Semuc Champeyons

"Semuc! Semuc!" Not knowing how the hell we'd make it out to the Semuc Champey National Park, Erik, Carrie, Chris and I had wandered out to the driveway of our hostal looking for... something. And something we most certainly found. A camioneta, the small trucks that serve as mass transit for Guatemala's rural (are there any other kind?) regions, was revving it's motor right out in front. Like it was looking for us, like it was destined to take us to the park and it's famous crystal waters. We made ourselves comfortable on the bags of concrete in the truckbed and settled in for the "difficult" ten kilometer dirt roads out to paradise.

About five minutes later we rolled into "downtown" Lanquin during prime time on market day. We were joined by about twenty five men, women and children in our once roomy pickup bed. One child wrapped his arms around Chris' leg for stability against the more unrestful jars on the road and a tired man rested his cheek on the hand I was using to desperately grip the guardrail, possibly to feel closer in spirit to his fellow traveler that day. There is a different notion of "personal space" here, inasmuch as it relates to the daily commute.

But the vehicular sardine can did the job and got us to where we needed to go.

Now being from Oregon, and the rest of my gang from simarily blessed geographic regions, we were used to messing around with rivers and pools. But a collective release of breath we didn't know we held swept the group when we emerged from the jungle for our first glimpse of Semuc. It was like a vast, terraced network of small Carribean seas, so blue were it's happy waters. We stripped and joined the heady blue, slipping down chutes of water or jumping off limestone ledges into yet another level of water and green grasses and hidden caves.

I have absolutly no confirmation on this, but somewhere in the thousands of conversations that seep into your head backpacking I've heard that "Semuc Champey" is Q’eqchi’, the local Mayan dialect, for "land of the hidden waters." Which is wierd because I just told you all about waters and didn't really make them seem hard to find, because they weren't and those waters are hardly hidden. But after further exploration of the new coolest locale I've ever been turned up confirmation of the Mayas nomenclature. The whole chain of pools, it turns out, is one massive land bridge. We followed them up to their far end and found, to our surprise that a beast of a river beat it's way into the limestone underneath the pools, a massive churning network of semi underwater caves. We sat at the mouth of these and considered the import of hydro power in our modern age. Water, man.

And then we tramped up the sweatiest thirty minutes of my life to the mirador and gorged ourselves on a view that encapsulated it all into one cohesive picture, river and tree and pool and cave. And then we played with a hot pink and black butterfly that wanted nothing more than a friendship with an option to lead to more with my camera. And then we swam some more and I kept my eyes open underwater (a new, dearly beloved skill). And my giardia (I have giardia) barely bothered me because how can amoebas compete with a whole ecosystem for your attention?

They can't. And neither can much anything else, apparently, because we missed the last public camioneta and had to pay an exorbitant amount that very nearly approached the price of a two block taxi ride Stateside for somebody's buddy to drive out from Lanquin and save the silly, naturedrunk gringos. And we drank dark Moza, my Latin American pick for brew, in the dusk of a hostal bar with little electricity and zero phone service to it's name and basically felt very good about the whole situation indeed.

Guatemala rocks. I've bought a palm frond fan we use for our nightly bonfires for about 13 cents, two bowls made out of large seeds and a woven plant fiber bag that a couple of fetchingly old Mayan woman convinced Erik would be perfect for his market days. Thus outfitted, we can conquer the world.

Can't wait,
CD

Action! Adventure!

All too often on this trip I feel like I haven´t been ¨extreme¨ enough. When is my six day jungle trek? It´s been nearly seven months of backpacking (!), whaddayamean I haven´t rappeled down a waterfall yet or gotten a tattoo? I know I shouldn´t get down on myself but hell, you see these people´s Facebook albums... you start to question one´s commitment to ADVENTURE.

Well I got those nagging doubts covered this week. Cause I´ve been tectonically active, you could say.

Guatemala wins ´Country Most Likely To Explode´ in my book. In a country the size of Tennessee, there are no less than four active volcanos. Most entries on pueblos in my guide book include the phrase ¨due to the recent eruption¨ something something.


