FROM PALENQUE TO LAGO DE ATITLAN

 

 

This entry comes under the “sometimes travel is just work” category.  I am assured two short collectivo rides will land me in beautiful Lake Atitlan, back in Guatemala, in time for dinner.  The first three hour section on a underpowered 15-passenger collectivo after leaving about noon lands me back on the Pan-American Highway (but still well inside Mexico).  The cost is $40 quetzales, or about $5 US.  It has taken nearly three hours, predictably longer than estimated.  From here, I am told the next leg will not get me into Guatemala, but only as far as the border.  La Frontera, it is called.  This is via another collective, at a cost of $35 additional quetzales. This portion takes an additional two hours.

 

From here, where travelers are checked out by Mexican customs officers, they must take a taxi to Las Mesilla on the Guatemala side.  It is only five kilometers.  But on terrible roads.  So, they call it a “special assignment.”  And indicate to me the cost is $8 quetzales per passenger.  When I arrive, the driver demands $40 quetzales.  I ask why?  “Special rate,” he says.  “Terrible road.  The price quoted you was if you have five passengers minimum.”  I indicate this part was not told to me, and he knew how many passengers were going with me all along.  He still demands $40 Q.  He makes a scene.  I argue with him and offer to get the police involved.  He quickly sobers at this idea, throws his hands up, flips me the bird, and takes off.  Truth is, you get tired of being wheeled by these people after awhile and have to make a stand.

 

From here, it is obvious not only will dinner not take place in Lake Atitlan, but perhaps not at all.  The road gets worse as it heads through passes and cuts in the Guatemalan Highlands.  Speeds decrease drastically.  No collectives are making the trip.  It is too late in the day for Chicken Buses, and I want a guaranteed seat – no standing in the aisle with my two light backpacks will be comforting on this occasion.  Taxi drivers begin negotiating for fare over the long haul to the lake.  Then for a halfway ware.  After half an hour’s wranglingstarting at 1000 pesos, one cabbie offers to make the trip to Huehuetenango ( a junction point about halfway to Lake Atitlan) for $500 pesos.  This is about $40.  I hate the idea, but reluctantly agree.  This leg takes another two hours.

 

At Huehuetenango (Way-Way for short), no collectives care to make the trip.  It is late, dark by now, and the Highlands are no place for a single traveler or a small group to be out at night. Virtually all guidebooks plainly say that this area should be transited by late afternoon, at the latest.  The town is quickly assessed as a filthy, crowded, pollution infested den of opportunity for swindlers to pick a solo traveler or one connected to a small group clean  I do NOT want to spend the night in such a place.

 

So I reluctantly catch a Chicken Bus (which was only partially filled, mercifully) south to Quetzaltenango – another transit point not worth visiting or spending the night at.  I am assured it will be possible to catch a collectivo there at a junction known as “Cuatro Caminos” (Four roads).  Cost of the Chicken Bus: $20 quetzales.  The driver’s purse handler tries to get another $5 Q out of me, since it is now “night time rates.”  I refuse, and he moves on.

 

The trip is uneventful, except for patches of fog in the higher passes along the route.  These minor disruptions did not of course keep the driver from passing slower vehicles with regularity in a complete state of blindness.  I notice he will also not slow for speed bumps now.  He keeps his RPM up at all times.  He is not going to be stopped or forcibly boarded at any cost.  He also tries whenever possible, to slow down or speed up so as to be part of a convoy of vehicles.  Safety in numbers.

 

While on this segment, I meet Andrew Kohler, a slightly quixotic looking 50 year-old carnival trinket salesman from New York who has visited this area often and has the lay of the land down well. It is he who has convinced me that a collective will be able to pick us up at the Four Roads Junction in Quetzaltenango.  Worth the risk, I figure.  But when we arrive, nothing happens.  We check at the Shell Station and anywhere else regular stops might be made.  Nothing.  Even the local police urge us to get off the streets for our own safety.

 

Finally, a desperate looking taxi driver comes over to negotiate.  He wants 1000 Quetzales to take us on the trip to Lake Atitlan.  This is not even remotely possible, with our collective remaining cash on hand.  He takes turns tag teaming us, often utilizing his waifish looking seven year-old son to assist in negotiations with a woeful  look that suggests “Baby needs new shoes and we won’t eat for a week unless you pony up now."  We demur, and retreat half a block to see what traffic might be able to assist.

 

The police again say nothing will stop here this time of night and warn us for a second time to get off the streets.  They urge us to get a hotel and continue in the morning.  The cabbie keeps sending his son over.  The price drops.  The desperation index grows.  On both sides.  He assures us it is a tough journey, further than we had thought, and on much tougher roads. Then there is the danger aspect to account for.  He won’t go below 500 Quetzales.  About $63. It is possible this is half a month’s pay for this particular driver.  Andrew offers to pay his share back in the morning if I’ll just agree to this price and an immediae departure ... now.  I am set on being in Atitlan by midnight, and finally – after 45 minutes of negotiating – reluctantly agree.

 

I attempt to sleep, but the highway is rutted and twisty.  Pan American Highway, my ass.  This would be a C or a D road in England or the US.  I am attuned to every bit of pitch coming from the engine.  Slowing down tells me we have a grade approaching, or may be stopping.  If we stop, I want to be prepared for the worst.  We finally arrive at the turnoff junction 11 miles from the volcano ringed lake at about 11 PM.  After a very steep potholed descent in a vehicle with no remaining suspension or shock absorbers that approximates what it must feel like to be run over by Ben Hur’s chariot, the primary Lago Atitlan gateway of Panajachel is ours.  I grab the cheapest hotel that can be found and immediately drop off to sleep, feeling as if my neck has been beaten with a Mayan war club.  But once again – come hell or high water – all objectives are met.