city map in my phone in case I get confused again. Another navigational aid is Volcan Agua, which is visible to the south on every avenida.
Even on a Wednesday, the streets are bustling with both tourists and locals. I pass a number of language schools on my walk—there seems to be one every other block. I’m hoping the Spanish I learned from three and a half months in Peru and Ecuador comes back easily, though it’s been ten years. I didn’t do much to brush up, and I can’t really count watching Season 1 of Narcos.
As expected, the hub of activity is Parque Central. Groups of tourists saunter through, beset by locals selling everything from souvenirs to ice cream. It’s a pleasant place, with numerous benches and even more numerous pigeons. I sit for a while, watching other tourists pass by and little kids chasing pigeons. A cup of coffee sounds good, so I walk across the street to a coffee shop. Marie and Madeline, the French sisters from the shuttle are there, so I wave to them and find a seat near one of the windows. I take a look at the map on my phone and plan the next leg of my route.
The south end of Parque Central.
Several doors down is a museum of antique books, along the with the history of printing in Antigua. As a writer, I am intrigued and take a walk through. I am thrilled to see a first edition of DonQuixote, which is 400 years old. It looks to be holding together well, as do most of the books there. Most aren’t as old, but still date from the eighteenth century.
First edition, second book of Don Quixote de La Mancha.
As I continue my walk, I am amazed by all the flowers in bloom. I stop and smell the close ones, and look for hummingbirds in the taller ones. The feeling of warmth and sunshine has put me in the best mood I’ve been in in days.
When I return to the hotel, my room is ready, so I move my stuff into the small room. I’m glad to see a fan in there, as my room has no outside windows to let fresh air in.
I decide to book a trek to Volcan Pacaya for the next morning, and talk to the genial gentleman at the front desk, who makes a phone call and hands me a ticket. Just like that. I then head to the Chocolate Museum I saw several blocks away, where I drink some amazing tea made from cardamom and cacao nibs. I also buy a bar of the same flavors.
After supper that night I decide to try some of the chocolate bar. It is much stronger than I figured, and I have to mix in some water to get the first square down. I’m still hungry, so I gnaw on two more of the squares, then throw down some cacao nibs I bought, just for good measure.
This turns out to be a mistake, because I’m wired for the next several hours, when I should be sleeping. I go to bed by 10 p.m., but lay awake for hours. I try deep breathing, then listening to music, then counting to try to get to sleep. Nothing works. I look at my watch and see that it’s after 1 a.m. The shuttle for the volcano trek leaves in five hours, so it’ll be a short night.
When my alarm goes off at 5:20, I feel groggy but excited. I dress and pack up, then wait in the tiny lobby for the shuttle. The night watchman lets me put my backpack in their storage, as I have a reservation elsewhere for tonight. He even pulls out a stool for me to sit on, for which I thank him profusely.
As expected, the shuttle is late picking me up. But I’m glad it showed up at all, and take a seat up front for the hour drive to the volcano. The drive itself is an exciting affair, with our shuttle bus passing several semis on the hills and generally wandering all over the road. I watch out the window for birds, but only see a Kestrel near the entrance to the park itself. I’ve brought my binoculars on the hike, in the hopes of seeing some new birds. In fact, one of the reasons I’d come to Guatemala was to see as many birds as I could. It’s been a hobby of mine for a while.
We have quite a crowd for the hike—over twenty people. After we are let off at the trailhead, we meet our two guides and start up the steep trail. We keep a gentle pace, but soon my calves are burning. I need the hill training to get in shape for work, anyway.
It’s overcast, but I hope the clouds will burn off by the time we get to the top. I did no research on this hike; all I know is that the summit is over 7000 feet and the entire outing should take 6-7 hours. But it sure feels good to be out of the city and seeing some new country, even if clouds are obscuring much of it.
We hike through a wonderfully green forest as we ascend. It is so strange to me to see this much green in February, but I love it. It distracts me from the loose footing on the steep trail.
I hear birds, but can’t see them: the foliage is thick around us. Soon moisture begins to fall as we hike into the clouds. As we break out into a rocky clearing, I can now feel the cold wind blowing. The guide turns to us and tells us we’ve reached the top, but visibility is a solid 100 feet. So much for a view. After we linger there for a few minutes, looking at the displays that depict what the view looks like on a clear day, we descend into the crater on the other side.
The newest flow on the volcano is only three years old, and apparently there’s plenty of thermal activity up here. One of the guides even brought sticks for us to roast marshmallows in one of the vents. He also hands me a hot rock, which feels great on my cold hands. I pass it to the next hiker who comes after me.
A fellow hiker, cooking marshmallows in a volcanic vent. Unfortunately, they weren’t vegan.
