Gulch

That Extreme Stuff

Let’s face it, an element of danger can make the concept of travel that much more exciting. There’s a whole category of people who engage in extreme traveling. They take exceptional risks for the thrill and bragging rights of it. Maybe it helps them find meaning in life – maybe it just helps them get laid. The type of travel that Jen and I did, on the other hand, I would recommend to anybody – even my parents or grandparents (who, for God’s sake, don’t need to impress anyone to get laid). Sure, we were around people with guns, crossed a riot, and avoided a bombing by a week or so but this was by coincidence and not because of our planning. I often get asked if I was ever scared on the trip. To be honest, I was often nervous - but scared? Well, not really.

There is, though, a story that I heard second hand that I repeat to make it sound like I was involved in that extreme stuff:

In Northern Guatemala around the Lake Atitlan region there are a number of volcanoes and it is a popular tourist activity to climb them. However, due to the large economic disparity between the tourists and locals, guidebooks and Guatemalan officials recommend that tourists hire “guides” when they go hiking. These guides carry not only carry maps to make sure the tourists don’t get lost, but they also carry shotguns to make sure that they don’t get robbed.

Well, a few days before we arrived in the area, a French couple was climbing one of the volcanoes. They were sensible folks so they had hired a guide. About half way to the summit the guide stopped to tie his shoe but told the couple to continue climbing – he would catch up with them. The couple continued up the steep and rocky path. Around the next corner, sure enough, a man with a large machete jumped out from behind a tree. He, using broken English and hand gestures, demanded that they hand over their bag. The couple were fuming and, sure that they had been set up, were about to hand over their stuff. Just then, their guide sprang out from behind another tree and blasted the bandit with his shotgun killing him, I hope, instantly. The guide then indicated to the French couple that they should continue their hike as if nothing important had happened. They, standing above a fresh corpse, were overwhelmed. A man had died over their bag which contained only a water bottle and a digital camera – maybe worth $200. Instead of continuing their hike, they retuned to their hotel and flew home shortly. The guide, I was told, collected a bounty for killing the bandit.

Is this a true story? I don’t know. It was told to Jen and I on the lower patio at the Casa del Mundo by a group of Brits who were nice enough to share a portion of their bottle of rum and a piece of their mind about the U.S. Government. It was the type of story, along with those about chicken bus robberies and clever pick pocketing, that we heard in hostels and cheap hotels all over both Mexico and Guatemala. People told these stories as a way to capture an essence of danger in their own travels.

We did see and hear a fair number of warnings about bandits in Guatemala. While we tried to use common sense, we also tried to not let these stories or warnings actually frighten us. One day, we were hiking along the trail that runs between the small villages around Lake Atitlan. The trail came to a fork and there was a man sitting next to the path. A steel machete rested in his lap.

“Hola,” I said, nervously.

The man picked up his machete and smiled at Jen and me. He slowly stood and laughed and then directed Jen and me onto the proper path with warmth and friendliness. He, like all local people we met in Guatemala, went out of his way to make a couple of foreigners feel very welcome. And that, I like to think, is extreme in its own way.

Adventure at the Finca Ixobel

Yesterday, I jumped off a cliff, over a waterfall, and into a fast flowing river. And oh, yeah, this was inside a cave in the middle of the jungle.

But first, I digress.

The day before, Jen and I caught a north-bound chicken bus. According to our guidebooks and what we could gleam by talking to people at the hostel, there were about five different buses at different times heading north up the only highway. We stumbled up to the dusty main street about a half hour before the bus we were planning on taking arrived. A man, eying our full packs, approached us and asked us where we were going.

“North,” we replied, not really knowing how to describe where our next stop would be.

He pointed to a completely full bus idling on the street. “That is the one you want,” he told us and walked with us over to the bus. We threw our packs in a compartment in the back and got on through the front doors. The bus was packed, in the usual Guatemalan style, with at least three times more people than there was seats. However, as we got on, a man offered his seat to Jen. I stood for the next few hours, leaning into the other men standing in front of me as we go up and down hills.

Twice, the bus is pulled over at a military checkpoint and all of the men are ordered off. I followed them and we waited outside while soldiers board the bus and search it. The soldiers, who are young men, boys really, carried large rifles and had important but somewhat bored expressions on their faces. Jen, who remained on board, later tells me that the squeeze the bags and look under a few seats. After about ten minutes, we are allowed to get back on and the bus continued on its way.

