COPAN

 

 

What distinguishes Copan from the verticality of Tikal and the three-dimensional Stilas of Palenque is its statuary.  Copan was considered the Paris of its day, and very much like our Athens of Antiquity with its ever present story telling in the form of hieroglyphics and large statues dedicated to kings and gods.

 

The Copan valley was nearly completely under water at the time the Maya arrived in 426 AD.  Their predecessors, the Olmecs, had established a more limited presence there as early as 1400 BC, but had not solved the problem of draining swamps that Mayan engineers overcame later.  Five different layers of city reveal themselves amid 24 square kilometers of ruin, only 25% of which has been excavated.  There are over 4500 known mounds at Copan.  This number is known courtesy of space assisted photo geographic mapping from NASA. 

 

The population reached a total of 27,000 and the city its zenith in 822 AD during the reign of its 16^th (and last) king, “The Rising Son,” Yas Pa Sa.  Notably, all citizens were capable of being seated at the same time for ball games and sacrifices around modern stadium type stone seating which ringed the Great Plaza of Copan.

 

The Spanish first discovered the site in 1576, more than 750 years after it was abandoned by the Maya for – due once again – to environmental abuse.  Just as occurred at Palenque and most major Mayan sites, nearby firewood had been denuded, resulting in a lack of rainfall.  Poor members of the city attacked royalty as a result, since “the King had lost contact with the Gods.”  The citizens of Tikal melted into the jungle and were assimilated elsewhere.

 

The British appeared to study and document Palenque in the 1830’s, taking with them several major Stilas and hieroglyphs (same as they did for major frontispiece hieroglyphs at The Acropolis in Athens) which reside today in the marvelous British Museum in London.  Harvard University scholars followed in the 1890’s and the Carnegie Institute followed in the 1930’s.  Restoration efforts by The Carnegie Institute resulted in re-routing of the Copan River (which had cut away portions of the city, revealing its five layers) and subsequently saving three major temples: The Bat, The Monkey, and The Knife.

 

In 1952 the Honduran Institute of Anthropology added protected site status to Copan.  Fittingly (although a bit late) it was later recognized as a Unesco World Heritage site in 1980.

 

My guide, Juan Carlos Calderon, has been leading visitors to Copan for over 25 years.  He first directs me to the Necropolis, a low-lying area previously covered with jungle that served as the burial area for some lower Mayan royalty and classes we would today consider rich.  Common Maya, on the other hand, were buried where they were born, lived and died: either near, beside, under, or sometimes inside their dwelling place.

 

Next stop is The Acropolis: a name given by archeologists (and not the Maya themselves) in recognition of the Greek meaning of “High Place.”  This is the most elevated point in the city, and the site of its astronomical temple (The Temple of The Inscriptions), built in 773 AD by Yas Pa Sa.  It is also known as Temple 16, and is surrounded by what is known as the Aquatic Plaza. For a sample of what this must have looked like in its heyday, richly decorated and lit by the sun to highlight its primary red coating, see Mel Gibson’s vivid movie, “Apocolypto.”

 

Our next stop is The Jaguar Plaza.  This is the West Point of Copan, where military training took place and warriors honed their military skills.  It lies below Temple 16.  The temple itself, and the plaza (while impressive) are not nearly the size of their counterparts in Palenque or Tikal.  What IS impressive is underground tunnels revealing one pyramid inside another in this sector.  The Maya built to commemorate events.  When a building had “run its time” or the event it honored had past, they either dissembled the building and re-used the materials, or built right over the top of it.

 

Here, at Rosalila Temple (discovered in 1989), one can see parallel structures with an air pocket perhaps four to six feet apart separating one pyramid from another.  The previously existing Rosalila was left intact and not added to, because it was considered the birthplace of maize – sacred to the Maya as the seed of life itself.  Four other levels lay beneath the Rosalila, some dating back to the Olmecs.

 

Nearby, as a visitor weaves both above and below ground throughout and under the Temple of The Inscriptions, The Jaguar Plaza, and The Rosalila can be found the Tunnel of the 7^th Mayan King at Copan – The Water Lily Jaguar.  In addition an amusing rendition of a near “Tony The Tiger” hieroglyphic facsimile of a Dancing Jaguar adds some levity to the gravity of the traditions here.

