After we’d had our fix of shopping, coffee and Western food in Antigua we set our sights on the Northern part of Guatemala, renowned for its spectacular topography. Apparently, Aldous Huxley once described Lago de Atitlan as “the most beautiful lake in the world”. Catching our first glimpse of it from the high mountain road above we could see that he had a point (whether he was ‘experimenting’ at the time or not). Wreathed in mist and surrounded by volcanoes, it was a breath-taking sight.
We descended to the town of San Pedro via a series of precipitous hair-pin bends, trying not to take too much notice of the obviously fresh landslides encroaching onto the road. In an average year Guatemala receives 55 inches of rain. However, this year 53 inches has fallen already – we passed two sections of road which had simply been washed away. San Pedro is a mixture of a traditional Guatemalan town and a hippy hang-out for gringos. There are numerous businesses here owned by Germans, Brits, Dutch and Italians to name but a few. The combination of cheap living and chilled environment evidently acts as magnet for all kinds of travellers, seekers and alternative types. It was a pleasant enough place to hang out for a couple of days, though it didn’t feel particularly authentic.
Behind the town, the Volcan San Pedro rises up to a height of 3020 metres, offering great vistas over the area for those prepared to put in some effort. As it rains like clockwork at 1pm every day the best time to tackle the volcano is at the crack of dawn. We therefore set our alarm for 5am, met up with our guide and some other intrepid trekkers, and started the long hike up. The steep (and frankly exhausting) climb took us four hours, weaving through maize fields, coffee bushes and cloud forest. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the summit it had clouded over, and we weren’t able to see much at all. Nevermind.
On the way down we passed local villagers tending to their crops on impossibly angled slopes. They make the journey up and down the volcano at least once a day, often carrying heavy bundles of wood: these people are tough. We celebrated our achievement by sinking a few Russian beers with some French Canadians and an Israeli guy in an Irish bar serving Thai food…like you do.
The tiny settlement of San Marcos, across the lake from San Pedro, felt much more like a typical Guatemalan village. There are still gringos here, mostly of the middle-age, new-age type (“I’ve been reading this Tao book and, like, apparently the juice that’s best for my karmic and sexual energy is cucumber”) but the balance seems more harmonious. We stayed at a beautiful guesthouse on a hill above the lake. To get to our room we had to walk down through several terraces filled with gorgeous tropical flowers. For the location, it was ridiculously inexpensive.
Later on, we took a stroll around town to acquaint ourselves with the local area. When we reached the main plaza (consisting of a church, a basketball court and a tuk-tuk rank) we became aware of the sound of drums coming from the road above us. Intrigued, we hung around to see what all the commotion was about. Suddenly a parade of kids clad in white military uniforms and caps came marching round the corner, playing an assortment of percussion instruments, trumpets and xylophones. Not exactly what we were expecting. The troop filed into the basketball court, then down the hill came yet another marching band. By this point most of the village (including several dogs) had turned out to check out what was clearly going to be a great “Battle of the Bands” contest. Apparently, most of the kids in Guatemala are practicing for a big competition on the 15th September – Independence Day – and this was a warm-up show. Awesome!
The next day we took a trip to Chichicastenango to try out our bargaining skills at their famous market. Stalls lined several streets, selling everything from dried beans and chicken feet to intricately woven rugs and hammocks. In the middle of the market we stumbled across a church where local people had lit fires on the steps as offerings, whilst all around the chaos of the bazaar carried on oblivious. After carefully perusing the wares on offer we picked up a few cushion covers, a throw and the obligatory jaunty bag for a decent price, though no doubt we still paid over the odds. Now there’s just the small matter of carrying it all!
Our last destination in Guatemala was the city of Quetzaltenango – known locally by the more manageable moniker of Xela (pronounced Shay-la). It’s the second largest city in the country and a bustling, cheerful and industrious centre. After we got ourselves settled we had a look around the city centre and happened across perhaps the most bizarre museum we’ve encountered so far. The Casa de Las Culturas contained an unlikely combination of old computers, a display of chewing gum, several taxidermied birds in varying states of repair and, most freakishly, an array of bottled animal foetuses (including one claiming to be human). Yikes.
