MAYA-HO! _{Guatemala, Easter 2003}

Sunday 18 May 2003

Woke up 4am to pee, felt fine. Up again at 8am for the day, felt very weak but not feverish, so tired, heart thudding around, shortness of breath. Place fingers against carotid artery: pulse is very irregular. Well, I was told a couple years ago that I had a pacemaker in my future; at age 53, the time has probably come. Heart, lungs, nerves, intermittant dead spot on my left thigh -- will have everything checked out and tuned up when we're back stateside. And a hearing aid. Fock, time is catching up with me.

We shuffle into town for a last healing breakfast (blue-corn waffles and hautcaques, fruit cups, cafe cafe cafe cafe) and to purchase a sacrificial implement. Then back to the Hotel Monterrey to pack, to view dim volcanos, to listen to those infinite bird messages, to wait for the van, all slow and easy, eh?

"What's that fruity smell? Must be Panajachel!" Bye bye, Pana.

Terminally jammed into the van; up the ridges through Sololá for the last time to the Camino InterAmericano, over the ever-dynamic mountains through Tecpan and Chimi to Antigua, the route is starting to look quite familiar now. Wet clouds but no rain yet, maybe our bags on the van's roof will survive. Oops, raindrops on the windshield now - we'll see, My pulse is regular again, so maybe I'll survive awhile too.

Very congenial and communicative crowd in the van, which made the overstuffing almost bearable. Folks from all over the US, Canada, Quebec, Australia, India, all swapping adventures and experiences, most of which were probably true. Present company excepted.

The songs just aren't coming. Must concentrate more. Right.

OK, we made it into Antigua alive, our bags survived, installed in our mini-penthouse (big volcano out the window!) at the Posada La Merced (this feels like home!) - we're currently lunching at Cafe Condesa / Casa del Conde: the relaxing patio, the reassuring food. Antigua seems so refined after where we've been. Up-country is working terrain; Pana is a holiday town; Antigua is civilized. Saw ads for a "5-day $50" Spanish school here; alas, we won't be here another 5 days.

We lounge around the Plaza, take it easy, finally get into the working Cathedral. Saunter along to La Arca, poke our noses into the better shops, easily fend off the vendors. Back to the huge Nim Po't handicraft-fabric collective to take pictures of Maximon and review the fine weavings from locales we're now much more familiar with. If we have any fugitive Quetzales (currency) left when we're ready to leave Guatemala, we'll probably blow'em here, get some last bit of fine stuff.

Dusk; we're heading south from La Arca. Some vendors are making cat sounds. Walk a bit more cat sounds, laugh. Someone down the street barks. I bark. Somebody else does cat sounds. Other people make other animal sounds. Soon pedestrians spread along two blocks are being animalistic and laughing. Can't do that when there's traffic around, nope.

After enough strolling and lounging we knew that dinnertime had come, and time to head for the showers. OK, food first. Our goal was Martedino's, a great pizza parlor with cheap beer. After wandering the neighborhood awhile we finally found it (just 2 blocks down 7th Ave. from our lodgings). The usual humorous service and fine pizza, the usual cheap and voluminous beer, the usual odd venue. But we're happy, if footsore. Stagger home, hose off, crash, and we'll be ready for tomorrow in no time. Well, by tomorrow anyway.

Raining heavily. Cold wind blows through shower. This is Antigua? Redirect the window slats, no problemo. The town should be good for cool walks tomorrow, when we head for the artisan's market and then celebrate our 24th anniversary.. Some dogs and trucks in the night, few explosions - how could we celebrate without explosions? Impossible!

Monday 19 May 2003

Up early (because we forgot to turn off the alarm) with the usual Antigua morning sounds - bells klanging, dogs barking, trucks rumbling, roosters shouting,etc. Nudge ourselves next door to Fernando's for great coffee and typicas desayuna, then over to the Mercado Artisano (formal and otherwise) to buy some more fine crap, er another stack of gorgeous huipiles and a jade mask. Really good prices from rather desperate vendors.

Haul the stuff up to our posada, then haul ourselves back to Cafe Condesa for a fine little lunch, then haul on to one of Antigua's great treasures, La Casa Popenoe (yup, that's a Hawaiian name). A grand house from colonial times, bought and restored by sugar barons some 70 years ago, painstakingly recreates the environment of a 17th century royal official. The admission is a pittance, the mansion is a marvel. DO see all of it, including the dovecote (townhouse apartments for birds) and roofview.

We tromped slowly around the near east side of Antigua, poked into the usual beautiful niches. It's been cool and clean following last night's rain, a fine day to stroll. Finally back to the posada to rest again - and then today's downpour started.

The streets quickly cleared. Into the posada came members of a couple of US families with adopted Guatemalan kids and CommonHope ties. We sat out the rain in the posada's extended lobby interacting with the young and very young folks and their elders. Alexandra (age 12) and I chatted about matters adoptive; she said she thought I'd be a good dad or granddad, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.

