Rajni
has just woken up, and now works up her strength for the next sleep by reading
her guide book. We have captured one of the best park benches from the Antiguan
businessmen (recognizable by redoubtable bellies and glistening dress shoes) by
hovering and waiting for teenagers to return to their lessons. The school kids
are not on holiday, although their hours of work seem variable and perhaps even
voluntary. Borrowing ideas from the imported Mexican and American soap operas,
Guatemalan school girls wear short skirts (I notice) and too much lipstick (Rajni
notices). We are sharing the bench with an Antiguan gentleman; he holds a large
envelope and a shining leather diary - has it also been polished by the boys?
His eyes are coal black, sleepy and distant. The central plaza is a soporific
park, even the clattering of children's shoes under the palm trees sounds dully
soothing.
What
has Rajni learned? "Casa Popenoe," she says. "Ahhh," I
agree.
The
businessman leaves, and two Scandinavian girls join us, discussing their
e-mails, ailments and airwalks in English. They are everywhere, and make all
places feel the same.
A
tiny sparrow flies past on to the fountain opposite us, landing in front of one
of its four carved Mayan women. She stares out irritably at the solid stone
arches of the Ayuntamiento, grasping her heavy concrete breasts in defiant
boredom. Over a dozen thin streams trickle down the fountain, providing a
somnolent patter that soon worries the bird into leaving.
The
Scandinavians get too noisy, and we leave to visit the famous Casa Popenoe
(original prop. Mr Wilson P.). The restored colonial mansion was built around a
enormous spiny beast of a tree - is it dead? No, look: the leaves above are
green. Painted plates hang on the courtyard walls, "Dios bendiga esta
casa". The common bright purple flowers climb the walls between them. In
the gloomy rooms hang grim pictures of the conquistadores, including the
renowned massacrer, Pedro de Alvarado. He's the one that looks most like Walter
Raleigh.
We
climb up a cramped staircase through a former-dovecote, now converted into a
study. From the solaria we have a 360 degree view of the cerros
(rocky hills) which cluster protectively around the town. The air is especially
clear and so we can make out every Cyprus and Grabilea tree on the volcanic
banks. The parakeets keep up a shrill racket; the local superstition proves
mistaken as, for once, no rain comes.
Leaving
the house we stroll back - good tourists! - to La Merced, the yellowest building
and second (or third, or fourth?) biggest church standing in Antigua. The
Catedral de San Jose previously outstripped it in all departments, but since one
of the area's frequent earthquakes only two of San Jose's eighteen chapels
survive. Now Merced's facade, with its intricate white adornments, has become a
symbol of Antiguan dignity and history. Its interior resembles any small-town
Spanish cathedral, only more so. Saints, columns and candles abound; even Saint
Judas is present. A gilded altar and hollowed naves are included; more
interesting are the painted woodcuts depicting the thirteen pasos of Christ. Stationed in the south-east corner, a statue of
Christ carrying his cross exudes Catholicism. His cross is painted silver, and
beautified by lacy designs which match the church facade.
In
the evening we eat in another colonial courtyard, at the Posada de Don Rodrigo.
The town's birds fall silent after twilight, leaving us alone with the music of
the house marimba-players. The
musicians stand side by side behind their wooden xylophone, each taking an
octave or two. Rajni shares my holy (for her) cow, which is ringed by the
inescapable frijoles, fried black
beans. These are the traditional staple food of all Central American, god help
them. The beans can cause a uniquely powerful flatulence, the terror of Antiguan
evenings.
Lynda
(no one spells her name right) will take us to see Senor Julio Rodriguez, with
whom we are to live for two weeks. Lynda works for Amerispan (sing: "I
wanna be in Amerispan..."), and speaks fluent American English. She is
often, like, Ohmygod, and appears to work at least 30 hours a day. She is pining
for a Norwegian boyfriend, a fire and ice relationship, she says. She works as a
distraction from the coldness of love by e-mail until she can catch a plane to
Norway. Recognising her as a professional Gringophile we take her bar and café
advice sceptically, preferring not to feel as though we're in Texas unless we
are. She shows us part of the grunge/hippie/traveler scene by night, centred
around Ricky's Bar. In the same complex we find La Fabrica, where a local artist
has provided paintings of... beer. The local beer is Gallo and very bad; I drink
Moza beer instead, telling myself that it doesn't really taste like Guinness. We sit down at a table while slackers
pour in, and distract Lynda's conversation from US 'culture' by asking her about
local politics. She supports PAN, the commercial, progressive party currently in
power, and speaks out against the massacres and martial law under Ríos Montt, a
past dictator who now threatens the country again through his influence in FRG.
Over the next few days she describes her periods and diarrhoea to us in
startling detail, and sometimes takes us to eat cake at La Cenicienta (which she
calls "Cinderella's") - although pizza and ice cream are her usual comida
preferida.
