Rare Reason to Rise at 3am

The view that sold me on Santa Maria.

I've seen 3am from the top a number of times, but have seen few reasons to wake to meet it from the other end. But I wanted to climb a volcano and was struggling to find accomplices for the two day trek to the top of the biggest one in the country. After getting a satisfying view of another local one, Santa Maria, and meeting a French guy at the hot springs who sounded eager to make that ascent, I chased him down via a tour company and we committed to the early morning venture despite a foreboding morning weather forecast. When I heard it dumping rain at 10pm that night, I remained hopeful, figuring that a downpour might be our best bet to clear it out for morning.

View from the trail at around 5:20am.

We met at 3am and rode a half hour to the trail head, meeting our guide, Edgar, ready in shorts and a winter hat, looking strikingly similar to Nepalese guides in the Himalayas. Climbing by headlamps and looking up at the stars, we muddled our way up the trail with no idea of the appearance of the surrounding landscape.

View at around 5:45am.

At a little past 5, about halfway up, we had our first hint of daylight. At around 6, our guide handed us masks to cover our faces since we'd soon be passing a dead horse, ridden too high by irresponsible riders, succumbing to the cold and thin air. It wasn't a pretty sight, and I was none too pleased with the otherwise lovable pair of dogs that accompanied us to see them feeding on the carcass. And while I have tendency to photograph dead things, I much prefer skeletons to corpses and skipped this op.

The day turned out to be beautiful, with cloud cover hanging over the various neighboring volcano peaks, but with bright blue sky and gloriously warm sun.

Other volcanoes, including San Pedro from the town by the lake.

My co-conspirator, Andreas, and a dog that can eat a horse.

Santiaguito readying to blow.

We were fortunate to find stellar views of the much shorter, yet far more active nearby volcano, Santiaguito (Little Santiago), which was kind enough to erupt repeatedly in the hour or so we spent on the peak. We could hear the fuming eruption and the sound of crumbling rocks rolling down the slope of the volcano. Santiaguito spews rock, dust, and vapor instead of lava and used to be a part of the larger Santa Maria before splitting off during an earlier, much larger eruption.


Apparently, the locals are quite pleased so long as Santiaguito keeps erupting regularly, since it's when it hasn't blown its top in some time that the next explosion is the greatest risk, threatening to throw more payload farther and therefore more dangerously.

Bother from Other Mothers

Top pool, too hot to soak.

Having landed in the rather dumpy second largest Guatemalan city of Xela (pronounced "shayla," short for Quetzaltenango, obviously), I found little to do than wonder why in this particular town most of the foreign travelers (read: whites) seem to ignore each other on the street, dodging eye contact or acknowledgment. I made it a game to stare hard at them while smiling as they passed. Didn't faze any of them.

Lower pool, fed by hot upper pool and cooled by another stream and Moms.

So I sought out of town entertainment, taking a morning bus tour up to Fuentes Georginas, the local hot springs that had suffered a mud slide last year but had recently reopened, largely rebuilt.

Reverse of lower pool, and tropical mountain forest beyond.

I knew that it was relatively quiet during the weekdays, though I had not been informed that it was Mother's Day in Guatemala, where they hold to the date of May 10th, with none of the Sunday guarantees that we American rely upon. So instead of sharing the pools with 8 other people, I had all the local Moms, their kids, and a fair smattering of Dads.

Series of tubes.

Back in Civilization

Wow, it is very hot in the jungle, though surprisingly less hot than in Flores, the town from which I launched and to which I returned after the trek to El Mirador where the "real feel" temperature before I left was 116F. For the moment, I'm mainly checking in to say all went well in the jungle. We came back a day early choosing to walk more instead of spending a half day doing nothing at the main site. Unfortunately, our guide knew very little about the ruins so wasn't much more than a trip leader, but the long walk in the humid jungle provided frequent monkey sightings and extended periods of daydreaming bordering on hallucinations. After returning today with just a couple hours of hiking (our longest day being yesterday at 8.5 hours) and a slow minibus ride back to Flores, it was all about cold drinks and slow recovery. In the morning, I will head to Rio Dulce (Sweet River) as I head into the last few days of adventure before flying back to the States.

Behind but on hold

Edgar (guide, left) and I atop Santa Maria Volcano.
That rising cloud to the left is from an erupting volcano far below us.

I've been too busy to keep up to date here and head off tomorrow for 6 days of trekking in the jungle to the remote Mayan site of El Mirador, close to the Mexican border. I will be out of reach for that time, hiking and camping in the wilds with a bunch of rowdy young Israelis, a guide, a bunch of mules, and possibly an Austrian. The mules will be fine, we'll see about the rest.

Be back next Friday or Saturday...

Head cases

There is a common practice for the local women to carry things on their heads. We're not sure why, if just to keep the hands free or if they feel naked without it, but it's quite common. This, along with the trend for very young girls to wear Western modern clothes, switching to the traditional dress in their teens, led Winston and I to wonder if there are arguments between mothers and daughters about carrying things on their head much like equivalent disputes Americans might have about wearing sufficient clothing. "You're going out like that?! At least put something on your head. Here, take this sweater!"

