Travels with Caleb...and company

Well, I’m back home in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere-Ville, after enjoying nearly a solid week of running around the Guatemalan countryside. The serendipitous placement of mid-terms allowed for me to leave the school for 6 days without the slightest misgiving, and I had a wonderful time. I got up around 3:30 am on Friday to catch the first of several buses which eventually delivered me to Antigua, where I met up with Caleb and his two amigas.

Traveling can be a tricky thing, especially in groups. If personalities don’t fit together just right, it’s easy for the unpredictability, unfamiliarity and general stress of trip-taking to result in problems. By the grace of God (and probably Caleb’s impressive consistency in friend picking), we combined seamlessly into a fantastic foursome, steering pleasantly clear of pitfalls. Brady, a college friend of Caleb’s, just finished an around-the-world, year-long mission trip, and will be beginning a new job in mission work upon returning to the US. Celia is an aspiring writer, who Caleb met since moving to Seattle. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead (if you’ve had the good fortune to meet my Montana roommates, you’ll understand that this is a recurring theme in my life), we all represented friendships forged at distinct stages in Caleb’s life. Once we got the jokes out of our system, it was quickly obvious that he’s got good taste in buddies. I genuinely enjoyed everyone’s company the entire time we were together, and I really hope we stay in touch.

We didn’t actually meet up in Antigua on Friday until mid-afternoon, although I’d arrived around 8 am. They spent most of the day bussing down from Coban. In the meantime, I wandered around the very tourist-ified town, wearing my backpack and for once looking natural. Where I live, the only logical place to carry heavy loads is precariously balanced atop one’s head. Now that I was in, as Caleb calls it, “The Travel River,” the circuit of tourist hot-spots which is constantly fluxing with young travelers, Guatemala had an entirely different feel. To be honest, I found myself somewhat disgusted at first. Antigua is clean, it has no smells, I felt entirely safe and secure wandering in a clearly aimless fashion everywhere I went, the businesses have proper storefronts and very few individuals missing limbs and/or eyes populate the corners with battered cups and baskets. Just as I’d thought the first time I went to Panahachel, if this is the version of the country tourists see, they’re coming up short of reality.

Of course, despite these observations regarding the town’s gentrification, it wasn’t exactly difficult to enjoy it. Antigua was the original capitol of Guatemala, founded in the early 1500s. Dozens of stone churches and universities were built all over the city across several centuries, despite Pachamama’s irksome habit of rocking the area with earthquakes on a regular basis. (Pachamama, by the way, is “Mother Earth” in Mapudungun, a Chilean native language. I’ve always liked it. If I felt like running off on a tangent right now, I’d tell you all about Mapudungun, since it’s a fascinating language, but I fear I’d never find my way back on track.) Finally, after a particularly bad terremoto (Spanish for earthquake…another good word) in the 1700’s, they gave up and moved the whole show to the new Guatemala City. (Hence the name “Antigua,” it’s literally “Old Guatemala City.)

I only ended up spending about an hour alone, before running into a very nice Israeli girl, Hadas, with whom I explored the city for the rest of the morning and afternoon. We walked to the town of Jocotenango nearby, where there’s an excellent 3-in-1 museum complex with sections on Guatemalan music, textiles, and coffee production. The museum also had a beautiful garden with masses of native flowers and fruits. We ate fresh passion fruit picked while walking through the trellises, and enjoyed complimentary cups of coffee at the end of our tour. In all, we were there for several hours, paying a grand total of $4.50. Ahh, the benefits of a terribly depressed economy.

Finally I heard from Caleb, Celia and Brady that afternoon, and we spent the rest of the long weekend exploring together. Most of the time I was with GuaTeam 08 (as I so dorkily dubbed us) was spent simply walking through the city, checking out ruined buildings, artisanal markets and bookstores. However, the Saturday after meeting up we adventured out on a hike up the Volcán Pacaya.