Our
Spanish lessons unorthodoxly start on Wednesday, as requested (but don't tell anyone, say Amerispan). After a couple of hours Rajni
is in despair and wailing, "I thought my teacher would know some
English!" but after the first day she happily sweats over the past tenses
along with everyone else. My teacher is called Sylvia and lives in a nearby town
named San Antonio Aguas Calientes. Perhaps the hot springs after which the town
was christened were covered by earthquakes, and now the population is famous for
its weaving. Only three types of women usually work, although work carries no
shame: spinsters, widows and divorcees. Sylvia is one of the latter, she
explains quietly that her husband now lives with another woman. I ask that our
lessons take the form of conversation alone, allowing me to learn a little about
Guatemalan lifestyles while avoiding the ancient and dusty grammar books that
Sylvia brandishes. She settles down and tells me that almost all the men of San
Antonio work in the fields, cultivating maize and frijoles along with various
root vegetables. These include the yuca and guiscil, one like a pumpkin, the
other like a potato. Farmers wear simple western clothes, often jeans and
t-shirts, but their wives weave, embroider and wear ornate fabrics. These take
the forms of a guipil or blouse and a corte
or skirt. Women have to be either wealthy or patient to acquire these, as it
takes between three and six months solid work to weave them. The artisans rely
in part on income from tourists and they are very friendly to gringos, although
after a while they may start to nag. Sylvia herself cannot afford a guipil as
she needs to support two children on her income. She has been making one for her
daughter in her spare time for over a year now.
Unlike
the younger, more ladina (half-Spanish
or westernised) Lynda, Sylvia leans to the right politically and warily supports
the Frente (Front) Revolucionario de Guatemala. She considers them the only party that
represents the indigenous people, and talks about the absence of crime under
Rios Montt. This latter fact resulted from the former police policy of summary
execution at crime-scenes, saving the state the costs of juries and prison space
as well as lowering the crime rate. Sylvia goes as far as supporting capital
punishment for la gente mala; she
seems sympathetic to the idea of rehabilitation but says it's impossible given
the conditions and atmosphere in Guatemalan prisons. Like most Guatemalans she
is (officially) a Catholic, although evangelical in doubting the saints' powers
of intercession. This does not stop her praying to Antonio, saint of love and
finding things, on occasions. I forgot to explain to her Rajni's secular but
infallible method of retrieval - sticking a drawing pin in the back of the
chair. After three days I have to change teacher; Sylvia has found a new job in Cafe
Viejo that does not rely so much on the seasonal influx of tourists.
The
first Saturday, we decide to climb Pacaya,
one of several active volcanoes in the Guatemalan highlands. This in
defiance of Amerispan, which warns tourists about the danger from bandits and
cowboy outfits endemic on all the volcanoes. Half a dozen Sloanes accompany us;
they have reached Guatemala through Mexico and now chatter happily about Paris
nightclubs and mutual friends, one of whom sounds like "Ben Naff". I
ask Rajni how she knows they are Sloanes, and she claims plausibly that you can
tell by the amount of bra strap they display. Almost the entire bra of their
Spanish-speaking matriarch is visible. The journey to Pacaya takes us past
endless maize and bean fields as well as the occasional pueblo, awash with
painted Pepsi signs. The road is patchy, varying from smooth tarmac motorway to
pot holed dirt-tracks. We realise that the old Ford bus' suspension is now only
a fond memory for the driver, or more likely the American driver before him, and
I have to hold Rajni’s breasts firmly to prevent them leaping around. After
ninety minutes we arrive at the small (pop. 120) village of San Francisco, the
highest village vehicles can reach on the mountain. I make the mistake of
tipping a quetzal (10p) to a small boy who helps us, within seconds ten more
besiege me to beg for money. Tourists are daily if not hourly sights for these
children. We are also met by two guides, Agostín and Sergio. They are local
farmers, tending crops during the morning and climbing the volcano with tourists
every afternoon. Our group numbers eight or nine, but for $10 rather than $15
you can travel in a group of seventy. These hordes present a strange contrast of
white hats and T-shirts against the fine-grained black volcanic sand. First we
need to trek through the woods, patched with tall fields, along the well-worn
northern path. Agostín stops us every twenty minutes for a short spiel, which
always starts and ends with "Muy bien, amigos!". Some experienced
Guatemalan guides speak so slowly, clearly and rhythmically they appear to have
learned the sounds by rote without understanding the words.
We
strike up a conversation with Sergio, who guards the rear of the group,
sporadically whistling bird-calls to Agostin. Later, descending in the dark, we
will find it hard to distinguish his calls from the genuine ones of the mountain
owls. Sergio tells us a little about San Francisco, which is populated by about
20 large families. The vast majority of Mayans are strict Catholics (with a few
idiosyncrasies, we discover later) and loathe to indulge in the vices of
contraception. The practical-minded Sylvia rated abstinence as the most virtuous
sexual behaviour,
but supported contraception for those too lax to be chaste.
During
eruptions the villagers usually do not need to evacuate San Francisco, although
it becomes an unpleasant home at these times. Hot black ash covers the roofs and
paths to a depth of several inches, and the air fills with hot smoke. Moderate
eruptions are regular - sometimes every few months - and the resulting crop
failure brings an increased reliance on tourism.
We
reach the ash cones after an hour; the vegetation thins and we realise our
altitude: comfortably over 2000 metres. Strings of valleys stretch out around
us, bordered by the deep emerald
green of the hill plants and trees. Bare, cold winds blast across the barren
mounds of ash, and the bony dogs that have followed us up sniff hungrily at our
bags. We peer warily over a ridge into the central crater, by far the largest
and remembling a blackened moon surface. Agostín points to the frighteningly
steep-looking old cone, and we pick up our bags hurriedly on sighting a huge
river of tourists below us.
The
climb up the old cone is difficult; our feet slip frequently and our shoes fill
with newly sharpened sand from the eruption two months previous. Nearing the top
we see larger rocks, some yellow and red from the sulphorous volcanic minerals.
