Largo Atitlan - Guatemala

After a little R & R on the quite beaches of El Salvador I was ready to start traveling again, and I knew exactly where I wanted to start; Largo Atitlan. Another "tourist hot spot" in Guatemala´s northern highlands, it´s famed for it´s picturesque beauty and quaint little pueblos that dot the lake side. I was really looking forward to this adventure and, being one of the cheapest places in Central America, so was my much depleted bank account. I took a mid morning shuttle bus from Antigua and was standing on Atitlan´s shores before lunch.

It has been said by some that Largo de Atitlan is the most stunningly beautiful lake in the entire world. Now, I haven´t seen every lake in the world, but I have seen a few, and this one is up there for sure. Almost perfectly round in its circumference, this vast, 128sq km, expanse of water actually fills a caldera of a long extinct volcano. Its volcanic origins make Atitlan the deepest lake in Central America (its deepest points have never been measured) and gives its waters an entrancing dark blue surface covering a seemingly black undercurrant a few feet below. A haunting void that literary pull you, both visually and physically, into its depths. This has lead many people, including the ancient Mayan civilizations that first settled on these shores, to attributed mystical and spirituals powers to these mysterious waters.

The land surrounding the lake, a dark shade of lush green undergrowth, rises steeply to the towering summits of the three volcanoes that guard Atitlan´s shores. A sparse collection of Mayan villages preside along the lakeside, which in 1955, became a national park to protect this sacred, and economically viable, area. Since then, locals have built it up as a tourist destination and most towns have a host of restaurants, hotles, and bars that cater to travelers. Despite this influx, many Mayans, mostly Tz'utujil and Kaqchikel, still live and work here.

I arrived in Panachel, a noisy tourist hub where buses drop of the hoards of day trippers to snap photos and buy "authentic" Mayan trinkets at many of the street market stalls. Not ready to fill my backpack up with nick nacks quite yet I made my way to the dock and waited to take a boat to San Pedro, a much more relaxed town across the lake. On the boat over I met an Aussie named, Daz. This was his fourth trip to the lake and he was not sure if he was going to leave.
"Your not sure that you are going to leave?" I asked not bothering to hind the surprise in my voice. He didn´t even look back at me, his eye transfixed on the open water.
"You´ll understand when you get there mate."

Old Daz was right. San Pedro is a little bit of everything. It as its famous hippie scene. Reminiscent, intentionally so I think, of Berkeley´s Telegraph Ave, in the 60s; spacey people walking around doning hemp only clothes and beads rolled into their long matted hair. It has its young party scene; with clubs playing a blend of European techno and salsa biased R & B, partiers are supplemented with a seemly endless supply of coke, acid, speed (which some dealers will also call coke), and Ecstasy as they party early into the morning. And then it has something for everyone in between.

A lot of the people I met where travelers, like myself, who had come up for a weekend and just stayed. There was Juan, a Frenchmen who arrived for a week long trip around the lake. He´s been here for three years now, owns a message school and spends most of the time playing with his two year old. There was Jill, an American who came to climb the volcano. She now owns a local bar and plans to open a hotel soon. And so the stories went. "I came up for the weekend... and I just stayed." It was amazing, and a little scary. What was possessing these people, most of whom had other plans, tickets home, ect. to stay. Perhaps there was something in the mysterious water after all...

After a week of exploration; a cross dressing Guatemalan BBQ in the small hamlet of Santa Cruz; a kayaking and cliff jumping expedition in the spiritualist town of San Marcos; clubing back in San Pedro, I was ready to head home. But, I ended up staying longer than I had expected as well.

