I was thinking that these Central American countries might
all be quite similar, but as we passed through these countries I was surprised
to see how distinctly different each one is. While Guatemala has the volcanoes
and colonial towns that I’ve seen all the way through Central America, it has a
completely different feel because unlike anywhere else, the majority of the
population are direct descendants of the Mayan people. This means lots of short
people in colourful dress and garb, and a notable presence of this ancient
culture that has been somewhat swallowed up in the other countries. Guatemala
is the last remaining home to the Mayans. 
There are no photos of these people up close because I can’t
bring myself to giving local people anywhere the ‘zoo exhibit’ treatment
(something older western tourists have no problem with). That’s why I can’t
show their intricate dresses, or their interesting hats and jewellery, or the
weathered looks upon their faces. But it was all around me.
A key image that remains in my mind is from one Sunday that
I walked into a crumbling church in the old capital of Antigua. In the distance
a volcano was venting, and I was exploring the town by myself. I entered this
church and was blown away by two things; firstly, this church that looked
crumbled from the outside was in perfect condition inside, and looked like one
of the great churches I saw in Europe, complete with sombre, dull coloured
paintings of Christ being crucified etc. In stark contrast to that was the crowd
that filled the church - all Mayans, all
in wildly colourful clothes, all looking completely out of place. It seemed
like such a culture contrast. Turns out the catholic church has been able to
reconcile Christianity with Mayan ideology, so these folks go in and pray for
their idols, and thank JC for whatever at the same time.
When we entered Guatemala we drove straight through the capital,
Guatemala City, because it is not safe. We were told that, up until a few years
ago, being a bus driver in Guatemala City was considered the most dangerous job
in the world. Countless bus drivers were killed when gunmen pulled over a bus
to rob the people on board. This happened so frequently that the government had
to roll out a new series of buses that increased security for the driver. Also,
in some parts of Guatemala City police or ambulances don’t even go. These areas
are so bad that if an ambulance entered its driver would be killed and the
vehicle would be broken down to sell as used parts. These parts of the city are
like their own little worlds filled with poverty, disease and casual murder.
We went to Antigua instead, one of my favourite towns in all
of Central America. This used to be the Spanish capital, and has some really
nice, colourful streets in the colonial style, with a big park and a huge
cathedral that’s had its roof collapse in the centre of town (an epic old ruin
that I wandered around one afternoon). At the edge of town was the big market,
one of the best I’ve seen in the world. It sold everything from boiled iguanas
and big slabs of crocodile meat, to pirate Hollywood films in Spanish, to
traditional dress, to rip off Nike shoes. This is where I came to eat most of
my meals, and brought whoever was game to try some of what the locals were
eating (and paying). Overlooking all this was a massive volcano that could be
seen rising above the surroundings from anywhere in the town.
We went and climbed to the base of the nearby volcano named Picaya.
It was cool to walk on the recent lava flow, and we saw into a crack where
there remained a red glow (cue the marshmellows). I stood there at sunset turning
my head one way to see an amazing volcano up close, then turning my head the
other way to see another one in the distance, rising out of the sea of clouds that
hovered over the lower altitudes. 
Leaving Antigua we made for Lake Atitlan by bus. These buses
are known as chicken buses, though I’m not sure why. They are the common means
of transport for most of the population, and are incredibly crowded. We caught
four consecutively to get to the lake, and somewhere amongst all the crowded
chaos my travelling companion Fok, and another girl, had valuables stolen from
their bags. (Fok’s was on his lap the whole time).
Lake Atitlan is impressive. This is a favourite destination
for Guatemalans and I can see why. It’s a large freshwater lake surrounded by
several cone volcanoes and several small towns. We stayed at a town on the
south bank, called Panajachel, and then in a small Mayan village on the north
bank.
On the south bank I spent dusk at the end of a rickety pier
overlooking the vast lake and the three volcanoes on the opposite bank. It was
a spectacular evening. There were some ducks paddling near me and a few boatmen
who passed and nodded their heads. That dusk was epic, one of the many moments
I have had along the way that justifies quitting my job and spending my money.