So we climbed up one. Check it, here´s the view at the top. Volcan Pacaya, 2,000 plus meters high and covered with live lava flows and a bunch of gringos toasting marshmallows on them. Adorable.

Right after the hike, on our shuttle to Lanquin, an English girl told us about her friends that had done the hike a few weeks prior and found themselves running back down the trail in flight from an actual eruption. File this one under excursions that US travel agencies would find disagreeably litigational.

And now we´re in Lanquin, an agricultural, hilly paradise in the country´s center. And we hung with bats in a bat cave! Las Grutas Lanquin, where there are rocks that look like curtains and mushrooms and every night when the last cadre of spelunkers leave, they turn out the lights and thousands of winged mammals flap out over your head like some silly girl´s nightmare. It was wicked.

So as you can see, I am totally extreme and there is no worry because here in Central America, the adventure train just don´t stop. Even in my stomach! See, Erik and I, having been on the road like I said earlier for nearly seven months now, were of the opinion that we had stomachs of steel. No water too contaminated, no street food too filthy. Well weren´t we in for a surprise when one evening shortly after our arrival in Guatemala we met Montezuma and his fabled revenge. My parasites have been with me for one heartwarming week now and are beginning to give me burps that taste like sulfer. Truly, these guys are my good friends now. We shared the volcano hike, we spelunked together... buena honda.

Here´s the site of my convalescence, the young adult summer camp that is El Retiro Hostal in Lanquin.
It could be worse...

Con amor,
CD (and the parasites)

Photos by Mr. Erik Anderson...

Learning About The World Around Us: Edition Guatemala

A few notes on the history of Guatemala (completly and totally swiped from the ¨Culture¨ section of my Footprint Central America guidebook), interspersed with my shots of it´s people and their miraculous textiles:

-Guatemala is comprised of two broad social/ethnic groups: ladinos, or those who speak Spanish and wear modern, ¨Western¨ clothing and the indigenos, who adhere to the tounge and customs of Mayan tradition. Indigenos make up 40%-60% of the country´s population today.

-Like in most countries on this here crazy Earth of ours, Guatemala´s indigenous population has been subject to extreme harassment and institutionalized displacement. This tradition dates back to the arrival of the Spanish in 1524, who conquistadored Mayan lands and forced the Mayans to work plots once their own and pay crop tithes to their new, belligerant neighbors. As recently as 1931, ´anti vagrancy´ laws were instituted, requiring indigenous individuals to work 150 days a year on the farm of a ¨landlord.¨

-Teacher Juan Jose Arevalo, after being elected to Guatemalan presidency in 1944, instituted new liberal institutions like an Office of Social Security and acceptance of all political parties. These were surprisingly unpopular ideas with some folks. He somehow survived 20 military coups.

-But as far as hapless liberals go, Jacobo Arbenz Guzman, takes your need-to-know-about cake. This is because Guzman, Arevalo´s successor, was the first to challenge American business megolith United Fruit Company. He did it by expropiating under-utilized land from corporations, reimbursing them for the land´s stated value and turning it over to the landless poor. Sadly for them, United Fruit had been under-reporting the value of their acres for years for tax purposes, like by a factor of twenty. Goodbye, fallow banana fields!


-Obviously, our country and proud parent of these lights of capitalism would not stand for this clear act of Commie Reds. Deciding Guatemala was no longer conducting its business in a satisfactory manner, the US opened military strikes on the country in 1954. They exiled Arbenz, the democratically elected leader of his country, and opened to door to 38 years of armed conflict between the forces of the new government and the pissed off landless poor.

-Though this may not be news to any of my readers at home, seen from the standpoint of Latin America, the United States sucks.

-Since a peace treaty was signed in 1996, Guatemala has made certain gains towards healing the wounds of a country torn by civil war. Mayans have assumed something much more in resemblence of fair representation in government. Rafael Colom, upon his most recent election as the country´s president, promised to put forth a ¨new Mayan face¨on the administration of Ecuador.

