Once more into the breach, dear friends (it’s gonna be a long one)…
First, the avocados: in fair Antigua, where we lay our scene. This being the ex-colonial capital of Guatemala, rather than colonial Britain’s tasty little West Indian morsel. An incredibly beautiful metropolis holding true to central american cloud city form - it’s 5,000 feet above sea level - and ringed by aguacate farms and active volcanoes. Solid urban planning. The altitude means the clouds are mentally defined against the pure blue sky, white and fluffy as Spanish colonial intentions weren’t, while below the wide cobbled streets are lined low buildings of pastel blue, green, orange, red. A ginuwine delight. ALSO: churches. Tens of them. Largely dilapidated relics of colonial rule, but even in the most seriously crumbling iglesias, that are more spirit than body, the Mass Must Go On. Featuring an interesting blend of Catholic and Mayan symbolism. Adémas, Antigua was a masticatory epiphany - street food fare ranging from barbecued spiced beef sausages to platano y frijole rellenos (plaintain balls stuffed with the ubiquitous refried beans… INSANE); of a more domestic persuasion, the 2 girls I’d linked up with from Flores and I cooked up some delish plantain/cinnamon/coriander/onion/tomato/rice madness with a generous side order of guac attack. The most mindblowingly fresh avocados around, 3 for a dollar. Yes please.
Después came San Pedro, perched on the edge of Lago de Atitlán, which was a mixed affair. Here the winds did sing to me; and the thunder, that deep and dreadful organ-pipe. While kayaking, the tempestuous backdrop was fully welcome. Storm clouds ensnared ominously by volcano peaks; lightning forking onto forested ridges; paddling out, borne on waves of thunder. As we neared the opposite shore we heard tribal drums from San Paulo, beating out over the water as I surged landward. And finally into the calm between two headlands, gliding over a deep aquamarine. Phenomenal. HOWEVER there was a flipside to Thor’s Guatemalan fury. In scaling the unexpectedly intense Mt. Serendipity (read: Volcan San Pedro) at dawn, I achieved the summit and an incredible vista for only 2 minutes before the day’s clouds got all up in my foreground. More disturbing was my death-defying parapenting experience, hailed as a ‘must-do’ of Lago Atitlán. Sure, it’s rainy season, but mornings were generally clear and I had faith in the tour operator to warn me of any particularly adverse conditions. Big mistake. Arriving at the jump-off point there was already some early uncertainty from my pilot, muttering about low clouds. I figured my $90 was on his mind though, because we took off as planned around midday. I enjoyed a gloriously weightless first 2 minutes, rising up above jungle, lake and town. But then it became a matter of dealing with the rapidly incoming weather front; my pilot’s audible tension did nothing to settle nerves. Navigating close to forested hills to try and escape major wind; caught in low-cloud powerful turbulence, ripped skywards by updrafts, the ground dropping away. Not the confident ascent of a thermal-borne eagle but like a butterfly torn heavenwards against its will. A ‘30 minute flight’ cut short after 5 with a grunted “we’re gonna have to land now”; scrambling to get above the landing spot. Nonetheless the descent - though a race against 40kmh+ winds - was an exhilarating swooping spiral downwards. Touching earth in a non-fatal embrace was all kinds of a relifef despite being dragged against it by our sketchy arrival. I was afterwards told of the tropical storm forecast for 1pm that day. Jesus Christ. I later tangled with the ferocity of this same storm in a Tuk Tuk battling homewards round the lake. Rivers where no rivers had any right to be. A SERIOUSLY intense day.
From there I chicken bussed to Xela (Quetzaltenango), which is really the only way to travel in Guatemala. So called by gobsmacked gringos because apparently fowl are regularly brought on board, us linguists know them as camionetas. Decommissioned school buses driven down from the States and imprinted with some vibrantly jazzy flavour. Invariably full way beyond capacity, and certainly not intended for a 6’3” British adonis. Up in the Guatemala western highlands the commuters are typically local women resplendent in rich textile patterns, no two quite the same; Mayan hipsters. They jabber away in indigenous languages, rocking gold teeth from a ridiculously young age, and balance their worldly belongings expertly on their heads. Excellent people watching as I bumped across questionable tarmac highways, with short 10m stretches just randomly left to degrade. Xela was fun though. Lowlight being a bizarre jacuzzi session at a woman called Ana’s all-purpose business (I was offered hiking shoes on the way out); there were candles, incense and flower petals… it was a little weird. Highlight definitely being a day trip to the Fuentes Georginas hot springs: the steaming jade green pools ranging from pleasant to borderline masochistic, it was revitalising as the jacuzzi wasn’t, and offered a chance to observe and interact with the frantic revelry of the locals. Bueno.
That Sunday I pigrimmaged my way over to the famed markets of Chichicastenango. Labyrinthine acres of brilliant textiles, masks and the delectable food stalls which dominated my time. From chocolate-coated frozen bananas through fried chicken (They. Fucking. Love it) to lunch platters of barbecued minotaur, rice and salsa. Mint. Generally haggling around was also ridiculously entertaining.
I’m running out of steam so shall leave it there, but after many weeks of mountains, jungle and dances with storms, I’m headed to the islands off Honduras for the tropics at their most relaxed. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Isla Utila shall restore amends.
