Sweating Through the Sights

I have learned a few things on my way from Lake Atitlan (which was nice, but very hazy…) to Flores, which is a teeny-tiny island that juts out into Lake Peten Itza in northern Guatemala.:

1) I'm really not a LAKE person (boring, no surf, contained, usually murky, always a mist over them, surrounding towns - kinda bland).
2) When a guide book uses the word "gritty" in ANY description of a town, skip it. EVEN when everyone else raves about the place. Once you've come to trust your guide book, don't doubt it. "Gritty"
translates to "crack-den-ish" like the Van Dam exit en route to the 59th Street Bridge.

Everyone seems to love Flores, the way station for trips to the Mayan ruins (Guatemala's largest) of Tikal. My flight from Guatemala City was purchased in the (aforementioned hazy) lake town of Panajachel at this shady travel agency with folding chairs, a cash box, and lone Guatemala poster taped to the wall as a sell-tool. So at 4 AM, when I got to the airport and nobody, and I mean NOBODY, showed recognition of the airline I was flying, snickering to each other in Spanish when I showed them the ticket (HELLO, I CAN UNDERSTAND YOU, PEOPLE!!!), I felt a little upset. Finally, a lady with a walkie-talkie walkie-talkied a voice who told her that I had to go to the small planes part of the airport. One taxi, 30 minutes, and 50 Quetzales (Guat currency, ripped off again by a taxi driver!) later, we find ourselves near a deserted airfield with one bulb of a light way off yonder. Check-in, yeah...well, there's no room on the 6-seater for me. I'll have to transfer to yet another flight, at yet another terminal that is yet harder to find. When I landed in Flores, I had wanted to be refreshed, I wanted to be enamored. But, well, I was a little tired, and Flores was a little…"gritty."

While the colorful buildings, the sweet people, the culture and authenticity of place all were alive and well in Lake Peten Itza's Flores, it just lacked the charm of the other cities I visited in Guatemala, reminding me of the setting for a scary movie where someone gets killed strolling the banks. Similar to other cities in Guatemala (I think Central America really), though, there is a young expat culture here too. They study Spanish, bum around, frequent the same places each night saying "Hasta Manana" at closing time, and backpack the region. They're all in college, or left college for Central America, scraping by each day on whatever money they can muster. I have actually seen TWO instances where these types hover in restaurants and, very discreetly, make their way around the restaurant eating the leftovers off of unfinished plates on vacated tables!!! One time, yes, was in Flores. And the girl devoured a whole leftover fruit plate, licking her pineapple-juiced fingers after each steal! Very unsettling...

From Flores, I went to Tikal for the day. Starting at dawn, watching the sunrise, strolling the park before the mass of people entered around 10 AM, Tikal is a very-mini Maccu-Picchu: predominantly jungle dotted with excavated remnants of Mayan civilizations, mostly temples. The day was hot, VERY hot, and I kept leaving my water bottle in various places as I stopped to take pictures and had to go back and find it. It was like a day of hide and seek with an inanimate object. I specifically wore black on black because, for any of you that don't know this, I am a sweater. I am not (and never will be) one of those
perfectly dry girls who can hike in a skirt and pastel colored shirt and stay wedding-day photogenic throughout. Nor am I one of those people who can walk around sightseeing spots with four backpacks and a guitar, nary a glisten on my brow. Me, I carry an airline ticket through a 90 degree region in a bathing suit, and I sweat. Anyone who has seen me after running at the gym for an hour (Ilysa, Rosen...?) aren't looking to hug me close (or at all). That's for sure. But, I thought the black-on-black ensemble would help the situation. Foiled again. As evidenced the last time I was in South America, I have sightseeing-outfit-troubles. Consistently. This time, the white powdery atmosphere of the ruins set into my black outfit as a light layer of dust, drying when I wasn't climbing temple stairs, as white outlines of previously soaked areas. I looked like a pavement on which chalk outlines were drawn. Reverse sweat rings. I was mortified, keeping my arms crossed a lot... But, I kept on keeping on, listening in awe to the sounds of the howler monkeys (they sound like ferocious lions and I actually turned back and sought company to walk through the dense jungle paths to each ruin amidst the lion roars of the howlers), woodpeckers (have you ever heard woodpeckers peck? they sound like old doors creaking open in haunted mansions...), and various species of birds that sang like no birds I've ever heard before. I felt like a sweaty Snow White in black. It really was pretty amazing, Tikal. And cheap. Compared to Maccu-Picchu, which is quite costly to enter, Tikal is a mere $7, but as the guards told me, Survivor filmed a stint near Tikal recently (is this true, my reality-friendly friends?), and since then they're trying to raise their prices to $10. Hearing a guard in Mayan ruins talk about the inflation of entry b/c of a American reality-phenomenon like Survivor, in Spanish, was pretty amazing, as well...