 

Continuing the tour, we arrive at a modestly sized ball court (when compared with Chichen Itza, for example).  The game is called Pocatoc.  It most nearly approximates jai alai today.  However, players could not use their hands or feet.  Hips, elbows and head were used to move an eight pound rubber ball around the plaster floored court, in hopes of hitting three massive orbs placed high on a sloping stone talus that was off limits to players in terms of playing surface.  These targets served in place of ringed hoops placed high on vertical walls, as at Tikal, Palenque, Chichen Itza, and elsewhere.

 

Hitting the orb resulted in a point.  If the ball touched the ground on the flat playing surface between the two sloped stone surfaces leading to the orbs, the team lost a point.  Unlike Tikal and elsewhere, however, the winner at Copan was sacrificed.  This was considered an honor.  The motivating belief was in their immediate afterlife, they would be honored with the presence and company of many, many virgins.  Shades of Al Quaida …

 

Continuing further on a very hot day, Juan Carlos brings me around the corner with very special pride to The Hieroglyphic Stairs.  Over 2200 inscriptions carved into stone (who needs books?) on a massive stairway built in 755 AD by the 15^th Mayan King (Yas Pa Sa’s father) serve as a gift to his people of their ancestral history.  This protected stairway is the longest hieroglyphic text inscription in the world. It is called quite simply, The Library.  A book in stone.

 

And finally, The Grand Plaza reveals itself.  Steeply elevated stone terrace-type seating sufficient for perhaps 10,000 forms a semi-circle around the ball court.  Lower level seating up to ten rows deep then continues encircling the remainder of the Plaza, sufficient for the remaining population of Copan.  The area is huge, the largest I’ve seen at the four major Mayan temples visited on this epic whirlwind tour.  Large enough for three to four adjacent chariot ovals if one visualizes them from the award winning movie, “Ben Hur.”  The open spaces are very impressive.

 

They are dominated by Stila staturary commemorating primarily Mayan Kings.  Two are particularly notable.  The Stila of the 12^th King, known as The Small Jaguar, who died at age 87.  And the Stila of the Two Faces.  I did not catch the name of the King it corresponds to, amongst the hectic pronunciation and transcribing going on simultaneously.  But it shows a king in his youth, looking very Egyptian -- with a smooth face – and then in his wisdom years later, fully bearded and looking more like royalty from the Han Dynasty in China.  I reassure we have many, many two-faced politicians in Washington DC as well.  Some things never change …

 

Interspersed among the Stila are sacrifice stones, placed within full view of the terrace seated onlookers.  Both animals and humans were sacrificed.  Sometimes (though rarely), death was not involved.  Merely a blood offering was made on some occasions.  The hierarchy of blood for such an occasion was first royal blood, then the blood of a virgin, then the blood of an athlete, and finally the blood of an animal.

 

My final stop at this memorable city is Las Sepulturas.  One of nine neighborhoods that made up Copan, and populated only by royalty and the rich.  The poor had to walk in from some distance to enjoy the fruits of the central city on most occasions. Here remains the site’s best preserved example of Mayan architecture, with solid stone construction surrounding very small rooms consisting primarily of storage areas and a bed chamber dominated by a stone platform bed.

 

Depending on level of wealth, Mayan men often had multiple wives.  One of these complexes that was viewed included a dwelling with 18 rooms – one for each wife.  The first wife was generally for money and political connection, the second for love, and the others for breeding and amusement.  It includes the Palace of The Scribe, the eldest brother of the previous king.  He was primarily responsible for documenting his people’s history and accomplishments.

 

In departing Copan, I once again run into an ongoing problem when dealing with taxi drivers, guides, and all other provisioners in these parts.  And that is what we’ll call “The Final Cost.”  Sure, a cost is negotiated and agreed to ahead of time.  Of course.  But there are always the add ons.  Or the attempted add ons.  It does not mean there is not an attempt at re-negotiation.  Kind of a Mayan “value added” play after the fact.

 

What appears to be generosity, is not always so.  What is apparently offered as gratis, or included, is not often the case.  My recommendation is keep a small notebook handy at all times.  When price is negotiated, write it down.  Have the vendor/taxi driver/guide look at it and agree.  Bullet point what is included.  Juan Carlos wants $25 in additional US money for his vague services,” which over a beer appeared to have been offered out of the kindness of his heart, a $10 additional charge for some limited chauffeuring being involved, and a desire to further connect with a curious Yankee scribe asking a lot of questions.  We debate, and eventually split somewhere in between.  But it is an ongoing practice which casts a pall over what has otherwise been a perfect day.

