Bloated On False Hopes

Tecal was incredible. We set off through trail after trail discovering temple ruins of the ancient Mayan society. Some temples and structures were smaller than others, but some peaked the high trees of the forest. A man we met on our way in told us that we needed to check out temple 5 as the sun went down because that was where the greatest view of Tecal could be seen. The sun had begun its descent and after a hearty amount of sight seeing, we started to follow the tattered wooden signs towards the temple.

At this point, we were traveling light. We had a bottle of water, and our less than trusty rough guide. From the moment we had entered the ruins, Anne and I had been talking about how little we know about this society (and really by little, we meant nada). Fortunately, the rough guide actually had a decent narrative on the Mayans, and it had been planned that we were gonna do some catching up on the Mayans when we got back to the campsite.

Anyways, we followed the trails and eventually made it to temple five and it was gigantic. It was the classic temple structure with the large and steep stairwell leading to the top, but there must of been hundreds of steps before you plateaued. The entrance to stairwell was also blocked off which was probably for preservation sake. There was however, a rickety and steep ladder you could climb to get up there. It looked very unstable and was too steep to climb with any belongings so we decided to leave the water bottle and the rough guide at the bottom. We briefly thought about thieves, but there wasnt anybody at the site. The sun was going down and the place was empty.

We climbed and climbed until we finally made it. When we got up there, we were greeted with a spectacular view of the sun setting over a canopy of trees with little patches here and there where you could see the tops of other temples. We could also see groups of howler monkeys staring back at us and swinging quickly from branch to branch. It was also silent, with the exception of the swinging monkeys and the occasional bird.

We reveled in it until the sun was gone and then made our way down the catastrophe of a ladder. I reached the bottom first and grabbed my water bottle. As Anne was still coming down the ladder, I started the search for the travel guide, eager to get going on the little bit of history that was waiting. I looked all around the ladder and the bottom of the temple but I couldnt find anything. Anne then joined me in this search, but we quickly realized that it was gone. How? We werent sure. There was nobody there, and we didnt think we saw anybody when we were on top of the temple. Either way, somebody clearly made off with it.

We headed back to the camp site grumpy about the recent happening. The travel guide that had literally brought us nothing but misfortune held one useful piece of information in it and as soon as we knew this and were planning on taking advantage of it, it was gone. Outside of that little frustration, we concluded that getting the travel guide taken from us was probably for the better and also took some passive aggressive pleasure in knowing that it was going to torment and grossly mislead its next captor.

At the campsite, we changed clothes and headed up to the little restaurant to see how pricey dinner options were. At this point, we had maybe twenty dollars (in Guatemalan currency) to spend between the two of us. The restaurant turned out to be very expensive, just like everything else in the little town. For those who stay in Tecal over night, you should hope your pockets are full. Ours as luck would have it, werent. We feasted that night on a small bowl of bean soup and listened to the sound of our stomachs yelling at us as we left the restaurant. We had eaten next to nothing that day and unfortunately, there was no sign of that changing in the future.

The night was brutal. Mosquitos were at ever turn and the humidity had our skin sticking to anything it touched. on the bright side, we were on solid and flat ground tonight which was more than we could say for the past few. Still, catching a wink of sleep was easier said then done.

Come morning, we were ravaged from the hot night, but our spirits were far from broken. We rose with sun, snacked on some oranges we had saved and headed back into the temple grounds. There we hiked just about every inch that we hadnt the night before. We even hitched behind a few tour groups and tried to listen and translate what the guide was saying about the structures. I cant quite remember what we deciphered, but one of the structures was used as a very large sundial. Hours passed and fatigue came and went. our stomachs rumbled, but there was ground to explore. At one point we came across a group of tourists and recognized a couple that we had seen in Flores. We started talking to them about the misleading directional routes of the country because it seemed like for every step forward we wanted to take, we had to backtrack a long ways. They told us that they had it figured out and just used the chicken buses to get around. This was exactly what we wanted, but we just couldnt seem to escape the tourist routes.

They asked us where we were going next and we told them that we needed to plan out where we were going according to where there was an ATM. They then mentioned a place called Semuc Champay and raved about its beauty, but more importantly, that there was an ATM in Lanqin, the town right next to it. We had been planning on heading to Semuc Champay, so it this little bit of good news was a boost to our spirits and bellies. They also told us that they had figured out a great way to get there that was very cheap, and pretty much strictly Guatemalan. We took the information from them, thanked them and headed on our way.

We made it back to camp just in time to pack up our gear and make it on the 12:00 van back to Flores. This time there was no hassle with flat tires. It was a straight and easy forty five minute jaunt back into the strange little island town. Once we were dumped off of the Van, we hoofed it back over the bridge to the bus station and picked up two tickets to a place called Saxaxe (pronounced Sayache).