On the way down we passed local villagers tending to their crops on impossibly angled slopes. They make the journey up and down the volcano at least once a day, often carrying heavy bundles of wood: these people are tough. We celebrated our achievement by sinking a few Russian beers with some French Canadians and an Israeli guy in an Irish bar serving Thai food…like you do.
The tiny settlement of San Marcos, across the lake from San Pedro, felt much more like a typical Guatemalan village. There are still gringos here, mostly of the middle-age, new-age type (“I’ve been reading this Tao book and, like, apparently the juice that’s best for my karmic and sexual energy is cucumber”) but the balance seems more harmonious. We stayed at a beautiful guesthouse on a hill above the lake. To get to our room we had to walk down through several terraces filled with gorgeous tropical flowers. For the location, it was ridiculously inexpensive.
Later on, we took a stroll around town to acquaint ourselves with the local area. When we reached the main plaza (consisting of a church, a basketball court and a tuk-tuk rank) we became aware of the sound of drums coming from the road above us. Intrigued, we hung around to see what all the commotion was about. Suddenly a parade of kids clad in white military uniforms and caps came marching round the corner, playing an assortment of percussion instruments, trumpets and xylophones. Not exactly what we were expecting. The troop filed into the basketball court, then down the hill came yet another marching band. By this point most of the village (including several dogs) had turned out to check out what was clearly going to be a great “Battle of the Bands” contest. Apparently, most of the kids in Guatemala are practicing for a big competition on the 15th September – Independence Day – and this was a warm-up show. Awesome!
The next day we took a trip to Chichicastenango to try out our bargaining skills at their famous market. Stalls lined several streets, selling everything from dried beans and chicken feet to intricately woven rugs and hammocks. In the middle of the market we stumbled across a church where local people had lit fires on the steps as offerings, whilst all around the chaos of the bazaar carried on oblivious. After carefully perusing the wares on offer we picked up a few cushion covers, a throw and the obligatory jaunty bag for a decent price, though no doubt we still paid over the odds. Now there’s just the small matter of carrying it all!
Our last destination in Guatemala was the city of Quetzaltenango – known locally by the more manageable moniker of Xela (pronounced Shay-la). It’s the second largest city in the country and a bustling, cheerful and industrious centre. After we got ourselves settled we had a look around the city centre and happened across perhaps the most bizarre museum we’ve encountered so far. The Casa de Las Culturas contained an unlikely combination of old computers, a display of chewing gum, several taxidermied birds in varying states of repair and, most freakishly, an array of bottled animal foetuses (including one claiming to be human). Yikes.
Anyhow, our main reason for coming to Xela was to climb Volcan Tajumulco – the highest point in Central America at 4220 metres. We signed up for the two day hike with a great company called Quetzaltrekkers, a non-profit organisation whose proceeds go towards housing and educating street kids. This area is one of the poorest in Guatemala with many people living on less than $1 a day. Children here often begin working at an incredibly young age – it is not uncommon to see five year olds selling food on the buses or shining shoes. In the altiplano (high mountainous) region close to Xela the indigenous population suffered unspeakable hardships during the civil war. The book I, Rigoberta Menchu is a fascinating and brutal first-hand account of the struggles from the perspective of an Indian woman. She later went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize for her efforts to end the oppression of indigenous peoples in Guatemala. It is a highly recommended but harrowing read.
The morning of the trek dawned and we were up at 4am to complete our preparations. At 5am we clambered into the back of a pick-up truck which deposited us at the ‘chicken bus’ terminal in the middle of Xela. There were eleven of us in total: three guides, three cool Germans and a legendary Israeli fella we’d met at Lake Atitlan (hey guys - come and visit us in the UK!), two Australians (appropriately named Dodge and Plugger) and our good selves. We then boarded the first of two buses which would take us high into the mountains to begin our trek. ‘Chicken buses’ are ex-American school buses so named because in former times they used to carry a lot of poultry in addition to human passengers. They are painted in gaudy colours, daubed with religious banners and have little to no suspension; more money is probably spent on their décor than their engine maintenance. The combination of maniacal drivers, dramatically pot-holed roads and a four-to-a-seat policy can make for some pretty hair-raising journeys. However, this time luck was on our side and we were all deposited safely at the start of the trail.