Under a ridge we see other rocks glowing red with heat and my bag burns my hand
after a minute left on the slope. Warm white steam rises from all over the old
crater, and we rest there for a while to enjoy more of the spectacular views
across the highlands. After a nervous ascent to the highest sanely reachable
point, we skid down a deeply sanded track back to the path.
Night
begins as we join a trail down, this time on the south side of the volcano. By
torchlight the birdcalls sound eery, and I huddle together with Rajni (to
prevent her slipping). We are rewarded with one mirada
(view point), from where we see the lights of Amatitlan and Guatemala City,
which is only capable of beauty after dark. We also see a fire burning from a
distance; Sergio tells us that it belongs to a scientific project aiming to
generate electricity from the volcano. The bus driver spends a nervous half-hour
getting his lights to work, and during this time we stare at the village
children, who are staring at us.
On
Sunday we find ourselves ecumenically attending Sunday Mass at La Merced, the
beautiful white colonial facade opening to hordes of well-to-do families. Their
babies, trussed up in endless lacy adornments, are held up to be blessed and
protected against the evil eye by the imposing, studious-looking priest as he
strides down the aisle. His sermon afterwards is family-orientated, stressing ad nauseam the importance of godparents and parents. Meanwhile
photographers race up and down, selling photos of the babies to doting parents.
Rajni and I chatter to each other but nobody minds, in fact all the locals seem
to treat mass as a social and baby-displaying occasion. We leave halfway through
with many others, past the singing beggar and t-shirt vendors to the Sunday
comedor. This outdoor café serves two local specialities, hawked loudly by a
man with a microphone outside the church door. I have pepián, a spicy chicken stew, and Rajni orders a grilled pork churrasco.
Altogether
we pass two weeks in Antigua, studying Spanish with teachers for four hours
every morning. In the afternoons we sit in the park before returning home to
each lunch at one o'clock. In our house Maria, the live-in cook, prepares salty,
carroty soup, and a main course at midday. Being a rich family we can afford to
eat meat every day, excluding Fridays when, being Catholics, we eat roast or
fried fish. Maria asks us every time whether we want spicy salsa picante and hot water for the strong freeze dried Guatemalan
coffee. Her daughter, Alma, cleans the house to help support her two young sons.
She is friendly and a little lonely, smiling at us and frequently asking if
Rajni is pregnant yet. Alma had her first son at 16, and now at 20 she would
like a daughter if funds permitted. The head of the house is Julio Rodriguez,
ex-mayor of the city. He now looks around 70 years old, and his many
certificates cover several walls along with photographs of public occasions he
attended. His son (also Julio) runs a business and has recently divorced his
wife, named (appropriately, says Julio senior) "Guerra" or War.
Julio's own wife seems very old and spends her days watching imported soap
operas on television. On being told Rajni's name she looks puzzled for a moment
and then asks "Monkey?". She compromises, agreeing to the name
"Rosa" after I explain that both roughly mean "flower". The
family entertains various visitors, most of whom come for a quiet chat. The
occasional serious type comes to talk business or politics with Julio Jnr or Snr
on the balcony upstairs, but at these times I don't dare to eavesdrop.
We
share the house with several parakeets and two guard-parrots which shriek
horribly and regularly. Three young stooges from the Northern US leave soon the
be replaced by two Canadians in the guest bedrooms. One is the deadpan Sarah,
who remarks expressionlessly that everything is "awesome". The more
sparky Duncan tells us of his 300lb days defending quarterbacks in Calgary, and
of his plans to be captured by rebel soldiers in El Salvador. Other briefly
staying guests included the enthusiastic, dreamy Christina, and the thin,
feverish Maria from Austria.
Later
in the days we eat big slices of cake at La
Cenicienta (Cinderella's) or watch Central American films in various public
video rooms around the town. Sitting on wide sofas or car backseats in front of
flickering TVs we see the ridiculous "Como Agua Para Chocolate" and
the earnest "El Norte". We take Salsa lessons with Julio and attempt
to show off at El Afro Salsoteca, or drink dangerously dry gin and tonics at
Picasso's. One night we try the larger Canoa discotheque, but are intimidated by
the crowds of young men in sportswear sharking the dance floor.
One
Friday we go to the nearby San Andres on the chicken bus to visit
"Maximon" or "San Simon", the effigy of a wicked saint
identified with Alvarado (the brutal conquistador), Judas Iscariot, and Saint
Simon. Devotees and spectators burn coloured candles at his temple, each colour
signifying a different type of request: for example, red stands for love and
passion, celeste for general protection, black for harm to an enemy.
Stern-looking brujas (witches, or female magician-priests) utter prayers and
breathe aguadiente fumes at supplicants in the courtyard while visitors from all
around, some (even men) wearing their traditional embroidered costumes, crowd
the temple's entrance. Plaques have half-filled the walls on two sides, engraved
with messages of gratitude for miracles performed. Some bear only initials;
others are signed from "La familia Rodriguez" and so on. Eight tables
fill the room, each one adorned with rose petals and coloured candles tended by
groups of supplicants. San Simon's chair and effigy rest against the far wall on
a raised platform. A queue of villagers leads forward to a staircase at his
right hand. They climb one at a time, meeting at the top a bruja who beats them
with herbs to remove evil spirits. The saint stares placidly forwards, enjoying
the smoke-haze from his large cigar and the endless offerings of alcohol. He
wears a white shirt and dark suit-jacket, as well as a stout cylindrical hat.