 

Said day concludes with a long bus ride, partly by collectivo and partly by chicken bus, to the Honduran border town of Ocotepeque.  The countryside is relaxing and beautiful.  It reminds me of my home turf around the small gold towns of Northern California outside Sacramento (but with verdant green instead of golden hills).  Having given more time than planned to Belize, Guatemala and the bonus round of Palenque in Mexico, Honduras, El Salvador and probably Nicaragua will get short shrift.  I will just have to return some time in recompense.

 

 

ANTIGUA

 

 

Having so much ground to cover, upon arriving back in Panajachel an afternoon departure is made for Antigua and its Unesco World Heritage ambience almost immediately.  The drive is supposed to take about two and one-half hours, but takes nearly 90 minutes more than that.  It is well worthwhile.  Here once again, on a much larger scale than diminuitive San Juan, is the perfection of cobblestone street, protected heritage, throbbing nightlife, quality restaurants, excellent shopping, and view.  Two volcanoes: Volcan de Agua and Volcan de Fuego, dominate the skyline.  Volcan de Fuego still has activity, with minor steam eruptions and late night glow lending a sense of awe and wonder to the setting.

 

Due to bus schedules and the order of battle for specific travel goals following, I am blessed with two nights and one full day in this remarkable town.  After a later than expected arrival on a Friday night, the town is already hopping with busloads of tourists arriving in large number.  I immediately take the the Plaza Mayor (behind which is the very becoming Antigua Cathedral and amble down pedestrian only Calle Oriente 5A Sur (south) looking for a meal.

 

Along the way, there are the usual tienda stalls packed with colorful clothing and gifts still open late at night, a rich collection of foreign and Guatemalan specialty restaurants, the well-lit historical sites of the city (which I won’t try to enumerate, and which are perhaps even more impressive at night than during daytime), and clubs playing to a largely younger crowd.

 

I settle on a local Spanish style restaurant with an interior courtyard featuring a central fountain and a singer playing Spanish guitar.  He is accompanied by a keyboardist.  The two play various riffs off each other and are clearly enjoying the artistry of the other in performance of mutual admiration.  As is the custom in warm locales with a late-night dining crowd, my final stop is a gelato shop.  For as often as these bits of heaven appear, it is no wonder you can walk all day, sweat like a dog in heat, and never lose an ounce of weight during extended travels.  Sleep comes easily after this, the grind of the road and wee-hour blogging catching up to me once again.

 

For my only full day in Antigua, I concentrate on historical sites, and recommendations of locals as to where to visit.  Those recommendations of course being the best advice you will get on the road at any given time.  A start is made with walk-by tours of the Santa Rosa and El Carmen churches, long ago abandoned and left as relics by previous frequent earthquake activity in Guatemala.  They are impressive for their varied weathering patterns on their thick-walled exteriors, and the massive cracks that now mar their exterior profile and rendered the buildings useless.

 

Another stop involves the colorfully adorned and well preserved colonial style Hermita Santa Lucia.  And another was the Fine Art Photograpy exhibit of John Kaplan, showing in delightful expression the most amazing collection of smiles from Guatemalan children in various stages of poverty, woe, and want.   Without going into the excesses of listing however, my favorite stop by far was the ruins of the Iglesia de Santo Domingo.  This absolutely unique church complex ties the walled remains of an earthquake destroyed beauty, with modern restoration methods – but only in part.

 

The golden hued brick and stone walls have been left as destroyed.  A new, engineered and at times floating (or independently connected) roof has been designed to respectfully complement the site.  Strong steel earthquake reinforcement rods painted to match the brick reach up in irregular combinations  to the remaining walls in a Gaudi like manner.  Instead of being geometric, they are organic, and complement the site.

 

Spanish tile still dominates the skyline.  Large gaps between the wall tops and the roofline regularly appear, allowing the battered and wavy edges of the Santo Domingo of antiquity to still show what became of this proud complex, while the modern roof suggests what once was.  The beauty is in conceptualizing melding of the two.  Nestled between gaps in the roof and wall are restaurants (dining by candlelight, the same as back in Spanish colonial days), fountains, ossuaries, a museum section, and massive performing arts tent.  Modern hotel and spa facilities are located only yards away, yet in a matching architectural style.