We set off through the thick mist, climbing steadily for an hour or so. Then it began to rain…and rain…and rain. After three hours we stopped for lunch under a hastily erected tarpaulin, though by this point we were all drenched anyway. Then it was another hour’s walk to base camp where we had the fun task of putting up three tents in the midst of a torrential downpour. Sprits rose somewhat when one of the guides unearthed a bottle of rum that a previous group had stashed up there – it’s amazing what a booze-laced coffee can do for morale. We put on our warmest clothes, had dinner and went to bed as soon as it got dark, at the nursery-school time of 6.30pm. I knew it was going to be a long night when I woke up freezing cold and damp, looked at my watch and realised it was only 8.15pm.
At some point in the night the rain stopped, only to start again an hour before dawn, just at the time we were meant to be getting up to climb to the summit. Therefore the guides kindly gave us an extra hour to sleep in. At 5.30am we reluctantly got up to hike to the top of the volcano, climbing the final 200m in height. It was pretty tough going as it was incredibly cold and windy, and some of us also had mild altitude sickness. However, just as we were arriving at the summit, we were rewarded for our efforts: the clouds cleared as the sun was coming over the horizon, allowing us to see across to Mexico, the Pacific coastline, and the volcano chains of Guatemala. Worth the effort, or ‘vale la pena’ as they say here.
The morning of the trek dawned and we were up at 4am to complete our preparations. At 5am we clambered into the back of a pick-up truck which deposited us at the ‘chicken bus’ terminal in the middle of Xela. There were eleven of us in total: three guides, three cool Germans and a legendary Israeli fella we’d met at Lake Atitlan (hey guys - come and visit us in the UK!), two Australians (appropriately named Dodge and Plugger) and our good selves. We then boarded the first of two buses which would take us high into the mountains to begin our trek. ‘Chicken buses’ are ex-American school buses so named because in former times they used to carry a lot of poultry in addition to human passengers. They are painted in gaudy colours, daubed with religious banners and have little to no suspension; more money is probably spent on their décor than their engine maintenance. The combination of maniacal drivers, dramatically pot-holed roads and a four-to-a-seat policy can make for some pretty hair-raising journeys. However, this time luck was on our side and we were all deposited safely at the start of the trail.
We set off through the thick mist, climbing steadily for an hour or so. Then it began to rain…and rain…and rain. After three hours we stopped for lunch under a hastily erected tarpaulin, though by this point we were all drenched anyway. Then it was another hour’s walk to base camp where we had the fun task of putting up three tents in the midst of a torrential downpour. Sprits rose somewhat when one of the guides unearthed a bottle of rum that a previous group had stashed up there – it’s amazing what a booze-laced coffee can do for morale. We put on our warmest clothes, had dinner and went to bed as soon as it got dark, at the nursery-school time of 6.30pm. I knew it was going to be a long night when I woke up freezing cold and damp, looked at my watch and realised it was only 8.15pm.
At some point in the night the rain stopped, only to start again an hour before dawn, just at the time we were meant to be getting up to climb to the summit. Therefore the guides kindly gave us an extra hour to sleep in. At 5.30am we reluctantly got up to hike to the top of the volcano, climbing the final 200m in height. It was pretty tough going as it was incredibly cold and windy, and some of us also had mild altitude sickness. However, just as we were arriving at the summit, we were rewarded for our efforts: the clouds cleared as the sun was coming over the horizon, allowing us to see across to Mexico, the Pacific coastline, and the volcano chains of Guatemala. Worth the effort, or ‘vale la pena’ as they say here.
After a hearty breakfast, we packed up camp and made the three hour journey down – a breeze compared to the way up. Finally, after some more chicken bus adventures we arrived back in Xela, and had perhaps the most blissful hot showers of our lives. Now it’s on to El Salvador for sun, surfing and (hopefully) a lie-in!
Susie and Phil xxx