After a worshipper has said her prayer and received a herb-bashing, she
carefully retreats backwards down the staircase on Maximon's left. This allows
her to gaze upon the saint a while longer, before rejoining the world beyond his
darkened temple. We leave too, stepping out into the ferocious sound of
fireworks echoing in the courtyard's metal bins. One of the fires has grown to
an alarming size and from time to time threatens to engulf a child playing
marbles nearby. He merely giggles playfully and steps back when the flames lick
at his neck. A number of eggs crack rapidly at the fire's base, each shell
signifying a wish granted. Beside a smaller fire a bruja is about to finish her
administrations. In her right hand she holds an exhausted, befuddled but living
chicken, and in her left a raw egg. She rubs each item over the body of an
invalid who stands silently next to her, twitching occasionally. He wears US
clothes while she has the full traditional costume of San Andres. After a few
minutes the invalid holds the chicken while the bruja grabs its head. Having
listened to Sylvia I expected the chicken to be washed and used again, but in
this case it had absorbed too powerful evil spirits. The bruja instead saws
through the animal's spindly neck with her pocket knife and shakes its blood out
to sizzle on the flames below. She holds the chicken's feet, leaving its free
wings to flap dismally in the hot air currents before she drops the carcass into
the flames to blacken. Apparently, eggs used in the ceremonies are half-cooked
by the evil spirits they absorb, and furthermore release a white wisp when
cracked afterwards.
After
two weeks of relaxed civilization in Antigua we tire of comfort and complacency.
We catch a transit van to Lake Atitlán, reputed to be the most picturesque site
in Guatemala. We end up staying one night in Panajachel, the largest lake-side
settltement and by far the most touristy. We find a cabin after an arduous hike
down the main drag and along the shore, passing endless flute-salesmen and boat
drivers. Lunch consists of mediocre Chinese food, before a stroll around the
squat, commercial town. However, the air is cool and pleasant during the
evening, and we are able to relax for a night before catching an early boat to
the smaller village of San Marcos.
The
several hotels at San Marcos lie between the real town and the lake, nestling
among banana trees, half-hearted hippy maize plants and thick green undergrowth.
We stay in a cosy cabin with rock-hard beds, run by a friendly European. We
contemplate the sauna, a kind of ashy brick igloo, before heading down to the
lake along a series of weedy mud-tracks. Reaching the shore we turn right along
a rocky path and leave the piers behind. Every so often we see a potential climb
down to the water, and eventually manage to clamber down. The flat rocks we sit
on serve to dry the village's clothes in the early morning, but during the
afternoon no one comes there. We find a large stone platform in the water and
let the light ripples tickle our toes. For the first time we see the lake by
daylight. The water looks golden-green with blue splashes as, speckled by the
strong sunlight it reflects the lush green of the volcanic forests and the deep,
thick azure of the sky. Mists rise to meet the low clouds settling in ridges
among the pine trees which battle for space with tropical palms. Speedboat buses
race at 20 knots across the lake's centre, leaving wide wakes to sparkle white
and gold. These boats are balanced by the sedate and often stationary fishing
canoes, carved from hard wood and powered by a single paddle. They don't seem to
catch very much, but the lake makes a fine office. Beyond the lake loom the vast
black and blue cones of three volcanoes. San Pedro, on the right, menaces an
eponymous town, while Tolimán and Atitlán look even larger, their summits
knotted with slim bright clouds.
Diving
into the water is beautifully cool and refreshing; we bob about happily keeping
an eye out for speedboats. I spot a large crab and two white fish with gold
stripes, darting and hiding between rocks near the shore. Apart from this the
shores look lifeless, and although the water looks clean and clear we are
surprised to find plastic bags sinking into its sand. The fishermen generally
ignore us, although one paddles past later when Rajni is drying in her
underwear.
We
make a day trip to San Pedro and Santiago. At the former we see the inevitable
moon-faced bongo-bashers bordering an otherwise traditional village. We walk up
uncredibly steep roads cut into the hillside before a large funeral procession
blocks our way. The mourners are mainly women, almost all in bright costume;
those nearest the coffin remain grimly silent while those at the back sometimes
pause to speak to the trailing children. After several attempted shortcuts we
finally catch a boat to Santiago. However, despite forests of embroidery the
market disappoints us slightly, and we cannot spare the time to visit Maximon's
local house. Returning to San Marcos we face an unusually tricky search for
bread and cheese. After a stroll through the woods we feel a little weak - parts
of them are the local uncovered rubbish dumps and emit an overwhelming smell.
The first friendly villager informs us that regrettably there is no shop, but
mysteriously offers us bread for $2. A boy then attempts to lead us up into the
mountains before we lose confidence. In the opposite direction we meet a
sly-looking fellow in a wheelchair who confims the absence of a local store but
offers the alternative of a trip back to the hotel with his children. We escape
before he sells us his handicrafts and find the shop twenty yards up the road.
There a glum but helpful woman sells us candles to light our bungalow as well as
bread and some peasant cheese. The cheese is atrocious, tasting equally of old
milk, vinegar and salt. While we fall asleep we are lulled by an protacted and
vociferous exchange between dogs and cockerels. Their screams are backed by a
selection of random music at the main house: a tape recorder struggles several
times through "Dream", "Morning has broken" and "I will
always love you".