Not being an archeological lingerer in these types of tourist sights, I was ready to go (and change my clothes...) by about 11 AM and caught a bus through the countryside back to Flores to wind down my time in Guatemala. I spent more time than I planned here. Despite parental Don't Go's, I really fell for the country, the obviously charming parts, and the not so charming parts, alike. I highly recc a trip down here to anyone looking for a little adventure. Tomorrow, I'm off to Belize for some sun, sand and scuba. Very much looking forward.

More soon,

~M

Lack of water, Lack of guide.

Day three brought me to Antigua, a mountain town about 30 miles out of Guatemala City. As I emailed hotels for lodging, a small villa/hotel next to the hotel I had my eye on emailed me back in about 10 seconds. Alex, the proprietor and fellow New Yorker, was Chatty Cathy on email, the place seemed nice, and so as not to have hassle, I booked it. She would send a shuttle for me the next day, 12:30 PM – wait in front of my Guatemala City hotel. Possibly I should’ve known that my next 24 hours would be off when the shuttle was an hour late and Alex, when called on it, responded “Yo no se.” But, this is Central America, after all, you roll with the punches, right?

Driving into Antigua, I was automatically enamored. It’s this quaint little town with cobblestone streets and multi-colored one-story buildings, behind the doorways of which were lovely inns and posadas with grassy courtyards and cozy environs. Arriving at La Capilla (I have to find out what Capilla means in Spanish…), completed the experience. Like the posadas I passed, La Capilla was a large villa of 5 suites, surrounding a lush garden with a fountain as center. Alex, an attractive 40-ish brunette, came to the door, addressing me by name to her large, but gorgeous, blue-eyed mixed breed of a dog. Even the dog didn’t put me off (yet…). Into the villa I wandered, realizing what a special place this might be. After settling into my room, Alex brings me around back to a tiled pool area. There, I find three very young, very tanned boys lounging. They’re all under 20. Danes and Americans, the trio are a few of the many “boys” that Alex keeps around. They are world students in Antigua to build houses for the poor and study Spanish. Alex calls them all “Hon,” they eat her food, drink her beer, plug their Ipods into her sound system, smoke her cigarettes and order pizza to her villa. No, they don’t live there, they just hang there. They met her playing poker in town, and are the half-naked, massage-giving pool boys for Ladies Tuesdays, the DJs for BBQ Thursdays, and the chefs for Ceviche Saturdays.

Ok…..

After a couple of games of backgammon that I begrudgingly lost to a hot Dutchie with great hands, I decide to head into town as Thor arrived. Thor is a nerdy local expat from the States who is packing an extra 30 lbs and a baby girl whom he forgets at the entry of the pool…until she starts to cry about 20 minutes later. The Dutchies remind me that I must come to Ladies Tuesdays tomorrow, they’ve got new costumes: mere bowties! Into town I head for a breather, a walk around the Plaza Central (eerily reminiscent of Cusco, Peru but on a smaller scale) and a snack before heading back to La Capilla. Alex is leaving as I return, she gives me a cell phone to reach her in case of emergency. Ok… There I am, completely alone in a huge villa, all other amenities of which have been completely padlocked, and there’s nary a staff member around. I’m not sure how to handle this. I wander around a bit, highly aware that should I want for anything, I’m locked out except for my room and the pool. So, I look on the bright side – a whole villa to myself – and go to take a shower. Turn on the faucet…no water. I go from room to room (the other rooms aren’t locked, the padlocks on them deceiving) to check the water. Nope, it’s the same. What the … ?!?! I turn on my computer. No service. Hmmm… What has happened to the bustling La Capilla in the past three hours? I call Alex on my designated cell.

Alex: Hola, Marie Elena, que pasa?
Me: I’m so sorry to bother you…
Alex: Then, Hon…why are you bothering me?
Me: Well…there’s no water.
Alex: Really? What do you mean?
Me: Um….there’s just, well…no water.
Alex: Weird. I just checked the tanks before I left. Are you sure?
(No, I’m not sure…)
Me: Um…yeah, quite. Nothing as I turn on the faucets.
Alex: Oh. Wow. Ok. I’ll be right back, then. You sure?
Me: Yes. Again, sorry to bother, but…
Alex: No, no….I’m coming back.