This leg of the trip was going all too well. We had a list of very strange directions to follow, but we bought our first bus ticket and promptly boarded it. I'm sorry, this was a van. We piled into a van which quickly reached capacity. This time, my guitar was strapped to the roof along with all the other luggage. We would make frequent stops as we traveled the rocky dirt road and nobody was getting off, but in typical Guatemalan fashion, people continued to pile in. Anne and I werent sitting next to eachother this time. We had both scored end seats next to the window in the van.

We barreled down the dirt roads with our capacity constantly expanding. Crushed against the window, I came in and out of consciousness with each turn. At one point, I woke up and began to count the number of people in the van. Mind you, I was stuck in the middle and due to the impacted nature of the minivan, could only see so far. That being said, I counted twenty nine people crammed into this little space including the driver and the door boy (there is always a kid who opens the door and collects fares) who at this point was riding on the roof. amazingly, it was pretty cozy and not suffocating like our overnight chicken bus. Everybody crammed in was in high spirits too, yelling, laughing and exchanging stories.

The road was intensely rocky. We were being thrown from side to side. Every time i would nod off, we would hit some pot hole or rock that would send my head flying into the window or the poor passenger next to me. After realizing that I wasnt going to get any sleep on this leg of the trip, I looked back to see how Anne was taking it. She was out like a light and her head was flying from side to side. She would slam into the window and bounce back to the man next to her and then head right back to the window. It looked amazingly painful, but she was out cold... astonishingly not from multiple instances of blunt force trauma to the head. Purely out of exhaustion.

We were in the middle of nowhere. On one side of us, a cliff, on the other, a crag filled mountain. As we headed south, it dawned on me that this was probably a part of Guatemala that many people do not see. We would pass shanties full of people in some of the most extreme poverty I have ever seen. Dilapidated wooden huts, no electricity, no running water. The way of life in these back mountains is entirely removed from the rest of the world.

As we continued on, the passengers finally started to thin out. People were getting off at random stops instead of getting on. Now that I was a little more awake and had some room to move around, I started listening in on the conversations to see what everybody was talking about. The more I tried to listen, the less I understood. My spanish comprehension isnt that great, but I eventually turned back to Anne because I was starting to think that they werent actually speaking Spanish. When I turned around, she had the same look on her face and we quickly had to take stock of where we were. Check. we were still in Guatemala. Check. National language IS Spansih. This language they spoke was not.

The bus continued to file out and once there were only a few people left, once of the passengers turned to us and asked us something in his foreign tongue. He saw the confusion on our face and then asked us if we spoke spanish. We started talking to the man and found out that the language everybody was speaking was an ancient Mayan language retained by this isolated community. Most of them spoke spanish as well, but it was their second language. This cemented the fact in my mind that not many people get to experience something like this. This community, so estranged from the rest of the world had held onto their cultural roots and language for over a thousand years after the fall of their civilization. For us, it was something to marvel at. for them, it was their way of life, and the only life they knew.

The directions that the couple back in Tecal had given us were strange to say the least. They had told me that bus we were on would take us to a little stream which we would need to pay a toll to cross. We waited and waited as the van threw us from side to side and took hard turn after hard turn. Eventually, when barely anybody was left, we came up to a little stream. The driver kicked everybody off and we followed the small group of people down to the water. Waiting for us was a small little motor boat. The stream, was no more than maybe 200 yards long. We filed onto the little boat along with the rest of the Guatemalans, payed the 2 Quetzal toll that the couple told us we would pay, and we were off to the other side.

A few minutes later, we were there and I pulled out my journal to see the next step in our trek. After crossing the stream, All I had written was "white bus to Lanqin (2 Hours))". I looked up towards the small town and sure enough, a white bus was collecting passengers up ahead. We boarded the bus, paid the fee for our ride, and Anne asked the driver if there was an ATM in town. He said there was. We quickly rejoiced and then gave us directions to it. I stayed at the bus to make sure it didnt leave before Anne got back. The driver quickly grew antsy and started the motor. He began to take off and I ran up to let him know that my friend was in fact, coming back. He assured me that he wouldnt leave without her, but kept moving forward. As he turned up the street, I saw Anne heading our way. We stopped, picked her up and began the trip to Lanqin. I asked her if the ATM worked, but I could tell by the frustration in her face that it hadnt. Once again, it was either broken or out of money.

At this point, we were hungry. Hungry and with just a few dollars left. The bus driver assured us that there would be an ATM in Lanqin but our hopes were dwindling. Fatigue had overtaken us and we didnt have too much of a fight left at this point, so we ignored our roaring stomachs and tried to pass out in what was still a bumpy and somewhat treacherous ride.

The direction in my journal said that this ride was only supposed to be two hours, so we waited patiently. about two and a half hours in, the sun began to go down and we started to wonder if maybe there was another white bus we were supposed to get on. Either way, we had learned to take travel errors like this in stride and were prepared to ride it out. On the bright side, when we boarded the bus, the driver did tell us we were going to Lanqin, so we held on to his words closely as we made turn after turn through the mountains.