I was going to go home on Sunday, but after a long night of parting on Saturday I couldn´t be bothered with a bumpy boat ride and a winding bus trip back to Antigua. What the hell, my room was only Q15 ($2) a night anyway, I would stay another night and go back on Monday. Then on Monday, a friend told me there was a poker game at one of the bars. It had been months since I played in my usual weekly game back home, I couldn´t pass that up. I would go back on Tuesday. I was ready to go on Tuesday and even bought a bus ticket. I went down to the docks ready to say goodbye to Lake Atitlan... but the boatmen was not. I sat there on the docks for hours waiting for a boat back to Panachel, but there was not enough people to make it work it for him to fire up the moder and waste his precious gasoline boating me back for a $1. I could see what was happening here. It was the Lake, it was pulling me in, into its dark depths with its booze, cheap deals, and Texas hold ´em tournaments. Suddenly, in a flash, I had vision of the future; I was walking down the street barefoot and wearing white Capri pants made out of hemp, with long matted hair covering my face and dancing to music with earphones that weren´t even plugged in to anything. Uh, I grew up in Berkeley and I´ve seen enough of that to know that I dont want to be that guy. I made pact with myself. I was leaving the next day, even if I had to walk back to Antigua.

Luckily for me I didn´t have to. The next day the boatman was feeling generous and fired up his engine. As we pulled away from the dock I held my breath, waiting. Waiting for something to happen; for him to turn back around deciding it wasn´t worth it after all, the engine to die, a huge earthquake to open up a crack in the caldera below and sallow us in a worlpool. Anything that the lake might do to keep me there. But it didn´t, and I was allowed to leave. But, just before I boarded the bus back to Antigua, I took a look back at the inviting waters, the warm hills, and the magic that is Lake Atitlan and I could here it whisper something to me. "You´ll be back." I supressed a smile as I shook my head and boarded the bus. I knew, sooner or later, it would be right.

Playa Tunco - El Salvador

After a few weeks of relative stagnancy in Antigua, I was ready to get out and hit the ol´trail. David Beclis, a fellow traveler I had befriended on my trip to Volcan Pacaya, said he was heading south to El Salvador´s Pacific beaches for a few days to learn how to surf. David was a 24 year old law student from Birmingham who, deciding not to pursue a career in law, was now traveling through Latin America for six months before moving to New Zealand to look for work. He was reserved and polite, as Englishman are though to be, but he also liked to let loose and party at the same time. I liked him from the start and decided to join him on his trip.

We set out early in the morning, taking a shuttle into Guatemala city where we transferred to a lager Pullman. About a half hour out of the city the bus broke down along the side of the highway. Luckily for us, it broke down right next to a pineapple stand so we were able to eat piña fruit sticks while we watched the driver turned mechanic pull out every wire and tube in the engine trying to find the problem. After two hours of fruit sticks it looked like our adventurous ¨mechanics¨ (over the course of the two hours five or six other men had appeared out of the hills or in pick up trucks and were now also pulling out engine parts) where going to be stumped until one man, converged in engine grease and motor oil, emerged from somewhere inside the engine compartment holding up a slit tube. We waited another 45 minutes for a new tube from Guatemala city and then we were on the road again.

Crossing the board into El Salvador is a lenghty and tedious process. We were made to deboard the bus, present our passports to an exit official, then get back on the bus, present them to another agent on board and then get off again to open up our luggage for an inspector. This was typical for El Salvador which is said to have the most uncorrupted, scrupulous law-enforcement in Central America.

We made it to San Salvador by nightfall and after checking in to a hostel in the Bohemian university area of town, set out for dinner and nightlife entertainment. I was excited. I was hungry and had read about a delicious El Salvadorian dish called Papusas, which is stuffed tortillas filled with cheese, spices and vegetables or meat. I couldn´t wait to try it. We set out, wandering the side-streets, which, thankfully, were frequently patrolled by foot police, until we found the ¨main¨street with all the bars and restaurants. We took a table at El Tres Diablos, supposedly the best bar in town, but which failed to have any type of nightlife or any papusas on the menu. I settle for a steak sandwich and we called it an early night, content on saving our energy for the weekend crowds at the beach.