 

Santo Domingo offers up a peaceful retreat.  The entire setting is park-like and tranquil.  Choral chant music plays softly in the background.  Solace and “beyond ambience” becomes the watch words of the day for this stunning restoration.  I take a very light dinner and several drinks there, just to be able to extend my time of repose and reflection.  This truly, is the place you would want to have for a wedding – or, the place you might best propose one.

 

I move on to two local institions to close out the evening.  One old, and one new.  The new one first, simply because there is not so much rich material to choose from in describing it.  The two ae perhaps 50 yards apart.  But I fancied the Bohemia Café for its fine food at reasonable prices, the laid back comfort of the place, the service of the staff (led by chief cook Kyle), and the way that was so reminiscent in the television series “Cheers” in which everybody knew your name.

 

The old was the No Se Bar (Spanish for “I don’t know”).  It was described as a must-see ExPat bar.  Founded about ten years ago by John Rexer, who got drunk one night, and found out the next morning he’d rented a decrepit slum while inebriated and had no idea what to do with it.  So, he started a Mezcal bar.  Made from the same plant as tequila, but with a much higher quality result.  Which I will describe further below.

 

But first, take note about how locals describe this place.  “You say you want a revolution?  The place to plot your next rebellion, conspiracy or plan to take over the world is in the smoky shadows of Café No Se.  More than a bar, it’s a high concept that works in low places. Eerie lighting, raw wooden walls splattered with esoteric graffiti and bizarre art, and an air of impending chaos lend Café No Se the edgy feel of Quentin Tarentino’s Once Upon a Time In Mexico – the dangerous sense of a border town gone bad. “Chalked body outlines on the floor are a vivid reminder of the thin curtain between life and death, reality and dreams.”

 

Two gnarled, wooden bars stretch from the hole-in-the wall door to the back, with tables along the walls for more privacy, furtive discussions and pleas for mercy and just one more shot of Illegal Mezcal (a brand name, not a condition).  Antigua’s only Mezcal bar lurks behind a Hobbit-sized door.  The regular crowd consists of ex-pats, wannabe ex-pats, travelers, and just enough shady characters to keep things interesting.

 

My bartender, Randy, describes the process for making Mezcal as follows: Mezcal is hand-made, the same as 500 years ago.  Tequila is machine manufactured.  Mezcal is made by roasting the agave plant for three days, to get its distinctive smoky flavor.  No chemicals are added.  Next, it is squeezed into vats of 200 liters, and then sits in a fermentation tank for two weeks.  The result is not filtered, but distilled twice prior to bottling.  That is where its smoothness and character come from.  “Illegal” bottles cost $35, $45 or $55, depending on ageing time in the bottle.

 

In the early days, since liquor import duties were so high, owner John Rexer employed unusual methods to get the product into Guatemala from the Oaxaca area of Mexico.  That included the hiring of coyotes (those guides that ferry illegal aliens over the border for money), ice cream vendors who are allowed to straddle the borders with their wares but use false bottoms in their carts after hours, and border runners wearing phony priest costumes.

 

I decide it might be possible to take notes and listen to tall tales about this place for several days, but – having a 4 AM bus to the final major Mayan set of ruins at Copan in the morning – reluctantly take my leave.

 

BLISS IS SPELLED “A-T-I-T-L-A-N”

 

I am sitting in a waterside café in Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, staring at three volcanoes (one of them steaming) ringing a bluest of blue lakes that reminds me of Crater Lake in Oregon.  Surely this is one of the greatest sights in the world.  I am armed with a huge beer, and a caipirinha (Brazilian national drink, made of cane sugar – just wrote a little ode about this wonderful bebida a couple days ago) and a plate of ceviche.  It is my favorite drink, when not imbibing the new elixir of choice, The Hemingway Daiquiri (sans sugar).  Ambition does not move me.  I have no desire for once to “see it all and do it all.”  The site – and the moment, well past the time darkness falls – are perfect unto themselves.

 

A good portion of my day is taken up exploring the primary commercial street around the corner from my hotel, Avenida Santander.  It is perhaps a mile to the embarcadero or boat harbor that takes both locals and tourists to the small village enclaves that surround the lake.  The locals away from Panajachel are dependent primarily on fishing to make a living, harvesting both fish and freshwater crab from the lake.  They are also skilled farmers, cultivating on very vertical and at times remote plots corn, coffee, beans, onions, potatoes, oranges, avocados, pitayas, and bananas.  They also grow flowers, maguey and rule (or cactus).