Maybe she was going to be out all night and need the sweater.

Is she telling secrets to the headgear?

Winston, I don't think we're in Toto anymore

The Statue of the Apparition of Saint Michael the Archangel.

There's a better Wizard of Oz joke there somewhere, but I can't grasp it. After San Pedro, I set my sights on the mountain town of Totonicapan (fun to say if you can get it right, faster is better), where they were celebrating the festival of the Apparition of Saint Michael the Archangel. Now, for all you eager Catholic school alumni, everyone knows that late September is the usual time for such revelry, but this is all about the apparition, the various inspirational appearances of Mike's ghostly self that inspired such great things as the Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy. Apparently the Lombards of Sipontum defeated the Greek Neapolitans on May 8, 663 thanks to Saint Michael and it became a holy day. The Pope later declassified it but the Guatemalans don't give up that easily.

New game. Where's Winston?

Winston and I had the good fortune of finding a true local fest, with mobs of indigenous people out to drink, eat, and be merry, and very few tourists bothering to attend (we counted 3 others).

Lalo Tzul (on the right, obviously) and his horns.

The main event was a performance by Lalo Tzul and his Manzaneros, a marimba backed band with horn section and the inimitable Lalo as frontman. The guidebook promised traditional dance and fireworks. You get fireworks all the time in Guatemala, usually as frightening bomb blasts from no particular source in the middle of the day. While we did see some fireworks when they trotted Michael out of the church, and I caught a pic or two of fireworks behind the band, I'm not sure we even caught the prime show, or if there was one.

This one, possibly drunk Mayan lady was the "traditional dancing."

Unless you count these definitely drunk guys.

Last of San Pedro

San Pedro statue and volcano.

On my final morning around San Pedro, I enjoyed the morning light and snapped some pics of the town.

Closer shot of Saint Peter's rarely mentioned trusty chicken sidekick.

Classroom at San Pedro Spanish School.

Tuk-tuk!

Tuk-tuk threatening man in narrow roadway.

Jumping from High Places

Miguel with San Pedro volcano backdrop.

In further excursions, Winston and I took kayaks out to see San Marcos, another small village along lake. A stupid or devious little Mayan lady pointed us in the wrong direction, turning a supposedly 40 minute paddle into an hour and a half workout. When we finally found our intended destination (where I thought it was originally until the little beast "corrected" me), we could barely walk up the hill into town. It seems that the opposing lateral effort by the legs to counter the paddling by the arms has an effect similar to riding a camel. You step onto solid ground feeling bow-legged and wobbly.

We recovered over a terrific meal in a tourist joint (green Thai curry?!) then walked over to this terrific park along the rocks with paths, benches, and a platform with a gate that opens out over the lake, about 40 feet above the water. It's quite the hangout and jumping spot.

Winston blissfully paddle-free.

Afterward, Winston wisely convinced me that we didn't need to paddle back, but could pay the boatmen to throw our kayaks on the roof of the shuttle.

Dirty hippy.

Santiago and the Evil Saint

Santiago

Finally making some excursions toward the end of the week in San Pedro, Nina, Kerry, Becky, and I took the boat over to Santiago, a larger town on the lake with few tourists despite quite a few shopping stalls that made the climb up the hill into town quite a gauntlet of eager vendors.


A key reason I wanted to explore Santiago was to visit the current home of the local evil saint, Maximon (aka San Simon). I still don't fully understand the concept of the evil saint, but locals ply him with liquor, cigars, and other offerings, hoping their prayers will be realized. They trot him around town in a big annual procession, after which he resides with a different resident each year so as not to play favorites. This year, he's in a steamy hot concrete room with a few drunk dudes lounging around chatting. I just offered cash (figured he could pick his own poison) and only gave him that because his keeper forced a donation in order to snap just one pic.

Not intended to be a swim up bar.

The lake rose dramatically last year, wiping out various buildings too close to the waterline. Above you can see what happened to a park by the Santiago docks.

Santiago fisherman in late day light.

Pick your Indian Nose

Near sunset

It's no Indian Head, but we have Indian Nose across from San Pedro. If you can't see it immediately, it's a profile looking up, the nose as the highest point with the brow the bump to the left of that. I hear you can hike it for sunrise, but I didn't find out for myself.

Morning

Jumping from Low Places

I took too long to finally get into the water of Lake Atitlan, but when it warmed up in the middle of the week, Winston, Nina, and I hiked along "las rocas" (the rocks) to find a proper point of entry (few beaches to speak of in the area). After waiting for a gang of bathing locals to leave, we took their choice spot and enjoyed the cool water.

Nina and I acting tall to improve background angle of pic.

Nina, from Finland, in the middle of a much longer and more exciting trip through South and Central America.

Winston, from Michigan, posing to show he's too cool for school/swimming.

Dancing at the Party Tienda

The nightlife in San Pedro was so rollicking that one bar might fill up while the other 15 stood empty. Fired up by our earlier salsa lesson, an extra curricular activity at the Spanish school, Winston and I tore shit up outside the "party tienda," the little shop that kept the club tunes blasting all night long, that is until 11 when the local cops shut the town down.