Located about an hour’s drive from Antigua, right outside of Guatemala City, Pacaya is one of the volcanoes which I described upon first arriving, puffing whiffs of pretty smoke from its picture-perfect cone. It’s one of the most active of several live volcanoes in the country, and the popular tourist hike up its steep sides pays off with direct access to live lava flows. Cool? Totally.

In order to make our bus that morning we had to wake up around 5:30 am and stumble our sleepy way into the street. A tired looking American school bus waited outside of our hostel, clearly working harder in “retirement” than it had ever done while employed stateside. Our foursome piled in, along with dozens of other American and European gringos equally eager to check out real live lava firsthand.

Antigua had been downright hot the day before, so we carried nothing more than water bottles and a small sack lunch.

Our bus took off across Antigua’s bumpy streets, but not before a brief welcome from our guide, Paulo. His speech consisted of a few quick words of explanation, mostly just requesting that we not take any pictures of him. As a man of strong Mayan faith, Paulo explained, he didn’t trust cameras. No photography was a tall order, considering Paulo’s interesting appearance. Strapped to his back, in the normal fashion for such equipment, was a backpack. Casually thrust into the large central pocket, mostly protruding uncovered, was a large shotgun. Paulo didn’t bother mentioning why he felt it was a necessary item to bring along, and it took a while for anyone to muster the courage to ask.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer, and cheerfully inquired:

“Paulo – ¿usted tiene planes de cazar mientras nosotros subimos el volcán?”

“Are you planning on going hunting while we hike up the volcano?”

He smiled, then explained to the group in broken English “En all mi time as guide, we have no problem. No problem. Da gun, da gun es precaución, no mas. Solo precaucion.”

He didn’t mention what it may be a precaution against.

As we neared the volcano, fat raindrops began to find their way to the windshield of our big yellow coach, and ugly dark clouds loomed above. With no possible recourse, we were stuck simply shrugging at one another, annoyed but generally unconcerned with our lack of preparation.

Upon arriving at the trailhead, we unloaded from the bus into a gentle drizzle. Initially, the fresh wetness was a welcome addition to the hike. Volcanoes are, after all, characteristically steep, and we had a fair distance to trek. We proceeded up the trail, a loose crowd of mostly American missionary groups and young European backpackers, marching through the forest surrounding the mountain. The rain which fell on us was a comfortable, Cape-Kiwanda-in-late-April sort of precipitation. It softly blanketed everything in a cool, soothing way – wetting us slowly and without attracting much attention. Not until we neared the mountain’s top and emerged from the protection of jungle canopy did the weather become a problem. There, we encountered a stiff breeze which transformed the mist from an inert, general thickening of air into an insistent blustery rain. We were quickly and unapologetically soaked. The little crowd of fire-eager gringos jostled towards the edge of the dead lava flow, unsure if we should expect the exciting danger of molten rock to be within reach. Peering down into the pit of jagged broken lava below, we encountered an entirely unremarkable sight. A vast expanse of black extended before us, ending where thick mist obscured everything to an indistinguishable uniform grey. Ready to see the promised fiery pits of hell which we’d come for, and beginning to develop a condition best labeled “misery” thanks to the wind pummeling us with stinging flecks of water, we pushed farther up the trail. The group preceding us had already reached the edge of the lava field, and was now picking their way through the rough boulders. We followed their lead, stumbling across the heaps of pumice and shivering with a mixture of cold and dread for the damp return bus trip to Antigua.

As we progressed through the rocks, I marveled at the tenacious stupidity of the Southern Baptist church wives in front of me. They tripped along the rough terrain, clinging to billowy flowered umbrellas in one hand and Nikon behemoth cameras in the other. The rain which attacked us now was exactly the sort of rain which had convinced me for twenty years that umbrellas are a silly, useless fashion accessory. More along the lines of our same beloved Cape Kiwanda in November, for example. It swirled around in the wind, tiny droplets flying in all directions at once. It renders useless the ignorant umbrella, capable of nothing more than a single-front, vertical battle in the war against water.