 

Many of these villages (which have changed very little over the centuries) are only accessible by water taxi.  Traditional Mayan life prevails here.  Some of these outposts have no electricity, and no water.  At night, most stand out though on the opposite shore like firefly clusters, with the dark brooding hulk of the three volcanoes – Atitlan, the tallest at 3535 meters, adjacent Toliman at 3158 meters, and nearby Volcan San Pedro at 3020 meters – forming a contrasting backdrop.

 

Several theories arise as to how the lake was formed.  One is that as the three volcanoes grew, their mass blocked local rivers and turned the basin they flowed through into a 1000 foot deep lake.  The more prevailing view is that molten lava eruptions in the Pliocene era spread widely and then cooled, leaving a vast circular depression of approximately 140 square miles and nearly ten miles in diameter.  The level of the lake has risen and fallen about twenty five feet in recent years, a number attributed by some to vast deforestation in nearby ecosystems.

 

Avendia Santander  has every imaginable item available on the tourist circuit.  I am particularly interested in the hand-crafted shirts, leather goods, and Guatemalan food.  But plenty of American, Mexican, and European dishes are available also.  Whatever you want is available in Atitlan.  Including drugs.  I am offered marijuana or whatever I want” eight times within 15 minutes down by the waterfront.  It is easy to laugh off.  Especially when two adjacent buds offering buds, are oblivious of each other and as if in echo mode offer up within seconds of each other: “So you want some weed, man?”

 

While I never tire of the variety of goods available and do not mind seeing them over and over, what does become tiresome is the constant in-your-face near assault from local vendadores pushing worthless trinkets at you while waiting to eat, have a drink, or sidewalk browse.  The language is always the same.  “Something special, Meester?  I have good price for you.  But only for right now.”  It is the catechism of the streetwalking peddler.  One woman who would not take no for an answer and actually leaned into my table and then plate during dinner, nearly got a cross-body block and her oranges dumped into the ocean.  Luckily, cooler heads (the waiter) prevailed.

 

Dinner is taken late with Andrew at a restaurant featuring Guatemalan highland flute players.  During the meal, he regales me with tales of previous visits to Atitlan.  On one of those occasions, he went into business with another fellow at a combination disco bar and nightclub.  He eventually left to return to Mexico when his partner threw an all night rave, everybody got stoned, nobody ordered food or drinks, and their building  was trashed.  Later, his partner went into drug distribution, and then became … of course … a priest.

 

My second full-day on the Lake is spent exploring surrounding villages.  First geographically is Santa Catarina Polopo, a small settlement four kilometers away by tuk-tuk three-wheeled motorcycle taxi (which only costs ten quetzales).  The primary industry here seems to be female crafted and merchandised indigo huipice tunics often seen around the lake.  Five kilometers further on, is San Antonio Palopo.  Here pottery is the specialty.  Traditional Mayan clothing is worn in both villages.

 

The streets are steep, rough, largely cobbled, dusty and it is hard to imagine the homes can actually conform to the slopes here without collapsing.  Most are not made with re-bar metal reinforcement.  All around, the casual visitor sees fish drying in the sun, scallions being cleaned, corn being shucked and turned into tortilla meal, weaving looms, and industrious women much in evidence.  The men are largely not in evidence, except for the local potter.

 

The children do not appear to attend school much.  Many of them are on the street, selling and promoting.  They do this from a very early age.  Some of them are very, very good at it.  One young man latches on to me and guides me to the uphill pottery barn.  I hand him a coin.  Within seconds, about ten other street urchins surround me out of nowhere, looking for some obsequious chore to perform or for a pure handout.  I gladly hand out the coins, and can barely escape later in my tuk-tuk with the weight of collective children holding the small taxi back.  For awhile at least, I am indeed the Pied Piper of San Antonio Palopo.

 

A third village – Santa Cruz – is visited shortly afterward by water taxi from Panajachel.  Upon arrival, it is a long walk up a very steep road to the village itself.  To say that this rather primitive settlement is steep, is like saying “Everest is large.”  Given the exertion required to get around locally, there are no fat children or adults to be found here.   I delight in watching a number of very young boys play soccer with an undersized plastic ball, flip flops, or bare feet on a concrete platform adjacent to the local church. 