We
stroll down to the pier to catch a speedboat across the lake. None comes for
twenty minutes, so I dive into the water from the end of the pier. I have to dry
my underwear on the speedboat, but the local women don’t seem as shocked as I
hoped. At Santa Cruz we book into the Iguana Perdida Hotel, worryingly described
by all the guidebooks as a special place to stay. Our cabin has a springy double
bed, which seems a paradise after the prison-style foam & plank arrangement
at the more genuinely hippy San Marcos. Danish multi-lingual travellers dominate
the atmosphere with bright-eyed smugness. Virtuously Rajni and I climb the steep
path to the village – no one else had bothered and some seemed a little
surprised that it existed. As we near the top we pass a small boy struggling up
the path with firewood. We look out over the harbour from the top of the hill
– the foot of the genuine village. Children speed up and down the cobbled
streets barefoot at breakneck speed while we pace around, pausing to look out
over the harbour and the water-skiing launches below. A lot of the children are
blind in one eye.
Rain
begins, with a force that makes it hard to see. We scoot down the hill in our
slippery sandals, sheltering occasionally and ineffectually under sodden palms.
We are utterly drenched by the time we reach the hotel’s covered terrace,
whose tarpaulins have begun to sag with water. We retreat to our cabin to read
while lightning cracks between the crowds and new rain streams snake down the
hillsides. Our laddish Londoner host responds by cooking an excellent barbecue
followed by chocolate cake and good coffee. To warm up we chase dinner with a
couple of rums. We are offered a white powder concocted by the resident and
evidently insane German herbalist. She tells me it has powers to generate erotic
dreams, but the narcotic tastes a little like sherbet and I sleep without a
twitch.
We
forego waterskiing in the morning and catch a shuttle to Chichicastenango
(Nettletown), home of the country’s largest market. We share the bus with four
friendly Sloanes who give us water and ask us about the lakeside villages; they
are planning to return to Panajachel that afternoon. Arriving in the middle of
the sweltering market at midday we wander sweatily for an hour in search of a
free hotel room. We eventually find one, having luckily escaped the notorious
pickpockets. Determined to buy tat for all our friends, we fail almost
completely. The market goods are no different from those anywhere else, and
probably less well-made. I search in vain for a stone Maximon, having adopted
the wicked saint as a protector. Rajni appears tempted by a gigantic quilt and
listens unblinkingly while its creator explains the design, incorporating the
five different styles of Guatemalan guipil. Although the weaver halves her price
Rajni looks uncertain and finally decides that she was only testing her haggling
powers. We leave Chichi in the end with nothing more than a bracelet of glass
beads, in part due to the perplexing unpushiness of the traders.
Four
hours further north by bouncing bus lies Nebaj, a quiet mountain town with
bright misty mornings and interminably drizzly afternoons. We arrive at two
o’clock, just as the region clouds over. Two eager, if expensive young boys
carry our baggage to the hotel on a small trolley, dropping it occasionally and
swapping half-way. At the hotel we enjoy our first hot shower in weeks before
wrapping up in our stylish matching navy mackintoshes. With puddles gathering in
our pockets we find the Maya-Inca café and order Peruvian green chicken from
the dozy but cheerful girls in the kitchen. They flirt shyly with us and try out
some English words, leaning back on their tables. They work hard and by the late
afternoon seem exhausted. The town looks pleasant even in the drizzle, its quiet
whitewashed houses huddling together along the narrow cobbled streets. There are
a few roadworks. We know what the projects are, since the town-planners erect
momuments of thanks to themselves before work even begins. The main plaza still
contains the vestiges of the recent fiesta, small canopies sheltering football
tables and arcade games cluster in front of a solid white church. We take a
broken old inter-village road down to the weavers’ co-op, housed in a large
wooden barn by the stream.
Posters
on the walls inside describe its founding; these organisations are common in
Guatemala. Several long and worthy acronyms have set up this one to maintain
tradition and provide the women with a small degree of economic
self-sufficiency. Feminism is a fledgling movement in Guatemala. Everything in
the barn is handmade, and kept in a little store-room to the side. The main room
is empty apart from two women working on handlooms and a hyperactive little boy.
He and Rajni terrorize each other while I read some more posters. There are
pictures of indigenous costumes and forest animals, as well as warnings about
domestic violence and abuse – a problem here, as in most Hispanic cultures.
The co-op sells bags, wallets and small rugs; we search through to get an idea
but decide to wait for the market tomorrow. Nebaj has no real bars or late cafes
so nightlife consists mainly of loitering in the streets and plaza. The girls
and young men stay out until late, talking, giggling and bouncing basketballs.
The
morning is cool and breezy so we set off for a walk after an unsually grim
breakfast in a sleazy comedor. The path takes us downhill along the riverbank,
muddied by the previous day’s rainfall. We pass a school and a swimming pool,
both empty, and guiltily greet the locals as they struggle uphill carrying
firewood. We pass boys with huge machetes, who stoop occasionally to hack at
some grass before resuming their discussions. The river is lively, burbling
downhill with several sharp dips forming rapids and waterfalls. Its bays and
hollows have clogged with plastic rubbish, dumped in the river upstream. We
finish the walk by a large waterfall surrounded by tall pine trees. By this time
the sun has strengthened; the walk uphill to the village market is sweaty and
tiring.