Thanks to Kerry for shooting and commentary, and to both Kerry and Becky, fellow school chums and party-goers, for their enthusiastic support of our furtive street salsalero dreams.

Lake of Dreams

View across Lake Atitlán from the dock while boarding for San Pedro La Laguna

A handful (by which I mean, both) readers might know that I'm ostensibly on this trip working on a story about a detective who travels to Guatemala looking for a missing man. Well, that story got its start in Antigua but really took off while I was visiting San Pedro La Laguna, a lovely small town on the edge of gorgeous Lake Atitlán, the narrative advanced when my hostel suffered an attack by ninja cats in the middle of the night and an odd older lady asked me to take pictures of her and her partner. I'm back in San Pedro on the lovely lake, taking a week of Spanish classes and living with a local family as part of what they call immersion, meant to improve my Spanish via conversation and grant a glimpse of local life. The classes are muy bueno, one on one sessions in a terraced garden overlooking the lake. My instructor, Elijio, is good at his job and a fun guy who kindly tells me how to say all the dirty words. The language is coming back quickly but I remain lazy about homework. Thankfully, so does Elijio, and I get off easy.

I get the feeling this is one of the girls' room when I'm not here.

My family is headed up by Luis, the director of a local school for young kids, and his wife Leti, who is a great cook and makes a fresh juice daily (mango, strawberry, and papaya so far). They have three kids, two girls (16 and 10) and Luis Jr. who is just 18 months old and a bit sick at the moment. They are wonderfully friendly and relaxed, a nice treat since some of the families can become possessive, expecting you to spend every spare moment with them. And with Luis having been a teacher, he's very good at speaking slowly and clearly for easy communication. Upon meeting, he immediately took me up to the unfinished roof, showed me a chair and told me he'd set up a table to make it my writing room.

View from the Writer's Room at 5:30 am

It feels great to stay put for a week, wandering the same very few familiar streets, refreshing on the language and hanging out with a few friends I met in Antigua who are also enrolled in the same school. Trying not to be lazy and need to make some plans to visit surrounding towns in the days to come.

And while that invitation to take photographs turned out to be less weird than it sounded, the expected pause in the photo shoot where the hetero couple had a "special request" turning out to be just so they could put on clothes (hats, in fact), the painting below that graces the stairway in my new home is more exotic.

I think the family hid this on day 3 because they rightfully thought I might steal it.
Yes, that guy is slitting a chicken's throat.

The Siren Song of Antigua

Volcan Agua on a clear morning.

Everyone who travels to Guatemala visits Antigua. It's the default destination after arriving in Guatemala City, where most folks dash to instead of staying in the filthy, murder bus-infested capital. Packed with colonial charm, it has the usual mixed history, chosen as the capital of a much larger Central American region when folks decided that the previous capital parked on the slopes of the Volcan Agua might best be farther from the risk of raining lava.




Like many colonial cities, the center is a plaza or in this case Central Park, with a mermaid (or siren) fountain in the center, decorated here as part of ongoing beautification efforts by the city and its citizens. The city had been abandoned numerous times and only really began a full restoration process in the 1960s.

Cathedral of Santiago

Even the Cathedral of Santiago gets a couple sirens.

I defied my usual conventions and took a paid walking tour of the city, learning much about the history, particularly about the way Catholicism was forced on the so-called pagan Mayans by the invading Spanish. Forced to attend church or be killed, the Mayans complied, staring up at symbols they didn't understand, made no clearer by the priests reading Latin at them. So, they adopted the pretty imagery and kept praying to their spirits, permitting them some new faces.

Ruins of old cathedral, behind the other facade.

Getting past the censers.

The "eyes that look directly at you" started in 1850.

The tour included the expansive Santo Domingo Monastery, the richest and most successful one in Antigua's history. It was bought by the archaeologist best known for digging up the phenomenal Mayan ruins of Tikal who used it as a home before selling it to a family in the construction business who tastefully turned it into a hotel, as well as restoring it partially and installing galleries with Christian and Mayan art.

Altar amidst ruins, prepped for wedding.

"I think it's going to be fine." "Man, you have some serious faith."

"You call this fine?"

Mayan monkey vessel!

In a one room pharmacy museum, I discovered the container for "black animal,", oddly with "black" in French.

I also learned that my Mayan horoscope is I'x which means Jaguar, making me the medicine man, the symbol of the night sky, the storehouse of female energy, secretive, enchanting, timeless, intelligent, sensitive, spiritual, and allergic to myself.

Antigua is both charming and tiresome, a real living city with lots of native bustle but also jammed with tourists and too many shops and services peddling to them. While I found a couple terrifically atmospheric hangout joints with good food, booze, and live music, my budget kept me a little too close to the backpacker fray of drunken frat boy types who pontificate loudly about which girls wouldn't screw them while other folks are trying to sleep just a thin wall away. After two days, I felt a bit like the sad clown above, ready to collect my unsold Bugs Bunny balloon and move on. So I did.