The following day we got a boat to cruise us around the lake
stopping at a few different towns and villages. We swam in the cold waters of
the lake, and saw where its mysterious rise over the last fifty years had
claimed several wharfs, lower patios, and parts of houses. At one point I was
in the water up to my chin standing on top of a railing that was once and
outdoor veranda.
In one stop our guide took us up into the middle of town,
then down a narrow alley and into a shack. It all seemed very strange, but it
was about to get stranger. I’ve seen some whacky things in my time on the road,
and what I’m about to recount is right up there. First thing I notice in this
dingy little room is a three foot wooden doll, carved to look like an old man.
He has traditional garb on, and a cowboy hat. Not only is he a Mayan idol, but
the Catholic church is telling the Mayans that what they actually mean is that
he is Lucifer. Whatever. This doll has a cigarette burning in his mouth. Intermittently,
a man (the priest, of sorts) takes out the cigarette and knocks off the ash,
like the doll is an old decrepit man who can’t move his arms.
Things get
weirder when they begin to pour rum into its mouth, and pat his mouth with
cloth when it spills everywhere. Things get weirder still when I notice that this
little ceremony has shifted its focus to the fat old women and the young guy
kneeling on the floor in front of this doll. The priest picks up a large glass
of rum and pours it into his mouth. Okay, seems fitting I guess. But no, he
doesn’t swallow it. Instead, he suddenly and shockingly spits it directly into
the kneeling woman’s face. Not one spray, but several, covering her whole face
and head. So unexpected and weird this is that a girl in our group runs outside
the shack temple to burst into laughter. The rest of us stand their shocked as
rum trickles down the woman’s blank face. Next the young fella kneeling gets
his rum facial. When that’s done, the priest cleans out his mouth by spitting
all over the floor, then lights a cigarette and puts it in the dolls mouth. We
were later told that this was a cleansing ritual and the old woman and young
guy where a couple with relationship issues.
That night we did a homestay with a Mayan family. We helped
make tortillas in the kitchen and ate with the man of the house. The women
waited until we were done until they started in another room. The man knew just
a little English, and me and Fok knew just a little Spanish but it was enough
to have something of a conversation over dinner.
Our next destination was cabins on a mangrove off to the
side of a big river for a couple of days. The little back deck to our cabin
extended over the mangroves and we watched turtles swim below. Here it was hot
and humid, pushing 40 degrees. Pure discomfort. From here we went and swam
in a river that had a hot spring waterfall flowing down over the rocks into it.
The mixed hot and cold water made for great swimming and we jumped off the top
of the waterfall (Fok had to be pushed after standing at the top determined but
frozen in place for 1 hour – I kid you
not).
And then to another lake, this one smaller but rising all
the same. This one had risen so much in recent years that it had inundated some
roads around the outside of the edge of the small, urban island called Flores.
It was quite funny to see street lights on when their base and the streets below
them were fully submerged. Here we ate some good street food (all air temp so
slightly risky) and swam some more.
Our last stop was the ruin complex of Tikal. These are some
of the best Mayan ruins, and must have been a massive city filled with
thousands of people back in the day, because the area was huge. The forest that
surrounded the ruins was home to crocodiles (which killed three workers last
year), jaguars (which workers witnessed kill a crocodile last year), and some
racoon like creatures (which wander around aimlessly killing time). We got to
explore these ruins, walk up the steps on one of the medium pyramids, and climb
over the crumbled limestone buildings like children in a giant playground
When asked why such a great and sophisticated civilisation
could vanish so quickly our guide told us it’s the same thing that’s happening
to the great civilisation of our time, the USA and ‘The West’ – recession. It
might have had something to do with the Spanish as well. What’s left of that
civilisation are the bare ruins, the bright red paint and intricate carvings long
since washed away. But the descendants are still here, still following their
traditions and still using their languages, making Guatemala and Central
America that much more colourful.
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