There’s a short loop through the lava field, and a small store (!) with locally made souvenirs for sale. There are also a number of dogs around, several of which followed us up from the trailhead, and who are stalking those who are eating snacks. One of the dogs follows us back to the summit and even poses for a picture.
Overlooking the crater Volcan Pacaya with a new friend.
On the way back up to the top and then back down, I strike up a conversation with another guy, obviously an American. It turns out he’s a producer for CNN, even though he looks much younger than me. I have no idea what news producers do, so I pepper him with questions. Even though I’m not a fan of watching the news, it’s interesting to hear about his job and how so much is done on the fly. Not too different from my job as a wildland firefighter, I think.
Unfortunately for me, he also has a nasty cough. With several hikes in my immediate future, I do not want to go get sick, so I try to keep as much distance as courtesy allows.
As we descend, the clouds are breaking up and the suns comes out. We start to see some of what we missed on the way up: a great view of the volcanoes Agua and Fuego. At one stop, I glass some large hummingbirds, but can’t get a good view of their coloration. Still, judging relative size, they are the biggest hummingbirds I’ve ever seen. A Rufous-collared Robin appears on a branch overhead, making it the first official Life Bird of the trip. I look forward to many more.
Finally, a view from Pacaya, on the way back down. Volcan Agua is the closest, and the on the left is Volcan Fuego. Acatenango stands between them.
Back at the trailhead, I buy a couple of bananas for an early lunch. We board the bus just after eleven, and arrive back in Antigua an hour later. The lack of sleep is getting to me, so I nod off for most of the drive.
When the shuttle drops several of the passengers off at Parque Central, I decide to get off there, as my hostel is only a few blocks from there. Plus, it means I can get a cup of coffee on the way.
After that, I head back to my hostel. The bananas didn’t fill me up, so I decide to to have lunch at the rooftop cafe there before I pay and get my backpack. The sky is clear and the sun is shining down on me as I eat. I watch a few swallows and doves sail above the rooftops, and look forward to heading up into the hills for the next three nights. I arrange for a pick-up at three, then head downstairs to get my backpack.
As I transfer stuff from my little backpack to my big one, something feels wrong. I realize I am missing something, and my heart sinks when I figure out what it is: my binoculars. They must have fallen out when I was on the bus. The genial American is at the front desk, and I tell him. He immediately makes a call and has the tour agency track down the driver. Since it’s been over an hour since I got off the bus, the driver has already left on another outing. I ask if I can hang out in the sitting room and use the wi-fi while I wait on my afternoon shuttle.
The first thing I do is to look up where I can get a new pair of binoculars. Surely there’s a place in Guatemala City, right? The prospects aren’t promising. As I continue the search, the hotel phone rings and the American answers. Even though my Spanish isn’t good, I understand one word: nada. Nothing. He hangs up and pokes his head in the sitting room to tell me that the driver had been contacted and had not found them. Shit.
I tarry a few minutes more, then decide to walk over to the Parque Central to enjoy the beautiful day. Then, just before three I go to the corner where the shuttle to Earthlodge will pick me up.
For the next three nights I will be staying on an avocado farm, which is heaven for vegans like me.
“Why are you going to a city where they’re killing people in the streets because of the color of the skin?” the lady next to me on the plane asks, before downing the last of her drink.
This is news to me: in all my preparations for my trip to Central America I had heard nothing of racial cleansing, much less in a major city like the capital of Guatemala. And I suspect the reason she is now sitting next to me in the back row is because the flight crew has kicked her out of the aft cabin. She’s been drinking the whole flight.
It is tough to follow the progression of her monologue, as she keeps skipping around, and at times she’s just difficult to understand. She is so drunk she is slurring her pauses. She says I should catch a ride with her and her parents to Antigua tonight to avoid getting murdered, but I politely refuse. She’s out of her mind.
Still, I’m excited for my trip, despite her warnings to the contrary. I’m glad to be escaping the wintry Idaho weather for a warmer clime. In fact, I left Boise wearing sandals so I’d be ready.
After delays in San Francisco and Houston, we won’t be arriving in Guatemala City till after midnight. Fortunately, between flights I manage to book a hotel room, so I at least have a place to stay.
The city doesn’t look any different from the other cities I’ve flown into at night, only the billboards and signs are in Spanish. The airport smells like all the foreign airports I’ve been to: a mix of sweat, body odor, mold, and plastic furniture. Still, it’s better than the smell from many of the restaurants in US airports.
I’d managed to lose my drunk friend, who’d stayed behind on the plane trying to cadge one more drink from a flight attendant. I move through the terminal with purpose, trying to get to Immigration before the rest of the passengers.