The
market has filled with stalls, but seems refreshingly small, traditional and
laid back after the tourist-packed sprawl of Chichi. The Nebaj women are into
their weaving and even the smallest girls sport the full embroidered outfit in
large numbers. This consists of a bright red skirt held up by a belt of red,
white and black cloth, a psychodelic guipil in shimmering greens, blues, yellows
and reds, a large green and blue shawl with the outlines of quetzal birds and
figures embroidered in gold and white thread, a headdress in the same colours
with a crown of bouncing pom poms, and finally, on the feet, white plastic
sandals in case of floods. We lurk around the vegetable stalls, attempting to
take photographs subtly – being 15 inches taller than most of the women makes
this difficult until I give the camera to Rajni. We also buy embroidered
presents for our families, and two shamelessly elaborate scarves for ourselves.
That
afternoon we are caught by another rainstorm, along with the whole market. The
canopies swell with water and refill as soon as they are emptied by the traders,
who smile gamely. The street begins to flood so we escape rather unsuccessfully
via numerous deep puddles and incipient streams, jostling with giggling local
girls in jelly shoes. Back at the hotel we ask the landlord to switch on the hot
showers; “Why not just go back outside for a shower?” he jokes as we drip
coldly.
I
have given up trying to separate my legs from my trousers, which are glued in
turn to the sweaty plastic seats. My knees are jammed against the seat in front,
hitting them hard on every bump. The air has filled with mosquitos, moisture and
the stench of a baby with diarrhoea. We have spent the last 13 hours on buses,
passing through the hideous capital (Guatemala city) and finishing the day only
120 miles from our origin – but on the other side of the mountains. I feel as
trapped and sticky as a badger in a bottle and groan intermittently and
unhelpfully at the long-suffering Rajni. Arriving after dark in Rio Dulce, we
collapse into the third hotel – the first that is open – to enjoy a cold
shower, shared with the local (huge) beetles.
The
next morning we cross the small lake by launch to stay at Tijax Jungle Lodge, a
large complex of cabins facing the harbour and backing onto a jungle. Several
gloomily enthusiastic Canadians run the place while a troupe of Guatemalan women
cook improbably classy food in the kitchen. We decide to explore the enormous
finca, setting out in the midday sun with white towels wrapped around our heads.
A long, bouncing rope bridge separates the cabins from the finca and Rajni
tiptoes nervously across while I endeavour to make her spring off into the
swamp. We trek, sweating, along the stone path while vultures glide
discouragingly above the surrounding hills. A sign to the swimming pool directs
us past the finca’s horses, who eat grass from our hands while staring blankly
ahead, their brains addled by the beating sun. By the time we reach the swimming
pool the backs of our necks have reached egg-frying temperature. We slip
straight into the cool spring; from two sides tiny waterfalls trickle in and old
water leaves by the lower end. Bushy trees shade the surface of the fresh water,
and Rajni and I spend the afternoon paddling and cuddling in the water.
The
next day we take the irritatingly compulsory boat trip to Livingston,
Guatemala’s sole Caribbean island-town. The tour along the Rio Dulce has
become a slick, quick money spinner for the local launch owners, who charge by
the attraction and race to finish each trip. We travel with an ill and
lacklustre German couple, whose main concern is also to have the thing over
with. The first half of the river is extremely broad and a deep blue colour; and
we stop first at “Bird Island”. Graceful black water-birds skim around the
spindly trees where others nest. “Those,” explains our guide, “are
ducks”. A couple of other species sometimes fly along next to the boat, the
common large grey pelican and a slender white “garsa” (stork?). The river
then narrows, allowing the vegetative walls on either side to close in. Stacks
upon stacks of green trees loom heavily over the water, the banks at certain
places reaching over two hundred feet up into the sky, sending slim leafy
tendrils down to the limpid surface. At times only three colours are visible,
the two blues of the water and sky and the thick, homogenous green of the
forested banks. Brilliant yellow butterflies attempt hopelessly to avoid our
raised prow; a smaller, feathery red and black beauty meets my white shirt and
20 knots and I keep it under my hat until we stop.
For
a minute we pause to paddle our feet in a hot sulphurous spring by a bank.
Several enthusiastic Aussies from another boat leap in to swim, and emerge
stinking. We speed on to Livingston in the mid-morning sun. The island itself is
very small, its single high street bustling with souvenir shops and cafes. The
first Rastafarians I have seen since leaving London laze on the public beach,
where we both swim for the first time in the hot, shallow Caribbean sea. We ride
back in the same boat, visiting a castle (destroyed by pirates) and a turtles’
nesting island (threatened by poachers). We eat Italian cheese and drink Chilean
wine in preparation for a bumpy bus ride north to Flores, the launch pad for
trips to the Tikhal ruins.
After
a journey which seems almost relaxing after the horrors of Guatemala City, we
arrive at the pretty awful town of Santa Elena. We bumble around in the sun with
our backpacks until a minibus offers to take us across the bridge to Flores
where a new hotel awaits. However, we have no money and the two drivers get into
a fight about whether to take us on credit. We panic and leave quickly to bumble
once more, feeling dusty, fumy and sticky until a sparkly-eyed evangelist women
leads us to the Flores bus-stop. She fixes me with a stern eye and tells me
“Jesus es el unico que limpia el camino”: only Jesus cleans our road.