 

Just slightly down the hill is a most unusual restaurant called Café Sabor Crucerno.  It is both a vocational cooking school, and weaving class to enable young men and women to attain life skills that might help them earn and then keep jobs with sustainable incomes.  The view straight across to the twin volcanoes of Atitlan and Toliman is awe inspiring.  Even better is the food.  It is the finest meal I have had so far in over 24 days on the road, be it Mexican, Cuban, Belizean, or Guatemalan.  And based on previous descriptions here, that says a lot.

 

My selection consists of two typical dishes of Guatemala.  The first is Pepian con tortillas – a stew of vegetables, ground seeds, cacao, chiles and spices, served with chicken.  It is followed by three tostadas – three crisp friend tortilla shells, mounded with black beans, hard cheese, salsa, and mixed organic salad with a vinegar based dressing.

 

Dinner finds me along the waterfront snacking only on guacamole and the usual caipirinhas.  Or an occasional daiquiri.  I am awaiting the sunset.  Once arrived, it is most disappointing.  But as Ron Popile used to say about his famous Pocket Fisherman, “Wait … there’s more!”  The greater time that elapses between disappearance of the sun behind the volcanoes, the better it gets.  Suddenly the whole sky is crimson and orange and blackened smoke like hard-core diesel exhaust and magenta and slices of powder blue.  It appears as if flames are tearing at you from some distant forest fire, and the lead tendrils beckon menacingly from behind the volcanoes.  It is one of the most unusual sunsets I have ever seen.

 

Andrew lends his enjoyable company afterward for drinks at a crooner’s bar simply known as “Circus Bar.”  It is happily populated by locals, many of them musicians taking turns watching fellow musicians perform.  I listen to a trio of Spanish guitar players, and then an Italian Argentine woman who had lived for awhile in Germany who wore a spotted cowskin jacket sing in both English and Spanish.  This is a great way to spend the evening, when one can’t sightsee, is tired of blogging, and wants to expand their cultural awareness.

 

My third and final day in Panajachel and Lago Atitlan begins with an early tour of the villages on the far side of the lake.  These include San Marcos La Laguna, San Juan La Laguna, San Pedro, and Santiago.  We are promised one and one-half hours at each village between stops, but because of a late start and then chop on the lake making transit time slower than anticipated, our time at each is cut short.

 

Only 45 minutes is allowed for San Marcos, with its population of 3000 people.  This little burgh has the reputation of being a “hippie community.”  It is also the prettiest of the four villages visited this day.  There is rumored to be much spiritual energy present, and many alternative healing practitioners make their homes and offices here.  I notice the local school is of excellent quality (and actually has children in attendance), and the local church is made of modern stone and protected against earthquakes which have devastated so many of Guatemala’s historic churches.  But really, only half an hour is needed to get a fairly representative look at this spot.

 

San Juan is my favorite village.  It is a mini-model of places like Cuzco, Merida, and Old San Juan in Puerto Rico.  Which is to say, clean, every cobblestone in place, trash is not allowed, the citizens are friendly, and the buildings are mostly colorful.  Both a women’s weaving co-op and a coffee co-op operate here and dominate the local economy.

 

While the women’s group provides a free tour and explanation of their beautifully crafted products, the male coffee guides manipulate tourists into paying a fee for their visit, and add insult to injury by inferring samples are free – then charge 15 quetzales for tasting.  I had already taken in hand a pound of local coffee and paid for it, but upon finding the deceitful charge for samples being added to my bill, demanded a refund and left the coffee behind.

 

San Pedro and its population of 10,000 is supposed to be the beauty setting on the opposite side of the lake.  I did not find it so.  I found the town steep, dirty, crowded, less traditional in its Mayan influences than the other more authentic shoreline habitations on Atitlan, and full of largely cheap and useless products.  It does however have an attractive central farmers market which showcases local agricultural products daily.  It also offers an excellent base for hiking Volcan San Pedro.

 

Final stop of the day before returning to Panajachel is Santiago.  It is located on a narrow lagoon, flanked by San Pedro on one side, and Toliman and Atitlan on the other.  This seems to be the largest and busiest of all the lake settlements after Panajachel, with over 15,000 inhabitants.  I am lucky to be present for its large public market on a Friday (also held Sundays).  This local display of elements of the Mayan culture is remarkable for its variety of food goods, huge quantities, lack of trash and lack of odor.

 

 

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.