About a half hour later, we pulled into a small town that emerged from the winding trails. Electric lights lit up shops and homes from this little town and people on foot hurried through the streets to their destinations. We came to an intersection and the Bus took a sharp left and then stopped. Everybody in the bus (there werent many) got out and the bus driver told us we had to get out as well. We asked him if we were in Lanqin and he told us we werent, but his bus would be here at 4AM to continue the trip. We didnt quite understand. The man had told us we were going to Lanqin and now he was kicking us out of his bus? Every time we tried to figure out what was going on, he would just repeat that we needed to be at this very spot at 4AM to continue the ride. Where were we?

Bus life, B.O. and Flats

Mentally, I wasnt ready to board the chicken bus. Physically, I was already there. The bus was lightly crowded when we got on. We stowed our backpacks underneath the bus but I fought once again tooth and nail to take my guitar onboard. We found a row uninhabited towards the back of the bus and squished ourselves in. Anne was squished between the window and me while I was straddling my guitar and trying to make room for one to two more bodies next to me. Before I knew it, every seat on the bus was filled and people were starting to spill into the walkway. A few minutes later, there was barely a breathable space on the monster of a bus. People began rolling their windows down because the body heat, B.O. and humidity inside was quickly becoming overwhelming.

Anne and I were fairly exhausted at this point and merely expressed our discomfort to eachother through a few crunched facial gestures. Those standing on the bus however, seemed to be in high spirits. Uproars of laughter and jubilation came from a long isle of blue collar Guatemalans. I'm sure they were much more used to these experiences than we were. That being said, we by no means were unhappy or discontent with the situation. This merely was the way we knew to travel and any negative connotations were only because of some minor fatigue.

After what seemed like a half hour or so, we set sail on the Guatemalan highway. The bus would make intermittent pit stops as it left the city where some people would get off, but mainly so more people could be squeezed into the confines of the bus. The humidity and curious odors evaporated and flew out the open windows as we picked up speed and in its place was a refreshing night breeze. Anne and I ate a little bit of the fruit we had purchased earlier and after that, it was decidedly time to try and get some rest. We knew when the sun rose the next day, it would be another mad scramble of navigation, ATM searching and general adventure.

Alas, the night didnt pass quickly. I was able to knock out for what seemed like a few hours when the voices in the bus died down and the air turned crisp. The sleep was smooth but light as most of my bus, train and plane cat naps are, but it was exactly what I needed to get through the next step in the adventure.

Around some unknown hour late in the night/early in the morning, I awoke to myself choking on the air in the bus that had turned so thick and stale, I could have cut it with my pocket knife. After forcing a gulp of must down into my lungs, I surveyed my surroundings. In fact, I was still on the bus, but we were no longer moving. All the windows were down, but we were in a very hot part of the country (where I have no clue) and it looked as if we had been stopped for a while. My body was soaked with sweat just as about every other passengers was. Anne was still asleep next to me, but it looked like she was moving from side to side to combat the elements.

Happenings like this are also not uncommon for night transportation in Central America. I guess the drivers need to get some sleep too so they will dock at other bus stops for a few hours. Even if I wanted to get out of the bus, I couldnt. There was somebody next to me blocking the isle and the isle was stuffed with passengers sitting down on the floor trying to catch a little bit of rest. I resigned to my fate, closed my eyes and tried to get a little more sleep.

What seemed like at least an hour or two later, we finally got moving again. I had been sitting awake the entire stopover and was eager to get some airflow back into the bus. Shortly after we set sail, I was able to fall back asleep.

Around five in the morning, Anne woke me up and told me we had arrived. Sleep filled my eyes and my body felt like it was becoming a part of whatever it leaned against. Everybody else was filing off of the bus, so we proceeded in line. We had made it to Flores, but we were both in no shape to start the day. On top of that, neither was anybody else. The city was closed and not a soul stirred because it was just too early. The bus station we were dropped off at was spacious... as in there was a decent sized waiting room with a bunch of plastic chair/bench fixtures. When we saw this, we both once again looked at eachother, didnt speak a word, but understood that the misshapen little seats were going to be where we rested until a reasonable hour. She took one row and I laid horizontally on another. With a sweatshirt as my pillow, There I slept for the next few hours.

We both awoke around the same time and saw that the city was functioning. We gathered our bags and headed to the front of the bus station. The city waited for us across a bridge. Oh yeah, Flores was a little island. A tuc tuc driver sped up right next to us and asked us if we needed a ride. We took him up on it and he carted us into the town to a hotel where he told us we could store our luggage.

The hotel folk were kind. They let us leave our bags at their establishment so we wouldnt have to carry them all over the city. They also told us where we could go to get a bus ticket to Tecal, and kindly informed us that there were no ATMs in Flores or Tecal. We also asked about rates for the hotel, but they were much higher then our dwindling budget could swing. Especially when our little travel guide (that told us there were ATMs in Atitlan, Flores, and Tecal) wrote about pretty cheap camping in Tecal.