Glancing at the dusty track I feel tempted to criticise his work, but instead
nod seriously and agree. She rewards my deference with some information about
her 827 children. Flores turns out to be a beautiful, breezy, cobbled town which
is an incredible relief. We drink cold cocktails on the lakeside terrace of the
Toucan Restaurant. The bird himself makes an eyecatching appearance on a wall as
we wait for some delicious grilled fish and Mexican chicken.
The
next morning we watch a beautiful sunrise over the empty lake at Flores, taking
photographs at strategic moments. The bus to Tikhal National Park leaves at 7am,
and we reach the ruins at the same time as the jungle heat. They are surrounded
by a dense rainforest of 20km radius, housing huge numbers of monkeys and birds.
The path to the ancient buildings takes us past a magnificent ceiba tree.
Dressed in a bark as grey and porous as elephant skin, it branches into a
bizarre-looking spiny canopy. After a couple of wrong turns we eventually
stumble upon the first great temple to the east, which the prosaic
archaeologists named strikingly “Temple 1”. I lead Rajni to its foot with my
hands over her eyes, from where she looks up at 138 feet of stone, built in
self-aggrandizement by King Moon Double Comb. Previously known as “Ah Cacau”
or Chief Chocolate, he led the renaissance of Tikal from about 700AD, bringing
it out from the shadow of rival city “Caracol” or Snail. Caracol’s King,
Chief Water, had conquered Tikhal in 562AD and beheaded its then king. Although
this is not the tallest pyramid, two people have died falling from its heavily
eroded steps. We decide instead to climb Temple 4, the highest, following a
large and wobbly Hispanic woman in high heels up a series of precariously steep
stairways. Pushing past the other tourists at the top, we can gaze out upon
miles of forest canopy stretching out into the blue sky, broken only by the tall
cubed crowns of the other temples. We clamber down again, past a boy who is
refusing to descend. “Look,” says his persuasive father, “you can only
fall one time”. At the bottom Spanish tourists are drinking beer, in
accordance with Guatemalan health authorities’ advice – water can be
contaminated. We rest in the shade of the main acropolis, built partly by Chief
Chocolate and partly by his successors, until I am moved from the comfortable
artefact I have chosen to sit on.
After
lunch we creep back into the park in an effort to watch the sun set from the
summit of the Great Pyramid, between Temple 4 and the Acropolis. Amid the
terrifying wails and wines of insects, we watch a troupe of grey spider-monkeys
swinging through the low trees on their way to bed. We join a French family at
the top and wait warily for night to fall as enormous black clouds gather over
the ruins. Long before sunset we can no longer discern the sun’s location. At
six o’clock a park guard, looking like a B-movie villain, comes to throw us
out with warnings of “a lot of rain”. As we climb down the steps a powerful
rainstorm starts on cue, and threatens to flood all the paths. We race back to a
hotel in the park grounds, where we spend the night in sheltered hammocks. After
a few minutes Rajni invites me under her mosquito net, and I squeeze into her
hammock which strains and creaks under our combined weight. I fall asleep in an
extremely unusual position and wake up the next morning feeling numb in most
places.
A
number of peacocks and vultures has gathered in the carpark for their morning
feast: scraps from the park’s comedores and tourists’ packed lunches. I
chase a peacock around the carpark for a minute or two to get a photograph of
its blue and gold tailfeathers. We fail to persuade the guards to let us back
into the park, so have to catch the morning bus with our last few quetzals. In
fact we are too poor to pay for tickets, but the conductor generously lets us
on. We pass the afternoon by buying two litres of coca cola and attempting (with
eventual success) to finish our bottle of rum. Failing to get any cash from the
unreliable machines, we nevertheless head to Flores’ best restaurant armed
with a visa card and a £100 overdraft. Feeling a little drunk, I order
armadillo and Rajni has wild venison, both from the special and rather
sweet-sounding “woodland animals” menu. Disappointingly the armadillo has
been shelled, but it has a deliciously rich pigeony taste. I get two round, bony
mounds – I’m not sure which part of the animal they have come from. We
loiter in the souvenir shops that night and finally resolve not to buy an
enormous hammock, before retreating to bed on our last night in Guatemala.
The
five o’clock bus arrives quickly at the Belizean border, where we exchange our
last few quetzals for 11 Belize dollars (how much is that, we wonder). Belize
City is hot – very hot – until we find an air-conditioned Barclays Bank.
Predictably, Barclays won’t give me any money on my Barclaycard so I go next
door to the more helpful Rasta Bank of Belize. Pausing to enjoy some deeply
suspect fast food we catch a big, powerful speedboat to Caye Caulker. After
forty minutes of burning ears, streaming eyes, and splashing surf, we find
ourselves on a genuine Caribbean Island. The Caye is about two kilometres long
and only a few hundred metres wide. The western side accommodates the post
office, electrical plant and some docks, while the sandy eastern edge is all
beach huts, bars and hotels. The local supermarket is manned by a cashier
straight out of “Clerks”; he slouches in his chair all day drinking beer
while a kneeling girlfriend kisses his arm. I like him instantly even though he
doesn’t have any fruit juice.