The next day we took locals buses to La Liberdad, a shabby little port city that is a hub to get to all the other beaches. After reading up on all the beaches in our lonely planet we deiced on Playa Zonte, a black sand cove with a decent off shore break and a good selection of accommodations. It was after we arrived in Playa Zonte that we learned that our two year old lonely planet was severely out of date. If Zonte was ever a happening beach town, it had long since died and someone had done everything in there power to cover up its tracks. There were a few accommodations hugging the rocky beach, which was bisected by a river, and no kind of surf shops or tourist centre. We took a moldy double room at Casa de Frita, and waited for the crowds to arrive for the weekend festivities. There were no crowds and no festivities. We waited around until 8pm and decided to try one of the other hostels on the other side of the river, but the hostel clerk said that the river was high and dangerous to cross and that the main highway- the only other way to get to the other side of the beach- was not safe to walk at night. Defeated we sunk back into our chairs and played chess. But, after a few minutes we both looked at each other.
¨The hell with it man, lets have a go at those other spots cross river,¨ David said.
¨Hell yes,¨ I replied and we set off down the beach with our flashlights.
The river looked more like a stream and looked passable aided by the illumination from the full moon. We walked the banks looking for the best place to cross and realized that there was no way to know how deep it was until we actually got in. We waded out a couple of feet before the currant, going both directions because of the incoming tide, almost made me loose my balance on the slippery rocks converging the bottom. I stayed myself, walked on a staggered line down stream, holding my camera above my head in case an ill-placed step sent me into the torrent. Every step was a painful laborous effort because you would kick up loose rocks trying to find your footing which then, caught in the currant, came smashing back into your ankles. It took us about 20 minutes, but we finally emerged, water logged and bleeding, on the other side of the river. We limped up to nearest hostel only to find a few groups of surfers and locals chilling in hammocks and talking quietly. We pulled up some chairs and ordered a couple Gallo beers and waited to see what developed. After about an hour it was clear that this was as wide as the party was going to get, but we stayed and order another beer each building up our liquid currange before hobleling back to the river to go home.

The next day we went out on a scouting mission and found a better beach with more restaurants, more bars, better waves, and more people, and amazing sunsets over a rocky outcrop just off shore. Playa Tunco was just a 10 minute drive down the road and we moved here in the afternoon taking a room overlooking the beach. About 20 Peace Corers were in town on leave which seemed to double the tourist population and the nights turned out to be pretty lively and fun. Everyone else in town, local or tourist, seemed to be a surfer and it gave the town a laid back ¨manaña¨attitude. The main activities seemed to be surfing, eating, and siestas in hammocks. David and I did our best to fit in. We spent the next three days here, chilling out in hammocks by the beach. One day we were meant to take a suffering lesson, but David got food poisoning the day before and we called it off. After the weekend crowds departed the town transformed back into a sleepy little surfing village and we decide it was time to move on, back to San Salvador. I was looking forward to this because, despite having great food, non of the restaurants on the beach seemed to offer papusas.

Back in San Salvador, we decided to check out of the the many malls that the capital has to offer. Despite is small size and recent civil war history, El Salvador has Central America´s strongest economy and best minimum wage (though that statistic is misleading as roughly have the countries population doesn´t have a ¨qualifying¨ job). But you couldn´t help but notice the affluencey. BMWs and Lexus cars in the street. Armani and Prada stores in the malls. Everyone one wore western clothes and looked very European, a consequence of years of genocidal inhalation of indigenous populations. It was a stark contrast to Guatemala´s highlands which are inhabited by many different Mayan tribes.

That evening I set out determined to find a papusaria. I dragged David around town for the better part of an hour, walking up and down side streets and asking everyone where I could find one. Finally, after running out of streets to search, I gave up, deflated and sulking. In the morning I said goodbye to my traveling companion and took the 5am bus back to Guatemala still sour that I had spent almost an week in El Salvador and didn´t get to try there famous papusas. This time the bus didn´t break down, but it still took almost an hour to get through the custom at the boarder. Sitting there on the bus waiting to be let across some venders came aboard selling different items. Newspapers, candies, and... PAPUSAS! I almost jumped out of my seat and quickly ordered three different flavors, my mouth watering in anticipation. They were a little on the bland side.

Antigua - Guatemala

I disembarked from the bus in a dark rainy haze. It was almost 10pm and I had no idea where I was. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes as I flipped through the soggy pages of my lonely planet guide trying to orient myself on the seemingly endless parade of cobblestone streets and Spanish colonial houses. I had just arrived in Antigua, where I would be spending the next couple weeks studying Spanish and acclimating to Latin America. I found a place to stay in a small posada on a side street and got some much needed sleep after my long journey from the states.