We got the bus information and found that we had a few hours to kill in Flores before our departure. We walked the city up and down. Circled the moat that separated it from the mainland, checked out a few of the little shops, and just enjoyed the serenity by the water. The town was very quiet and cozy, but most commodities were fairly expensive so we stuck to the basics. When the time was right, we met up at our departure point and once again boarded a minivan full of tourists.

The drive was supposed to be about forty five minutes, but as i said before, these minivans have very small tires and travel with high occupancy on rocky roads. We got a flat and had to file out while the driver repaired it. I offered to help, but he shewed me away and told me not to worry about it. A little while later, we were back on the road and heading towards Tecal.

When we arrived, we sought out the campsite and made our fort for the night. The sun was starting to set and we had decided to camp because we were told that if you buy a ticket into the temple park after 330 (or something like that) then you could use it the next day as well. When we went to buy the tickets, we found another unforeseen change from what our guide had told us. The cost of admission was well over four times what was stated in the book. Give or take a little for inflation, but this was ridiculous. That and it was clearly going to break the bank.

We discussed for a bit and realized that A. we were stuck in Tecal at least until tomorrow morning because there were no more inbound or outbound buses, and B. We are at one of the coolest archaeological sites in Central America and I guess we would be damned if we were to sit idly by and pass up the opportunity. So we bit the bullet and purchased some tickets.... but yes, this meant little to no food for the next leg of travel. We also arrived just a few minutes before the arbitrary time that allows you entrance for the rest of that day and tomorrow. The guard at the entrance of the park was very devoted to keeping these regulations enforced. He made us sit there until the clock struck the exact minute. We snubbed him on our way through in distaste for his ego trip.

The Famine Ship Sets Sail

The night was cold. I had not planned for such weather in my journey and left every warm article of clothing I owned outside of a sweatshirt and a pair of pants back at Galileo. The cold gusts crept into my bones and every time I would turn, some rock or crag would dig into me. Physical discomforts aside, my mind spent the night racing around all the reasons that staying at this camp site was a bad idea. At some odd hour of the morning, my own paranoia had run its course and exhausted my mind and body enough to allow me to knock out for a few hours. It was blissful.

Around 7a.m. or so, Anne and I were up and ready to get the hell out of the compound. We packed up our tent, gathered our belongings and went down to the kitchen area where Brian was sitting at the table. He very well may have been there all night. He looked leathery and haggard as ever and the impending doom of both his compound and the world seemed to be eating him alive. We asked him if we could store our belongings in a locked area (which he had said was available upon arrival) while we looked for a bus out of town. He showed us to a closet, locked our bags up for us and we were gone. Back down the dusty trail and into town. The town once again was quiet and unassuming. I now took greater stock of my surroundings knowing what happened just a few days prior.

First on the agenda was to find out when and where we could find a bus out of town. Everybody we asked seemed to only point us to the tourist booths with the little minivan shuttles. As hard as we searched for the buses that the Guatemalans used, we tried to no avail. Resigned to the goofy and overpriced minivans, we headed back down the street to find out when we could leave.

It didnt seem too far fetched to assume that there would be a bus from Atitlan to Tecal. After all, both places are main attractions for the Guatemalan traveler, but alas, we were fated with no such luck. We had to catch a ride back to Guatemala City where we were told that there were buses leaving all day for Tecal.

The rough outline of our adventure had many tentative dates and plans, but there was one that needed to be met. In about a week, Anne had a flight out of Guatemala back to the U.S. and we needed to be in Guatemala City the night before. Outside of that, everything was done on the fly, but in order to see and experience as much as possible, we had to map out our bus rides so that we didnt waste too much daylight. We found out that there was an overnight bus from Guatemala City to Tecal. This was beautiful because we get to travel towards our destination and not have to spend anything on a room for the night. We also knew that we didnt want to spend any more time than necessary in Guatemala City, so we purchased a ticket out of Atitlan for the afternoon. This would give us the day to explore new territory around the lake.

We ate a breakfast of some cheap baked goods and instant coffee while trying to figure out where to go next. We set our sights on Santa Catarina. The locals told us that if we could find some bicycles, it was a fifteen minute easy and flat bike ride. We knew we were on a budget, but hey, we're young, you gotta live a little, and we haggled a bike rental guy down to some pretty good rates for a few hours of renting.

Equipped with rickety mountain bikes, we began heading down the road towards our destination. After an eerie night, we were once again in paradise. beautiful trees, wind blowing by us, and perfect little trail to follow. We trek for about twenty minutes and then hit a hill. We attack it with all of our might and gusto as the words from the Atitlan locals rang through our heads. We were machines, trained to conquer and expecting the hill to end at each turn. It didnt. It only grew more steep with each revolution. About another fifteen minutes went by and we finally reached the summit. It overlooked the city of Santa Catarina and clear blue, yet polluted lake. exhausted and sweaty from this unexpected obstacle, we stopped up top for a water break and then cruised on into the town.