Alex arrives, pours herself a scotch, takes off her jean jacket and opens the tanks. Yep, no PSI, no pressure, no water. She checks the computers. They’re on, but not connecting. Shit, she’s about to lose her only guest. “This is when you need a man,” she says. Enter Elliott. A man. Elliott is a local textile exporter, originally from Jersey. Elliott is ten sheets to the wind, pours himself a scotch from the now-unpadlocked bar, tells Alex she should’ve told him about this earlier because he has “a guy” and sits down near the pool, slurring through our introductions (and two more scotches). We all look at each other for a while, as I smell the waft of non-powdery, mucho-alcoholy Elliott from afar. Finally, giving up, Alex makes a call to the place I originally wanted to stay at next door, books me a room at the same price she was charging me, packs up my room with an unstable Elliottt, and has yet another “boy” move me out of La Capilla. Guatemala is shaping up to be VERY interesting…

Next day, after waking up in my fabulous Ralph Lauren-via-Guatemala room at my new hotel, I decide to see the town, the many churches (which are gorgeous) on foot for the first half of the day, and the surrounding mountainside on horseback for the afternoon. After some help from my new, 24-hour hotel staff, I embark on a three hour journey with Paco, the ranch hand. Well, I ASSUMED he was a qualified ranch hand – he had the flannel/jeans combo with the big buckle belt, he had the cowboy hat with a ribbon of red yarn around it, he even had the requisite gold front tooth. I explain to him that I don’t want to walk all day, I’m a qualified rider, I need to be able to gallop my way through the day, not trot. Si, Si, says Paco. And, we’re off. But not before trading horses, because my stirrups were too short, on the last hole, and couldn’t be lengthened. Ditto my ranchero’s horse after the swap. I felt like a jockey with my knees up WAY too high, but decided to make do (though I’m regretting it a little, I have a shooting pain down my right leg, still…the trials and tribulations of height with respect to Guatemalan saddles). Now trotting on cobblestone, let alone galloping, I’ve come to find is not so fun. I definitely wore the wrong bra and am starting to rethink my little “Let’s gallop” conversation. I guess it’s not often that the tourists of Antigua see people in the cobblestone streets on horseback and I unwittingly became the subject of many photographs taken by people with fanny packs and Jams. But, as we got into Candelaria Park, the terrain changed, as did my guide’s willingness to move through the mountainside. Trot, Walk, Trot. Uh, Paco…mas rapido, es ok? Si, si, says Paco again. So, off I go. Cut to the next scene, it’s about 20 minutes later, and Paco, who had been right behind me in the beginning of the Park, is nowhere to be found. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes more, then start to head back to find him. When I do, he’s OFF his horse, walking in front of it, panting like the horse just rode him.

Me: “Paco, que pasa?”
Paco: “Es un buena cabellera! Muy rapido!” (Translation: You’re a good rider, very fast! Note to reader: I was VERY proud of this observation of Paco’s…as many of you know, I love my horseback riding…)

But, Paco’s supposedly my GUIDE. What is happening here?!?!? I’m utterly confused. So, as Paco, seemingly embarrassed mounts his horse again, I take off. Twenty minutes later, same scenario. I go back, he’s on foot, about to keel over, horse grazing the bushes behind him. So, I explain that I’d prefer NOT to wait and can I just meet him back at the hotel, the pace is too slow. So, he ties up his horse to a tree, says “sure” with a wide smile, takes out his cell phone and CALLS FOR A RIDE!!!! He says he’ll meet me back at the hotel, he’s through! I mean….You can’t ditch your horse and call for a ride!!! What’s up with that!?!?! So, there I am, riding solo through the streets of Antigua, astride a horse, being stopped by cops asking me where my guide is, that I shouldn’t be riding alone. I have to explain. In Spanish, no less. Blah blah…. Now, I’m even more of a spectacle – the solo gringa on horseback. And, when I get back to my hotel, there’s Paco, with a stable attached to his little pick-up truck for my horse! He’s not even riding the horse home. He’s towing it! Who ever heard of such a thing? In Guatemala, no less. Antigua has just been one crazy experience after the next.

Hope you all had an equally fun-filled week.
I’m headed to the Mayan ruins at Tikal in northern Guatemala next, after having spent a couple of days at Lake Atitlan (beautiful) and the market town of Chichicastenango (say THAT three times fast), which was authentic and oh-so-colorfully-Guatemalan. There, I dusted off my bargaining skills…successfully, of course. Gotta go figure out how to fit the three new skirts into my luggage…. (Yes, Cher, one’s for you. I will WOW you with trip presents yet. I’m wholly determined.)

More soon,

~M