One of the passengers on yesterday's Pana-Antigua shuttle was a young woman born in the US of Indian parents, who visited India recently; she noted that in the villages she ran into barriers because of her unfamiliarity with Indian commonplaces. Alexandra similarly noted how Guatemalans' expectations of her were confounded because her Maya appearance didn't match her suburban Peoria Illinois upbringing. Ah, the hazards of judging books by their covers, eh?

Dinnertime Monday

Via the posada's staff we arranged for a personalized tour of nearby villages tomorrow, and a secure ride to the airport on Wednesday. Then we ventured out into the diminishing rain, searching for a dinner to celebrate our 24th anniversary (that's today). It's Monday so everything good is closed.

We found ourselves at last at Las Catalinas, the restaurant of Hotel Convento Santa Catalina (5ta Ave Norte #28) which is a beautiful venue and one of the soups was good. As for the rest - well, it takes a bit of imagination to characterize their menu as 'Mexican'.

Those families from the posada entered (having found nothing else either); we warned them of the chips (not 'nachos' but 'crunchos') and sashayed back through a cool quiet night to our quarters. Quiet but for the bells, that is. Ring-a-ding, dude.

Tuesday 20 May 2003

A day and a night, and another day, and then just one more day. Today we pulled ourselves up, pushed went next door for Fernando's fine feed and fuel, then perceived the early hour and walked. And waited. And finally came our coach, and we sped towards nearby villages.

Fuego volcano was spewing smoke and ash. We observed, recorded, wondered.

We reached that square in Ciudad Viejo where the conquistador Alvorado and his doomed wife Beatriz had lived, now a signposted ruin within the bounds of a boys' school The boys saw me, went wild. "Santa Claus! Santa Claus!" they screamed. I ho-ho'ed, snapped pictures, left laughing as Volcan Fuego fumed.

We toured villages both ordinary and beautiful (such as San Antonio de Aguas Calientes), toured shops and workshops, toured the organic environmental Valhalla macademia plantation [INSERT URL HERE]. We are very tempted to return there for a volunteer stint. Rake up the nutshells and be fed macademia pancakes for weeks! Such a deal! Sign us up!

We returned to Antigua, lunched at Rainbow Reading Room (recommended), chatted extensively with Franky (a decorated Ozzie met during our last shuttle ride) about travels and travails. We happened into an art gallery staging a major show of the latest popular abstract works by Xiap - we liked his Zunil church much more but probably can't take it home. And we went back to the Artisan's Market for a jade jaguar, nice kitty...

Back to Cafe Condesa for dessert, then to the posada to retrieve our stored bags of booty, to repack, to rest, And in came Pedro and wife from Chichi, hauling weary visitors to the posada. Small world!

Finally darkness, and rain, and it's time to hike to dinner. Approaching Iglesia La Merced we heard music, not a tape, not a CD. Behind the low orange wall of an ordinary corner building, through a narrow window, we witnessed a percussion orchestra rehearsing in a small room, six medium-to-old guys pounding on two big wood marimbas, and a sad-looking string bass player. A magical moment as the music swirled and rolled and reverberated.

Then on to Cafe Gaia for our belated anniversary dinner with Argentine merlot and boomer music and many laughs, and it's back to the posada for our final sleep in Antigua. For now.

Wednesday 21 May 2003

Sometime around 5:20 AM, extended explosions. A little after 6AM, 88 loud bell klangs. Somewhere after 6:15, 63 bells. A little after 6:30, 52 bells. Around 6:45, 8 bells. Just after 7AM, only a few bells. He's wearing down. GOOD MORNING, ANTIGUA!!!!

Great honking volcanos stand in stark blue detail outside our penthouse windows. Traffic abounds, but few dogs or roosters - maybe they're taking a breakm or spending the day in Pana or whatever. Ah, many more bells now. Ah...

Today is absolutely gorgeous. We're leaving and Antigua is at its most brilliantly bright and beauteous. Now Maureen wants to come back. In the rainy season. After we get shots and get into shape. And learn more Spanish. When asked your age, do NOT say, "Tengo cinquento anos." That's AÑOS, bubba. Big difference.

A note has been left in our hotel box:

  "Ricky and Maureen, Room 33:   It was a pleasure to meet you.   Rick you had the most funnest songs I have ever heard.   Maureen it was nice meeting you to because you are so nice...   Your friend, Alexandra"

Thus am I rewarded for singing "I Want A Beer Just Like The Beer That Pickled Dear Old Dad" and "My Sweetheart's The Mule In The Mine" and "Does Your Chewing-Gum Lose Its Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight?" and my own song "Food Chain" and others.

Fernando is out of town for a medical checkup and his lovely assistant doesn't always get it just right, but soon we're fueled and flying slowly down Antigua's polychrome polyglot streets this shining morning. We have a few last Quetzales (currency) to spend, some final snacks and jade to buy, some time to spend reliving our favorite experiences. But we can't negotiate the right price for the Xiap painting, the Zunil church. I'm bummed, sorta.