This little area was even smaller than Santiago Atitlan. There really wasnt even too much to the town. There was a little ramp leading down to a dock where the Guatemalan women were selling these amazingly intricate dresses. There were also women and children weaving the dresses. If i remember correctly, it takes them about a month of full time labor to weave these works of art. The children that werent working were busy running around the beach yelling and laughing together. It was a place very far removed from the rest of the country.

We docked on the water for a few and then decided we should probably get back to Panajachel to return our bikes. We huffed and puffed back up the mountain and cruised back into the delirious little lake town. We got lost along the way and ended up on the outskirts back where the produce markets were. Streets and streets later, we were back at the water, but still no sign of the bike shop. We rode back to the markets and took a different alleyway. Anne was a ways ahead of me and at one point I heard her let out a yell. No more than a second or two later, my eyes welled up with water instantly and began to burn. It lasted a few seconds as I tried to navigate myself blindly down the road and avoid cars and pedestrians but eventually whatever was in my eyes was rinsed out. We finally found the bike shop and returned our vehicles. Anne then asked me about that strange patch of air up the road. Right when my eyes began burning, a car had zipped past me so I had thought it probably just kicked up some grabble.

Bikeless, we marched back up the road and purchased some fruits and vegetables to snack on for our long journey. After that, we had just enough time to get our backpacks and make it to our minivan.

When we got to the campsite, Brian was there of course to let us in, and we told him about the weird little incident with our burning retinas. He told us that was probably tear gas still lingering from when the police dissipated the mob. He then told us about some protests he was a part of in the 60s where he was gassed and his description was in perfect sync with ours.

We paid him, said our goodbyes and without hesitation, booked it out of the shabby compound happy to leave fully intact. We made it up to our van where we loaded our luggage and began making our way out of Atitlan. There were maybe six or seven tourist passengers in the minivan and our Guatemalan driver zipped through the narrow streets. He turned a corner onto another street where at first glance, all I saw was smoke. as the smoke cleared, I saw people running and hurling things into the cloud as objects were also being flung out. It was a clear riot. The tourist crew fell silent, but the driver didnt skip a beat. He saw trouble brewing and abruptly halted the van, backed up and started heading the other way. About a minute went by as the passengers waited for him to say something, but he didnt say a word. He was very nonchalant about the matter. My curiosity finally got the better of me and I asked him what was going on. He turns back with a slight grin and answers, "problemas" and then turns back to the road. I ask him with who and once again he turns back, grins and replies, "la policia" and turns back to the road. That was all I got out of him.

For the next few hours, we slept as our driver drove and the sun slowly set. We said our goodbyes to the lake as we ascended back into the mountains and braced ourselves for the latino urban flavor and hustle of the big city.

A few hours later, we arrived. The sun was down and my guard was up, but fortunately our bus stop for the overnight bus was right next to our drop off from the tourist van. I believe it was at this point where Anne was entirely out of cash and I was floating us the rest of the way. The tourist van cost a little more than we had hoped so the funds were still there, but dwindling. Because it was nightfall, I didnt feel comfortable venturing out into the city looking for an ATM and on top of that, I think the bus was going to leave fairly shortly. I purchased two tickets to Flores, which is about an hour south of Tecal and is the city you need to boomerang off of in order to get there. Surely, for a massive tourist destination and historically celebrated landmark like Tecal, there must be an ATM... at least in Flores.

The time had come, we left the luxuries of the spacious tourist van and began, along with everybody else, to board a chicken bus...

The True Agoraphobe

Okay... upon mulling this over for past day or two, I think I left out another crucial part of the story. If my memory is correct (and it rarely is) I think that Anne had made it into Panajachel in hopes of finding an ATM. There was no ATM, so we realized sometime around this part of the trip that we were going to need to start conserving funds until we could find another functioning cash machine.

Moving on, we were back at our camp site and our host who's name for confidentiality and lack of memories sake will be Brian, sat himself down at the table right in front of the cooking area and began staring off into the distance. We brought our food over and began searching in the rusted sink for a mixing bowl that could at least be cleaned somewhat well. The kitchen was an outdoor space with a metal sink installed in an old and splintered wooden plank fixture. It was full of rusted and encrusted dishes that were dirty beyond repair. There was also no soap and due to something that happened earlier in the day, there was no water either. I pulled water from a jug (that brian told me had clean water) and sparingly began cleaning the bowl. I had a little pocket knife that we sterilized and used to husk the vegetables.

Brian, who had been making light conversation with us the whole time began asking us about the town and how everything was out there. We replied that it seemed business as usual. He then told us that there was a beheading yesterday.