We trudged along, silent but for whines from young, tired, wet little brats who bemoaned every step. Undoubtedly they belonged to one of the dozens of missionary groups visiting Guatemala – probably PSP2 addicted suburbanites whose parents were striving to give them a cultural experience, converting them to soldiers in the army of the Lord. I don’t intend to give the impression that I sustain some level of annoyance or disdain for said missionary groups; quite the contrary, actually. I’ve met dozens of people here doing awesome things in the names of their church groups – I just think that no different than when they’re at home, some of them lack common sense abroad.

My favorite exchange occurred between a young teenager and her mother. Complaining loudly and annoyingly about a rock in her shoe, the girl was quite perturbed by the motherly response “Well, you should have worn real socks, instead of those stupid ankle things. Less fashionable, more practical.” I cringed at the familiarity of the line, and didn’t bother suppressing my chuckle a few moments later when the mother complained to a friend “My sandals don’t have any traction!”

Our trek though the lava wasteland seemed to be occurring independent of time’s passing. The heavy fog obscured our vision beyond a few hundred feet. It was a great enough distance to give the impression of a never ending Tolkien-esque expanse of unbroken, serrated black landscape. As Caleb, ever the beloved dork commented “Man, I really feel for Sam and Frodo right now!”

Eventually, hope of ever seeing real lava flows began to wane, and my imagination began to play with alternate explanations for Paulo’s shotgun. Surely these American tourists had padded their seats on the bus ride with pockets full of greenbacks…and no one would ever be stupid enough to hike this distance in order to stumble upon our abandoned bodies…

Finally, slowly, gatherings of people became visible through the thick, wet air. Moving towards them, a gentle heat became detectable – too much so to be attributable to their collective human warmth. As we got closer, excitement became equally palpable. We had arrived at the active zone of the volcano. Gazing across the rocks which spread before us, one could hear a constant sizzle formed by raindrops pelting the hot stone. Steam rose from patches of lava, whisked away quickly by the swirling wind.

We approach “the hot zone,” excitement mingling with apprehension in our minds. Certainly unlike any US style national part, Pacaya’s deadly lava flows were far from fenced in. There were no safety railings, no warning signs, no uniformed walkie-talkie toting troopers ensuring our survival. Anyone with grandiose ideas about suicide would have been free and welcome to run right up and jump into the oozing molten rock. Unevenly distributed heat resulted in pockets of activity, where the strange liquid-solid lugubriously wandered towards us. The mass of people all wanting the best view possible, and luxuriating in the radiant heat, resulted in a somewhat precarious setup. Young and old jostled around one another, hopping from rock to rock, perching above piles of steaming glowing stones which would surely prove deadly with a slip or misstep. Those unfortunate enough to pick a spot which was hotter than they’d predicted were left hopping from foot to foot, scanning the crowd for rock patches which wouldn’t continue melting the soles of their shoes.

Several young men, unable to resist the primordial urge to poke at lava with a stick, did exactly that. They found themselves jumping back in defense with the volcano responded by unexpectedly quickening the pace for its oozing, menacing guts.

We’d brought along a sack of Guatemalan marshmallows, distinctive from our snowy American version thanks to copious amounts of creative food coloring decoration. I found a coat hanger wrapped around a pole, evidently left by a like-minded individual. We enjoyed the photo op provided by roasting ‘mallows with the volcano’s prehistoric heat. Then, sensing the potential for cross-application of the principle, we roasted ourselves. My jeans, which had been sopping wet, to the point that I’d needed to tighten my belt in order to keep their heavy drooping mass cinched to my body, were not immune to the heat. Without noticing, I’d already begun the process of drying out. The rain had slowed back to a slow drizzle, and then stopped, unmissed as we marveled over the impressive natural radiance in front of us. I stepped away from the more exciting moving, flaming flows and found a nice chunk of hot rock to warm myself on, amused at my reptilian behavior. The warmth came from the stones below me, and was dispersed by the wind before reaching all the way up my body. As a result, my heavy jeans were dried while my t-shirt remained sopping wet.

