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.
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