Story has it, a band of 4 thieves made their way into town. Three women in their forties, one pregnant, and man in his early thirties rode in with the wind and robbed a poor shopkeeper in broad daylight. The entire state of Guatemala and inherently Lago Atitlan have been having problems for ages with corrupt government and law enforcement, so when the shopkeeper was had, the town mobbed. Vigilante justice in the mob mentality was the only proper form of punishment. The mob successfully captured the man and in a relentless haste of bloodlust and fury, they beheaded him. Despues, the mob demanded more. At that point, local law enforcement had rounded up the three remaining women and placed them in the local jail. Not much longer after that, the jail was surrounded by the furious mob demanding that the prisoners be delivered to them. The police resisted the demands and after not much more of a struggle, the masses diffused.

almost comically, my comrade and I stroll into this city and sure enough, there was absolutely no sign of any such event ever having existed. We ended up finding a newspaper sometime later that put validity to Brian's story. He seemed to be un-phased by the towns shelling of this seemingly significant event. Actually, he had more domestic issues at hand. At this point, Anne and I were peeling vegetables for guacamole and after an already shocking story, werent quite prepared for what came next.

Brian, in a very depressive tone began unloading to us a story about two workers that live on his compound. Now, Brian is no spring chicken, hes 60 years old, and the two men he begins to tell us about are around the same age. These two men have lived on the compound for at least ten years and they both hate eachother. In their history together, there are have been many fights between the two, but they apparently got into it pretty heavily this morning as well. Brian then began telling us that one of the men was rancid with hatred and had told him earlier that he had lived a long and good life and that he was going to kill the other man. He had a gun and that was that, he was going to kill him.

This part of the story temporarily peaked my attention and distracted me from my guacamole. I asked him if this man was currently staying on the compound. He indeed was. I asked him if the man he was going to kill was staying on the compound. He indeed was. I questioned further about how serious the man was about this decision. Brian was sinking deeper and deeper into a depression and assured me that the man was dead serious and he in fact was going to kill the other worker and he just didnt know what to do to stop it. He saw my worry and then tried to tell me that he didnt know when it was going to happen. As if that would truly make me feel better.

I knew both men lived on the compound but I had no idea where, so I asked. He pointed to the front gate and motioned towards a tent. Thats where the man who was about be murdered slept. The gunman, he was in the trailer on top of the hill right next to our little tent. The fear from Brian's tone of voice alone was enough to scare us ten times through, but being the hardened travelers that we were, we took it with a grain of salt and continued about our dinner preparations. We'd cross the dueling bridge if ever we had to.

Around this time, we had finally finished our guacamole. We sat down at the table with our host and proceeded to feast. He began rambling on about his obsession with the number three... as in worldly trifectas, phenomenons that occurred with some underlying current of the number, and how the starts aligned with some sort of trinity. once again, its been far too long since this actual event so my factual data isnt there, but this man was crazed about these happenings and over all way of life. We also throughout this conversation learned that this man hasnt left his compound in years. He has his groceries delivered to him and has developed an extreme case of agoraphobia. I thought my hostel owner had it bad, this guy was the real deal. I'm sure it all played a part in the manic depression, rampant paranoia and conspiracies into patterns of three.

For a brief moment, he left us and Anne and I were left alone to discuss and contemplate everything we had just heard. All around consensus: this campground advertised to us by the rough guide was about as safe and welcoming as the streets of Guatemala City after sundown. Before we knew it, we heard a little bit of barking and Brian yelling. The puppy that was chained to the tree when we first arrived had gotten loose and Brian was trying to get it back on a leash. The dog ran into the kitchen space where I had begun scrubbing the guacamole bowl (this time with dirty water that had already been used) and ran behind me. Brian showed up a few seconds later, very composed and asked me kindly to grab the dog so he could put it back on the leash. I did. Brian came over, grabbed the dog away from me by the scruff of his neck and lifted it off the ground. He delivered a blow right to the dogs face right in front of us and began yelling and swearing at the poor animal. He then lowered it, gave it another blow to the gut followed by more yelling and harnessed it back to the leash. Without saying anything to us, he turned and dragged the dog back to the tree where it was to be tied up.

Anne and I were horrified. The mans manic behavior was clearly out of control and unwarranted. We discussed what we should do because after the nights events, we felt far from safe marooned on this little campground. Before Brian came back, we decided that it was too late in the night to head out into the town in search of another place to stay and we would have to spend the night there.

Brian came back and apologized but began telling us how the dog was just a puppy and needed proper training (because beatings and constant insult are great modes of training). We didnt say much, still lightly in shock, but finished cleaning up our meal and said goodnight.

Once in the tent (right next to the future assassin), we began talking about what we were going to do next. We resolved to head into town early in the morning and figure out how we could get to our next destination, the ancient Mayan city of Tecal. We also realized once again, that financially, we had money for the time being, but since there was no real idea as to when an ATM would greet our fortune, we needed to start thinking more seriously on a budget.

Cafe Organico

With the tent up and our bags safely inside, we past our host on our way out and had him let us out the gate. He didnt have much to say in regards to what there was to explore in the area. It seemed as if he actually hadnt left his little compound in a while.