I was invited to join the Antigua, Guatemala post of the American Legion. They don't run a bar; these US vets meet for coffee at Cafe Condesa (our favorite!) to talk and promote charities, more of a Rotary Club than the usual AL stuff. I'm very tempted, partly because the concept of a coffee-swilling Guatemalan AL chapter is just weird enough for me.

Antigua Forever!

We run into Burnt Brian from Pana, still trading, offering us a free bomber - "Thanks Brian, but we've gotta deal with border guards pretty soon." OLD HOME WEEK - yesterday Pedro, today Brian - I wonder if we'll run into any familiar faces at the airport? (No,)

Brian told us (among other things) that just about every gas-powered vehicle on the road in Guatemala, in all of Central America, is a rebuilt wreck. Cars in the US get smashed up, are declared total wrecks, complete insurance write-offs. Then they're shipped down here as scrap and get totally rebuilt by the ubiquitous cheap labor, but not necessarily to manufacturers' standards, eh?

All too soon we're repacked and loaded into the shuttle van and bidding a fond farewell to Antigua at its best. The drive to Guáte is fast and eye-filling, with clear blue skies and puffy white clouds and shaded volcanos. The recent rains worked wonders. Even Guáte doesn't look so bad. It's still no great prize, but doesn't look nearly so depressing and toxic as a few weeks ago.

A quick pass through airport inspections, and we're waiting for the first plane. A long languid wait in Aeropuerto Aurora's international terminal. I spend our last few Q on snacks. The wait continiues aboard the Airbus 320's cool-blue and PC-pale interior. Three hours waiting for a 25 minute flight.

Farewell to Guatemala

We rise over the gullies and canyons cutting into Guáte, bite into those fluffy clouds, disappear in the light like a floating dream. Except for the cramped legroom, of course.

The airline magazine features Cuzco Peru - besides being the gateway to Machu Picchu, is this the Antigua of the south. Key events there are Qoyllur Riti (1st week of May), largest indigenous pilgrimage in the Americas; and the Festival of the Sun, Inti Raymi, on summer solstice (24 June). This kicks off the dry season (May-September), best for exploring the high country; the wet season (November-March) is reportedly soggy. Must investigate...

We drop out of the sky approaching San Salvador's dreary Aeropuerto Ilopango. We cruise not far from treetop level above flat green agricultural lowlands brushed with mist from the Pacific Ocean, just visible in the featureless distance. Skateboarding along the runway, we're down safely. It's a tad cooler than our last stop here but the layover is nearly three hours. Ilopango is not an easy place to appreciate at any time, except when lifting off. And today it would have been faster to drive from Antigua.

Onwards to California

Into the night, nothing to see but occasional flashes outside the blackened starboard portholes and a silent Disney 'Moses' film on tiny LCD screens. Silent because we refused headphones, preferring the noises already within our heads. We can look forward to hours of knee agony. At least the staff provides real drinks, but only once. California is still far away.

The interior air is redolent with the scent of chicken; a number of passengers are carrying takeout bags from the Campero fastfood chain of Guatemala and El Salvador - food not for themselves, but for relatives in California, to give them a taste of home. Maureen called this Airbus 320 a "sardine can" but that's wrong, this is a classy chickenbus of the sky.

I have the aisle seat (as usual), Maureen is in the middle, a fellow with a squashed Clark Gable sort of face is at the port window. He is listening to very loud music. Even wearing his headphones, I can hear it distinctly over the jet noise. It is not pleasant, not at all. My marimba tape can't begin to compete.

Ah, much better now. The deaf man has turned off his music and is reading from a loose-leaf binder, a business course. The stewardesses served another snack and another real drink. Much better than the surplus rum poured into a wintermint Listerine flask for airborne sustenance. Much closer to California, but still far. And no more Moses movie.

Less than an hour left to San Francisco so we must be near the latitude of Los Angeles. All the customs forms have been completed with scrupulous honesty. I wonder about the motel near SFO (San Francisco International Airport) and Highway 101 - after Antigua and Pana, will we be culture-shocked, noise-shocked? Will we hear anything?

The long slow descent has started, the cabin is heating, sweat is forming.

As we embarked on the Amalfi trip I gazed from the bus window and noted the Italian-Spanish-Mediterranean architecture common in California's regions. For this Guatemalan trip I had no such structural expectations, but we saw there much of what felt like "Olde California" building-landscaping styles - not surprising, given the cultural and climatic parallels. And yet so much was different, unexpected, even shocking. On our next drive south will we find much of the new Greater Los Angeles looking more Guatemalan?

FINALLY! We're down, fight our way off the plane past a clump of pushy little old ladies (they didn't survive this long by being wussies), grab our bags, breeze through customs, call the motel shuttle, and we're AGROUND! On 13 hours from door to door.

And since this was a nutrition-deprived day we walked to the nearest eatery and rediscovered why DENNY'S is considered a gourmet restaurant in much of small-town America. Tomorrow we're back to tofu curry, to tempe-kabobs, to avacado'n'bean sprouts on whole wheat; but tonight it's a club sandwich with papas fritas (french fries - or are they freedom fries?) And we didn't have to order bottled water. What a paradigm shift!