Unwilling to withstand a soggy trip back to Antigua, it didn’t take a volcanologist to recognize the potential for progress here. It did, however, require a modicum of immodesty. Thankfully, I’ve got that, so I whipped off my shirt, rung it out heartily, and hung it over the rocks in front of me. Although they were way too hot to stand on, a borrowed walking stick provided the necessary tool to get the job done. As I stood drying my clothes, I was passed by a host of other tourists similarly miserably wet. An older British woman was the only one who seemed to recognize the logic in my plan, and instead of scoffing like the rest of the offended missionaries, she joined right in. We stood there, topless and proud of our creative problem solving skills, while everyone else uncomfortably averted their gazes. Whatever, squares.

Our guide began to get antsy, and was ready to hit the trail. He gathered our group with an insistent tooting of his whistle, and began shepherding us towards the makeshift path back across the lava field.

What happened next can only be described as shocking. We had barely begun our long trek back across the rocky wasteland when a thunderous roar and crackle of falling rocks came from behind us. A large cliff rose above the lava flow which we’d been watching, literally moments before, towering up into the mist and in indeterminable height and stability. Right after we’d stepped away and begun down the trail, it had let loose a giant slide of boulders and general volcanic debris. We stood, agape, as man-sized chunks of rock barreled down the cliff and smashed into the platform upon which I’d been toasting my clothes. A lone straggler from our group hopped and sprinted from the area, narrowly escaping an unpleasant death of combined crushing and incineration. It was, really and truly, one of those moments which remind a person of God’s existence. There had been no warning that it would occur, our guide was just getting hungry and wanted to go down to lunch. Had we fiddle-faddled with picture taking and lava-poking for less than five minutes longer, there would have surely been multiple deaths. You couldn’t help but think “Thanks, Big Guy.” Or, as Caleb put it “Blog about THAT!”

We turned around, a bit shaken, and continued on down the hill. Unbelievably, the rain which had tormented our trip up the mountain appeared to have worn itself out with the effort. It was now nowhere to be seen. Undisturbed by inclement weather, and comfortably dry, the hike back down and subsequent bus ride were perfectly pleasant.

I would consider that story to be the most interesting of our adventures together. We stayed in Antigua a few more days, meeting up with Caleb’s missionary aunt Jacquie on a particularly rainy day, and trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while also staying dry. Mostly we relaxed, eventually taking a confusing chicken-bus route to Panajachel for the last several days of our trip. We rode a boat trip across the lake to Santiago Atitlan, home of the beautifully embroidered cowboy pirate, and tried to sneak candid shots of their silly clothes. We found a bratty vagrant street kid who showed us to the temple of Maximon for the hefty sum of 1 Quetzal per person (nearly 15 cents). I made him promise he’d go to school next week before paying, although I sincerely doubt he had any intention of following through.

Maximon, the idol to which our urchin guided us, is a local syncretism deity who personifies characteristics of both Mayan gods and Catholic saints. He lives in an interesting, rotating temple of incense, candles, elaborate kitschy decorations and passionately supplicating followers who offer him harsh homebrew rum, smokes and cash. All of this while plunky marimba music buzzes out of a boom box with a broken speaker. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to find in Butte.

Celia performed a little ceremony for him while I swung the incense dish enthusiastically, and then we stumbled out of the dark, somewhat demonic feeling lair back into Santiago’s dirty streets.

Panajachel proved to be just as laid-back this time as it had been the last, full of tasty cheap restaurants, interesting-the-first-time-around artisan shops and great multilingual bookstores. We spent a few days exploring before it was time to part ways, with the original threesome going to Chimaltenango for one last evening with Jacquie and me returning to Santo Tomas. Somewhat to my surprise, it felt like home when I got back.