Once we were out, we made our way down the dirt path and once we hit the main road, made a B-line directly for the lake. If i remember right, we literally closed our eyes and picked a little town on the other side that we wanted to visit. Our destination...Santiago Atitlan. We arrived on the water just as one of the boats was ready to take off. we haggled our price and payed off the guide who had somehow wrangled his way into helping us find a boat. We boarded a shabby whit powerboat with wooden benches that were packed full of other Guatemalans. If I remember correctly, we were the only out of towners on this ferry. For the next twenty minutes or so, we soaked up the views of the forrested mountains that surrounded the starkly blue and clear lake. The only real depressing part of this voyage was that the lake was heavily polluted. Bags of chips, soda bottles and much more seemed to be floating beside us as if they played a valued part of the ecosystem. It was probably a far cry from the view that Aldous Huxley soaked up so many years ago, but it was still humbling and inspiring. The passengers on the boat conversed at very low levels and for the most part, the trip was pleasure on the eyes more than any other sense.

When we docked, we hopped out on the opposite side of the lake and began the trek uphill through all the little vendors and merchants. I ended up purchasing a little man purse that i planned on using for my future teaching days. little did i know at that point that those teaching days would be very short. We stopped from time to time in some of the art shops and checked out what the local painters were selling. From somebody who nothing about art, all i can say is that most of the pieces were extremely detailed and vibrant. The local artists there definitely push eachother creatively and professionally.

We walked the streets of this very small village for a while and quickly found that there wasnt much to do in the general area. We resolved to head back to panajachel, but as we were making our way back to the water, we passed a hole in the wall shop with a faded and weathered sign above it that read "cafe organico". Both Anne and I appreciate a good cup of central american organic coffee so we stepped on in. Inside, there was a group of about five people having what looked like a business meeting. Spread sheets were out, papers were strewn all over the tiny desk space, but more importantly, it didnt look like there was a single drop of coffee in the joint. No espresso machine, no cash register... it very clearly wasnt a cafe at all. One of the men came over to us and asked us what we needed. We responded with questions about the sign and what was going on here. As it turned out, the group that was meeting was a farming and marketing co-op. They grow their own organic coffee in the mountains of Santiago Atitlan and distribute it to select places and to select buyers throughout Guatemala. After seeing that we found this very interesting, they asked us if we would like to go on a tour to which we obliged.

We wait for a few minutes as one of the men goes to get a truck and we he arrived at the shop, Anne and I along with a few other co-op partners hopped in the bed. We were off. We drove for about another ten minutes deep into the mountains hanging on to the metal railing cage that was constructed in the bed of the truck. This mode of travel is also very popular for the Guatemalans and looked like a lot of fun so we were pretty excited going on this little adventure with them.

Eventually they pull over to the side of the road, everybody hops out, crosses the street and starts hiking up a shrubby hill. about a minute later, our leader stopped because we had arrived at the orchard. This was one of many spots along the mountain where coffee trees had been planted. I had never seen a coffee tree before, or even a bean unroasted so when i plucked the little red berry looking bean from the branch and stripped it of its husk, i was pleased to see a tan and moist little bean at the center. They then told us to suck on the bean and notice how sweet it is before it is dried and roasted. They are sweet. not very sweet, but pretty different from the beans that I am used to. For the next half hour or so, they gave us a tour of that orchard and told us about their co-op. I unfortunately can't remember the details of it all but it seemed like they were doing a truly good thing for their country and were clearly very proud of it.

After hiking around a little more, we boarded the truck and headed back into town. We thanked them for the tour and Anne bought some coffee from them and then we decided it was time to head back to Panajachel. We boarded another ferry, soaked up the prestige of Atitlan one more time and hopped back on to solid land. The sun was going down so we hit up the open air market and picked up some vegetables and tortillas to make some dinner. We made it back to our campsite at dark and this time only rang the bell once as not to upset our host. He came a few minutes later and let us in.



Unfortunatley once again, it is too late and I am too tired to keep going. Until next time.

The Road To Atitlan

Its been almost a year since everything that I am about to write about actually happened. The memories have lived on in my stories and recollections of travel gone awry. As much as I wish this to be accurate, I'm afraid some of the detail will have been lost in the ravels of time. Also because of this, forgive me if I jump to and from places in the story as I recall events that are crucial to the adventure. Without further adieu, I am going to try and retell one of the greatest adventures of my life... so it goes...

The morning came swiftly and before we knew it, both Anne and I were up and on our way. We packed our things, and vacated the touristic beauty that was Antingua and hopped a bus in the wrong direction back to Guatemala City. Unfortunately, this was the only way we knew of to actually get to Atitlan. Once in Guatemala City, we quickly boarded a tourist van (at a much higher fare) directly to Panajachel, the lake town where we were assured by our dated travel guide that there would be a campsite with our names on it.