As I wait in line to officially enter the country, I note that I’m wearing a shirt that’s the same color as the one I wore in my passport photo. I also have long hair again, but there is less of it and it has more grey. But the lady behind the glass doesn’t seem to notice as she checks my passport and takes my Immigration form. As she hands my passport back, she says “Bienvenidos a Guatemala.” Welcome to Guatemala.
Going through Customs is a snap. In fact, everyone still working looks as tired and ready to go to bed as I do, so they don’t hassle me.
Before I know it, I’m free of the bureaucracy and ready to catch a cab. Outside the door a crowd of eager taxi drivers vies for my business. I nod to one and he walks me to a taxi. However, he’s not the driver–he’s just a hawk trying to get a piece of the action from this gringo. After I get in the taxi, he asks for a tip and I hand him 5 Quetzales, or about 70 cents (1 US Dollar equals about 7.4 Guatemalan Quetzales). I confirm with the driver where we’re going and off we fly into the streets of Guatemala City.
In many places I’ve traveled, taxi drivers have tended to treat traffic signs and signals more as suggestions, and this ride is no exception. In the fifteen minute drive to my hotel, we don’t stop once at a red light. Instead, we slow down and he looks both ways, then punches the gas if no one’s coming. Honestly, it’s fun, and would be more so if the exhaust system worked correctly and didn’t fill the taxi with fumes.
We arrive at the gate to the hotel, minus a few brain cells but otherwise fine. He rings the bell for me and I am let into the building and upstairs to the hotel proper. It’s a small, family-run operation, taking up part of an apartment bloc. A man I assume to be the owner checks me in and shows me to my room. It is one o’clock and I am exhausted. I crack the windows open and go to bed.
I have arrived: my adventure has begun.
Later that morning I get up after 7, hearing others rousting about in the common room down the hall. After dressing and splashing some water on my face, I join them at a large table. There’s a European-looking couple, an older Japanese man, and a young Latina who is deep into her phone. She doesn’t look up as I walk in, but the others wish me a good morning.
The mural inside my hotel, featuring the bird I most wanted to see: the Resplendant Quetzal, the national bird. The other pictures I thought were well done, if a motley crew.
For breakfast I am served a plate of fruit: a plantain, and large slices each of papaya, watermelon, and pineapple. It is delicious, and so is the coffee they bring to me. I no longer feel tired, and decide to take a walk.
Before I leave, one of the staff asks me what my plans are. I tell her I’m going to Antigua, and she says she can get me a shuttle there for 100 Quetzales ($13). It’s an obvious choice for me, so I accept the offer and agree to be ready to go at 10:30, about 2 hours hence.
Thus pleased at how well things are going for me already, I head downstairs and out into the city. And soon get lost.
Before I’d left I’d consulted the map in my guidebook, but had forgotten to take a picture with my phone so I could use it. Distracted by the calls of birds in the trees, I make a wrong turn somewhere and get off the route I’d memorized. As I head back down what I think is the street to my hotel, I no longer recognize the buildings, and can’t see the landmark I’d navigated by on my outbound walk.
Plus, I realize I’m not even in the same Zona as my hotel. The city is divided into Zonas in lieu of zip codes, and I suddenly feel very stupid in having lost my way.
I debate flagging down a taxi to take me back to my hotel, but I feel it’s better for my Spanish skills if I stop and ask someone. A lady sitting at a flower stand looks nice enough, so I ask her where Zona 10 is. In fact, I’d written the address down on the back on my hand the night before, and I could still read it. She looks at it, and points me across the street, then motions to the left. I don’t understand much of what she says, but get the general idea. I cross the street and walk a few blocks, then turn left.
Further on, I ask some power company linemen, who all motion for me to go in the same direction I’m heading, and take a left. A few blocks later I see a sign for Zona 10: I’m getting close. And soon, I find the street my hotel is on, and walk up it with great anticipation.
As I pass the sign for my hotel on the street, I give it a high-5. I decide to go to a little store up the way to get a snack, and then return to my hotel a little after 10:00, proud of myself for having passed this first test.
A new woman is working behind the counter, and in English she says the shuttle will be another 30 minutes, so to please enjoy the rooftop terrace until it comes. I had no idea there was a rooftop terrace, but am overjoyed when I get up there. The view is mostly of the city buildings, but the warm sun is shining down on me and flowers are blooming on the plants along the wall.
I take a seat at one of the tables and start eating the plantains I bought at the store. They are delightfully tangy, and I eat all four with great relish. After I’m done, a lady appears at the top of stairs, telling me my shuttle has arrived. I follow her downstairs and get my backpack, then head down to the street.
My next stop is Antigua and I can hardly wait.
If you’d like to follow my adventure on Instagram, I’m plantstrongmatt and am using the hashtag #guatemalaadventure.
Matt Dunn Online 