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.
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