The van ride for the next few hours would be filled with luxurious leg room and beautiful vistas of the mountainous and lush Guatemalan terrain. In retrospect, we chose this mode of transportation because it was easy, we had money on us, and we were in a hurry. If I recall correctly, I think I had been strapped for cash at the point we left Guatemala City so I went to a trusty ATM that i knew would work and took out another large sum of Guatemalan Quetzales. Anne however had a bit of dough on her and once again we set out in the great yonder thinking money was no longer an issue. Back to the mode of travel, it was by no means extravagant, but compared to what we would later be up against, these times could be construed as royalty. The tiny wheels on the weighted vans with our backpacks (and guitar) strapped to the top held up well against the rocky and unforgiving trails that we cruised. We passed a number of other vans pulled over to the side of the road and changing flat tires. I also started to notice that ever van was equipped with a spare tire so I figured the flats where a pretty common occurrence. Nonetheless, fortune and luck were with us and we made it in a timely fashion to our little town.

When arrived in Panajachel, everything looked to be in its right place. Guatemalan women were walking the streets with baskets of corn tortillas balanced on their heads, the children were chasing eachother and playing games in between trying to sell their textiles to tourists, and the older kids were playing card games when they weren't working. The town was cozy. Concrete and clay buildings made up the medina-like maze of streets and the local vegetable market was right where we were dropped off on the outskirts. Cries came out as the vendors saw us leaving the bus that their vegetables were for sale and very cheap. altogether, it was precisely as I had imagined it would be.

We caught a glimpse of the lake as we descended from the mountains into town and I was able to see the grandeur of what Aldous Huxley once said was the most beautiful place in the world. With the water a mere quarter mile away from us, we had to resist the temptation to let our eyes wander and concentrated our efforts on finding a place to stay for the night.

I dont know if I mentioned this before, but we had a travel Rough Guide travel book of Guatemala between the two of us. Mine had mysteriously disappeared during my stay in Santa. This guide was circa 2006, but it was all we had to go by so we gave it our faith. It had mentioned a single campsite in Panajachel and a marked map to find it. Instead of lugging ourselves through the city, we employed a teenage boy in a tuc tuc (a tiny little motored vehicle that is very popular in the area for quick transportation) to take us to the campsite. He seemed to know where the place was, but clearly enjoyed driving his tuc tuc. He raced us in circles all around town, through narrow dirt trailed alleyways and completely vacant dirt lots until he resurfaced on a main road. He continued down the road and then hung another left turn onto another dirt road with a stale wooden fence one side and thick shrub on the other. about forty feet later, we came to a closed gate with a sign on it to ring the bell. A few feet to the left, there was a shotty group of wires loosely connected to a little button which we could only assume to be the bell.

Anne and I were fairly skeptical that our tuc tuc driver had taken us to the right spot, so we left our backpacks in the tuc tuc to make sure we werent going to be stranded in this strange area. Our driver was a little annoyed that he couldnt get back to racing his vehicle around town, but he bared with us and waited very impatiently. I pushed the button once and waited for a sound... there was nothing. I gave it a go a second time... still nothing, so one more press was imminent. We hung around for a few moments more, deliberated and decided that it was time to pursue other options of where to spend the night. Right as we were about to hop back in the tuc tuc, a voice yells, "you only have to ring the damn thing once. hold on, hold on."

I unfortunately cannot for the life of me remember this guys name, and the image i have of him in my head very well may not match up with what he actually looked like but here it goes... A leathery skinned man with graying hair, a slight paunch and limp emerged through the cracks of the fence and we could hear him yammering and muttering about ringing the bell too many times. He finally got the locks off of the fence opened it up. His clothes were ratted, but the most off-putting part of his appearance was that he had two different shoes on. One was a flamboyantly colored croc and the other was a regular sandal.

Once the gate was completely open, I hesitantly asked the man if this was the campsite we had been looking for. He assured me that it was, but he hadnt had any campers come through for a while. I understood that as this little complex of a living space was very clearly off the beaten path and probably a little unsettling for the typical backpacker. Not us however. His prices matched up with our guides and we struck a deal with him to stay for the night. We emptied our belongings of our patient friends tuc tuc, paid him, sent him on his way, and followed this strange old man into the complex.

We crossed the fence line and began walking through a field sparsely kept with grass. A large tree was directly to the left and a young puppy was leashed to it and barking away at us as we passed by. Our host began to yell at the dog to pipe down with a series of insults and swearing. Anne and I looked at eachother, but continued to follow him. I guess i also forgot to mention that our host was a white man, an ex patriot actually, so our conversations with him were all in english and that is also the language he used to speak to his dog. the field delved off into a few buildings. once was a wooden kitchen with a shower right next to it. about three hundred yards across, there was a line of shanties that he called cabin rooms and offered for a marginally higher rate. In between the shanties and the kitchen and further down the field was a garden and an old trailer. We were told one of our hosts workers lives there. This trailer was also in the only part of the field that was level and fit for a formidable campsite. After cementing our rate for the night stay, we immediately began setting up the tent so we could store our backpacks....



Its about 3am so the rest will wait until next time.