We asked the bus driver to let us off at the Finca Ixobel turnoff and the bus rumbled to a stop a few miles south of the town of Poptùn. We saw a sign that indicates the Finca is a good 5km down a dirt road. As the bus pulled away, we noticed another figure standing along the side of a highway. He is dressed in baggy shorts, a t-shirt, and carries a small day pack.

The Finca Ixobel resembles nothings so much like a summer camp for backpackers and a independent travelers. The Finca (which means Ranch) occupies a large amount of land. In one huge clearing are a half a dozen "tree houses", little cabañas on stilts and while they are not literally in the trees that are at least at the same level.

To be continued...

Rio Dulce

Rio Dulce is what I always pictured a refuge for rogues, outlaws, and scoundrels would look like. It is a swampy, mangrove filled river. Yachts and sailboats from all corners of the world are anchored in the calm waters and backpacker lodges and bars are perched on stilts over the water or hidden away back in the jungle. It is, I imagine, what southern Florida looked like before Disney World and retirement communities.

Jen and I take a 15-minute ride downriver on a little lancha boat to stay at the Casa Perico, a small backpacker haven located on a narrow inlet of water. The entire place is built on small stilts above the water soaked swampland. Wooden boardwalks lead to cabins tucked away in all of the greenery. A group of backpackers hang out in hammocks on the main patio by the bar. Jen and I borrow a small wooden canoe and paddle back out to the main river and go swimming. Later, we join the other backpackers, share stories, and demonstrate the Coolest Card Trick in the World (which doesn’t really impress anyone).

The next day we take a very overpriced lancha ride down the river until it connects with the Caribbean Sea. The ride downstream takes about three hours and the boat take some side trips into the mangrove swamps in search of manatees but we do not see any. We get off at then end of the river in the town of Livingston and instantly we feel that we have been transported out of Guatemala and into a Caribbean island. The town is home to the Garifuna people who are descendants of the slave trade. We hear reggae music and see the colors of Jamaica painted on many shops.

Back in Rio Dulce, I watch the various boats and yachts in the harbor. The boat people (our guide book refers to them as "yachties") are much older than the normal backpacker crowd and, although both groups are in pursuit of travel and adventure, they don't seem to mix much. I wonder what life on a boat is like - days under the warm Caribbean sun and nights in interesting port towns. As I watch the ships gently rock, I feel the twin twinges of envy and scorn. As I admire the sleek lines of the ships, I count the reasons why my trip is better - I am seeing the world for much less money, I can see more of the country side, and I think there is a certain pride in carrying my possessions rather than them carrying us. Still, mainly, I just dream dropping my 40-pound backpack over the side of a bridge and hopping on the first sailboat that I can. I envy the young adventurous children I see playing on some of the boats and I wish my childhood home moved under the power of the wind.

The next day, we take a bus north on a dirt road for an hour and get out at the Finca Paraiso, which looks like an abandoned restaurant. We, along with the ticket checker, hike into the forest along a clear jungle stream. The ticket checker, a Guatemalan man in his 30´s, tells us a short version of his life story as we walk. After about 20 minutes we come to a water fall that tumbles 20 feet down a cliff into a calm pool. The waterfall is agua caliente, a stream fed from a hot springs. While the ticket checker reads a newspaper or dozes, Jen and I swim. I alternate between standing on boulders under the falls and letting the 90 degree water massage my back and swimming in the cold clear pool.

At one point, we notice the ticket checker has a revolver tucked into the back of his pants but we just shrug and wonder if it would be very effective against the shotguns a lot of people seem to carry in Guatemala.

Antigua

There is a slight pause between rings and then the answering machine picks up. I am expecting this as I am cursed to be using a phone without credentials and with parents who have caller ID. I am timing the seconds and microseconds on my watch as I listen to the message and then I talk into the silence hoping one of my parents will pick up. Jen and I have each been rewarded with a free two-minute international phone call for eating at the Rainbow Reading Room Cafe in Antigua and it is the first time that we have called back to the States since September.