-But sadly, we´re hitting Guatemala at what would appear to be the end of tranquil political times. Following the recent murder of a politically-involved attorney, a posthumous video was played at the man´s funeral in which he claims to have been killed in relation to a client who sought to expose government corruption. In the clip, he fingers the president, his wife and staff. The bombshell has led to marches of thousands of white-clad protestors through Guatemala City, calling if not for the resignation of Colom, than at least a thorough investigation into the matter. So who knows, we may be witnessing regime change in action here.

***

In more personal news, we continue to be stuck in San Marcos after a day trip yesterday to the town of Santiago Atitlan, where the men are renowed for their kick-ass embroidered, bestriped shorts.

Check it out, this cat has a nature guide´s worth of tropical birds embroidered on his. I stared, perhaps more than strictly polite. He rocks.


Again, becoming quite a fan of Mayan style. They are brilliant social crusaders and fashionplates from since back when that word didn´t even exist. In light of this newfound obsession, I had my Mayan horoscope read the other day. I am a White Spectral Wind, which is very exciting.

Con Amor,
Your favorite White Spectral Wind,
Caitlin

San Marcos La Laguna

After four countries in a week, it was time for some R & R.

I´d heard about the yoga schools of Lake Atitlan, up in the western highlands of Guatemala, way back in November, and promised myself that if I stopped this way, I´d partake. Actually, the school my friend had told me about was Las Piramides, a residencial complex on the lake which offered ¨metaphysics¨classes and a ¨Lunar Course¨ending in a week-long fast. I believe there´s also a vow of silence involved. And you know how I fall for that crunchy, baggy-pantsed hippy wisdom.


Lake Atitlan itself is shockingly beautiful, clear and blue and unspoilt like any mountain lake worth it´s salt.

But San Marcos La Laguna, the town where Las Piramides lives, has turned out to be a destination in and of itself. It kind of reminds me of Oregon Country Fair... or maybe a gnome community. The lake-side center of town doesn´t have a single road that is passable by car. People run about their Guatemalan adventure on dirt and cobble-stone paths and we´re in the jungle, so everything is completly overrun by colorfully-flowered vines and massive tropical trees.

And there´s hippies running every which way, a total Veneta vibe. Vegetarian options on every menu, more massage and reiki studios than corner stores. Though the ´spiritual reawakening´school proved a bit heavy, even for me, I´m back doing yoga classes after a five month break and am getting back my limber glow.

But running all this tree hugging and fire dancing, it´s the Guatemalans themselves that are the most amazing part of this place. They are nice, first of all. Not a single man, woman, child or household pet has passed me on the path without a friendly ´Hola!´ (shockingly image-oriented remark to follow) And their clothes! The women, from ages 8 to t0, wear traditional Mayan outfits, all made from the colorful woven patterns this region is famous for. Short sleeved blouses tucked into floor length skirts, bound up by a sash is the standard look, each with it´s own rainbow of colors in flower and animal designs and complicated geometric shapes. It´s the most glorious clashing of hues and patterns I´ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

In contrast, the men and boys are in T-shirts and jeans. Sadly, the cost of a male costume- around $200 according to some sources- is prohibitively expensive for the guys to be ´fitted in traditional clothes. But culture is preserved in different ways. Families live in the same town for hundreds of years. And every local I´ve met so far still speaks the traditional Mayan language, a ¨ch¨-heavy tounge I am butchering with a meat cleaver as I try to pick up it´s ¨Thank You¨´s and ¨How Are You¨´s.

And of course, I´m already scheming on an outfit of my own. I swear, along with the other ´garb´I´ve bought, I´m going to be one of those poor souls who cross over from Tijuana sporting head-to-toe ¨I´ve been in Central America¨wear and dreadlocks. But whatever, so be it. Okay, maybe not the dreadlocks...

***

Oh and! You know how movie stars and politicians get interviewed? Well apparently dirty backpacking hippies get interviewed too! Super stoked that Chelsea Smith, who runs the Hostelling International website, thought it´d be cool to ask me questions about stuff. Hell yeah! Check it out... and this crazy Guatemalan bell flower...

http://hipostcards.wordpress.com/


Peace and Love,
CD