In the morning I took a stroll to get my bearings and figure out why all the guidebooks had listed this place as a "must see" when in Guatemala. It didn't take long to figure it out. Enclaved by three huge volcanoes on all sides, Antigua is in a world unto itself. It boasts a populous of over 42,000- and that's not including the smaller pueblos that are scattered in the surround mountains- but has a small town feel where the only horns you hear are people honking to say hello to their friends. An hour's drive from Guatemala City, it is an inviting reprieve from the fume-choked air and unenviting side streets of the capital. Antigua itself was once the capital of the entire Central American Colonial Empire and the capital of Guatemala, but after several devastating earthquakes it was abandoned for today's present sight in the valley below. Suddenly a sleepy little mountain town, it transformed into a bohemian center for local art and clothing.

Having all these attributes, Antigua quickly became an international destination when tourism to Guatemala picked up in the 40s and 50s. Through the 30 + years of increasing tourism, Antigua has lost almost all of its originality save the streets and architecture, but it's still a wonderful place to visit.

Everything seems to stem out from the central park, the town's center. From there you can find street after street with travel agencies, internet cafes, budget hotels, and a surprising array of international cuisine. With all the enmities that a traveler could want it's not hard to see why many who travel through here end up staying longer than they planned. This also may explain why it has a seemingly endless supply of language schools.

After a typical Latin breakfast I set out to find a language school, intent on brushing up on my rusty high school Spanish. With almost 200 to choose from I had no idea where to start. I didn't have a specific idea of what I wanted but I wanted to avoid a large school, typically owned by American and Canadian companies, which seemed to lack the personal touch you get with local run businesses. I also wanted to do a home stay with a local family where I would be the only student, thinking this would be a good way to make me speak Spanish. Both turned out to be a bad idea.

I chose a small establishment "Antigua Language School" and a host family though them. Now everyone told me that it doesn't matter what school you go to but what teacher you get. That was not true for me. My teacher was fine, but the owner, Marcos, reminded me of a used car salesman at the end of the month desperately trying to make his quota. He'd tell you anything to keep you in the room. "I know the perfect teacher for you" he told me when I signed up. He changed my teacher twice. "Come by in the afternoons, we have plenty of activities." I came by often but he was never there. "I have the perfect family for you, great room, great food." He changed my family the morning I was to move in. The family itself was ok, a small private room and three meals a day with the family. The mother, Maria Elana, was nice enough and talked to me when she had time to sit down but the two teenage kids who lived there ignored my presence and I spent most meals in silence. I couldn't blame them though. How would you feel if you had a new person in your house ever couple weeks who didn't speak your language? It would get old.

After a week there, I decided to switch. I went with one of the larger schools, Ixchel, and switched families, this time one with other students as well. It was much better. The host mother, Angelica, was a gem. She made great meals and ate and talked with us. The other students, a French women, a Jamaican, and a fellow American where all really nice and eager to speak Spanish. We all got on well and our meals typically lasted an hour and a half to two hours as we chatted away in Spanish about everything and nothing. I spent another week and half there, staying on at the house for an extra couple days after school was done because it was so pleasant.

Having spent a little over three weeks in Antigua, I feel as if I have come to know the abandoned mountain village turned tourist Mecca pretty well. I've done a lot in that time. I hiked a volcano and learned to dance salsa. I joined a gym. I spent a weekend in a nearby beach town eating cerviche and drinking cervezas. I visited pueblos for ritual Mayan/Christian ceremonies for the cigarette and rum god. I went to a kite flying festival in a graveyard for Dia de los Muertos. I made good friends with locals and internationals, and some enemies, with a guy who grabbed my crotch and said "Te querro," I want you (gay men seem to have an affinity toward me in Latin America). I have history here. It was like when I lived in Sydney for six months, I have come to know the bartenders and streets by name, I know where the best places to get a good cheap meal, I know the best place to go on a Tuesday night out on the town. I feel as though I've lived here. But here is not Guatemala, not really. It reminds me a bit of Fantasy Island in Pinocchio, where little children (foreigners) run around in a play land with no rules and no grown ups. It's time to leave this play land and move on... to another.