After about 6.8 seconds, my dad picks up and we chat quickly for the next minute and a half. I fill him in one what we have been up to and hear briefly how things are back at home. While we talk, I try to picture my parent’s house in Montana. My dad, I imagine, is in the front room. The room is comfortably lit with a halogen lamp and the dogs are sleeping in the nearby in the hall. I think I can hear the dishwasher running quietly in the background. Outside the house, it is cold and dark. My two minutes are quickly up and I must hang up the Internet phone.

Jen and I step back into the street and are swept into a large procession. Men in bright purple and yellow robes are walking down the street and men in black, red, blue and other colored robes follow them. A priest swings a chalice from a silver chain and it fills the street with smoke and the pungent odor of incense. We see fifty people carrying a huge platform with a gigantic crucifix on top. The carving of Jesus has been painted in bright realistic colors and I think I can see bones sticking out of his bloody side. The entire wooden mass takes up about a third of a block and it sways from side to side as 25 people on the right half of the platform take a step forward and then are followed by those on the left. Behind the platform is a band and behind the band are hundreds of people following the procession.

Jen and I watch for a while and I am struck by how far I am from where I have been. That two-minute phone call home might have been a call to a different life. I have not seen a dishwashing machine for three months but I have seen a number of religious processions.

**

The cobblestone streets of Antigua are filled with the ruins of churches and the sounds of Spanish language schools and Jen and I have spent a little time in each during our week here.

Antigua is very pretty colonial town that has taken much pride in its history and appearance. It thrives on teaching Spanish to foreign travelers. Most schools teach one on one and they can be very economical.

Jen and I go to the Centro Linguistico Internacional Spanish School. My teacher is named Fernando. He sits at a little wooden table across from me and we spend half of our time just conversing in Spanish and the other half doing grammar drills. He is younger than me but he is very serious and is a good teacher. He wears his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He teaches Spanish in the mornings and in the afternoons is an artist. He has a big showing in a gallery in a luxury hotel in January and shows up occasionally with dried paint on his hands. Like many artists, he is not particularly a happy person. We talk about our different cultures, countries, and, a favorite topic of his, girls.

In the afternoons, Fernando also leads the activities for the school. We visit some of the old cathedral ruins that are spread across the city. Earthquakes destroyed the city of Antigua three times during the 1700's and early 1800's. The ruins of the massive cathedrals and convents still stand. Some are reduced to almost rubble. We see faint walls and crumbled arches on the ground. Others stand somewhat crookedly but almost complete. They are missing their ceilings and their carved statues of saints are all headless. We see bones mixed in with some of the rubble and Fernando tells us that 70% of the city’s population died during the earthquakes.

"This is what the end of the world would look like," someone from the school says as we pass under arches that support only the sky.

La Salsa in La Antigua

"Uno, dos, tres," calls Fernando from the front of the room.

I am, like usual, wearing my Teva's. I can remember the box they came in advertising in large, loud letters that the soles of these sandals are covered in SpiderRubber(TM) - "The Stickiest Stuff on Earth!" For the first time, I completely agree with this claim. I am salsa dancing, or at least trying to, and my feet stick to the tile floor as if they have been covered with glue. I cannot slide, glide, turn, or twirl. To overcome this handicap, I put a little more force into each step.

"Will, you're bouncing." Jen says from next to me. "You shouldn't do that." I immediately loose track of what step I should be on. Is it uno or tres? Luckily, since we have only learned three steps, I get back on track immediately.

Fernando, our dance instructor and my language professor this week in Antigua, grabs Jen and demonstrates a new move. He stares her straight in the eyes with the full force of his Latino know how. "Do not look at your feet," he says loudly to the whole class in Spanish as he demonstrates the move.

He has me dance with a blonde Swiss girl who has already had a few salsa lessons. Between my needing to make sure I know where my feet are and the slightly unnerving feeling that comes with looking a stranger in the eye from four inches away, I look down.

"Uno, dos, tres," calls Fernando.

I am concentrating on the steps so hard that it isn't until a few moments later that I realize that I have been staring the whole time at the Swiss girl's breasts. I immediately lose my step. I look up. She is staring at me, looking me directly in the eyes, from four inches away. I shift my gaze to the ceiling and try to put on a confident yet relaxed expression that in no way says "boobs".

"Yah, excuse me," the girl says.

"Joder!" I think to myself.

"But, you seem to be hopping."

"Uno, dos, tres," Fernando calls.