Having
travelled so much in the preceeding week, we spend the first day or two lazing
in hammocks and deckchairs outside our hotel. People walk past along the beach
path, some of them shouting out “Welcome to paradise, man” in a smug,
friendly Caribbean way when they notice our lack of dreadlocks. We eat slices of
watermelon for breakfast and drink rich Belikin stout in the afternoons, while
trying to persuade each other to tan our bottoms in the high morning sun. A man
on the shoreline tells us to come out on his yacht. It is gleaming white and
beautiful, moored at the end of his pier. A blackboard by his chair says “Yes,
on that boat” with an arrow pointing
to it. We decide to leave him to the rich Americans, and head back to our
hammocks for the third snooze of the day. The sun is still shimmering on the sea
and in the distance we can just make out waves crashing on the coral reef, the
world’s second largest. We eat at the Sandbox, a popular seafront bar with
good food and two waiters, one happy and one gloomy. It is next to Trends, a
hotel with pink and turquoise balconies that make it look astonishingly like
Barbie’s Dream House. We consider exploring the nature reserve but don’t
feel virtuous enough, heading back to the beach huts instead for another rum and
coke.
We
decide to snorkel on the reef with Mr Raz Creek, a local celebrity recommended
highly by anyone who has ever been near Belize. We walk along the palm-lined
beach path to Raz’s office, a table at the Sandbox. An American woman, with
the morose eyes and depressed drone of the morally overresponsible, is telling
Raz off for being a fisherman. After all, fishing is killing, as she points out
while tucking into rice and beans (as she must do every meal-time in Central
America). Raz seems to think he’s won the argument when she admits that she used to eat fish in her unenlightened days. After a soft drink we
head to Raz’s old speedboat which sports a new palm leaf shade, complementing
his woven banana-leaf hat. Raz dashes back to the shore on some unknown errand,
leaving us to meet the other snorkellers. There are three groups: a leggy Dutch
girl with two men, of whom only one appears to be her boyfriend; an English man
with two heavily pierced girls – Rajni claims they are sisters but I know that
they are lesbians; and finally an American man with his Japanese girlfriend who
looks like a pencil. After ages Raz returns with two pink flowers which he hangs
on the palm leaves to create “a mood of love”. This is vital for our day’s
project, which is “to show the animals some loving”. However, he has no
flowers in his copious dreadlocks. He takes us on a brief tour of the local
sunbathing women before driving out to the reef.
At
the reef I leap out of the boat to find the water only chest deep, and feel a
little overdressed in my enormous flippers. Worryingly, gangs of nurse sharks
and stingrays have gathered around us and are circling the boat. I decide not to
show these animals any good loving until Raz is in the water to interpret, and
paddle around admiring them in what I hope is an inconspicuous manner. The water
is so shallow by the reef that we cannot swim over it; we circle the edges and
peer in. Luckily, many of the eighty species of tropical fish at the reef are
doing the same. Shoals of yellow butter hamlets simply loiter around the rocks,
doing absolutely nothing. Among them the shy foureye butterfly fish nibble
nervously at the coral. They do look like butterflies, with pale yellow wings,
each one bearing an ocular black spot. I swim over to some sea fans – coral
plants that look like huge purple cabbages; the water is brightly lit from above
and reveals the translucence of their veiny leaves. Midnight parrotfish are also
common, their scales coloured from deep blue to pitch black. Many other fish
look turquoise, yellow and green; they may be angelfish, or another species
bearing the pretty name of “French grunt”. The “flower corals” in fact
look like enormous brains.
Soon
Raz beckons us back to his boat, the only one at the reef. He has timed it so
that we leave as all the other boats arrive. He tells us that the nurse sharks,
although only four feet long, can exert 300lbs of pressure through their jaw
muscles. If they bite you, he explains, they come to hospital with you. Then he
grabs one by its dorsal fin and rolls it over in his arms, allowing us to see
its smooth white belly and twin penises. He know the shark personally and tells
us its name while I kiss its belly. After a few kisses from the tourist the fish
begins to get moody and Raz deems it best to release him. He then grabs a
stingray and a similar love scene unfurls. By this time our toes are hooked
around a rope behind the boat, allowing us to snorkel flat and still on the
surface while the stingray is passed around. “I been coming here nine
years,” says Raz; “and now the animals are showing us they can be
friendly”. When the animals have had enough love we chug off round the island.
Jimmy,
who is Raz’s mate for the day, sits with me at the front of the boat. He tells
us the local names for some of the animals. The cormorants (pronounced
“Camaroons”?) are known as “Manowar birds” because they squabble over
fish plucked from the sea. Iguanas are called “Wish-willies” but Jimmy
doesn’t know why, he says. Meanwhile Raz has been fishing and catches a yellow
jack with its side ripped open – by a barracuda, he tells us. As the boat’s
little motor continues to chug, I start to snooze and Jimmy joins the captain at
the back of the boat. One of them produces a little congo drum and strikes up a
reggae beat while the other sings sadly and well. We pass many piers, all of
which have been built in the last year or so. Hurricane Mitch destroyed all the
old ones.
We
call in upon the wish-willies at the foot of the island, and Raz plunges away
into the red
mangrove
trees. He returns with a little red sea horse in his hands, still clinging to
its branch. He puts
it
in his sea-horse container - the lower half of a bottle - and passes it round
the boat. Little suckers
dot
the front of its tail, which curls around its twig while we watch its bulging
eyes. The Chinese use
seahorses
(like everything else) as an aphrodisiac; our guides say viagra will have an
enormously
positive
environmental impact. For lunch we eat ceviche, tacos with raw fish drenched in
red hot
pepper
sauce.
Later
in the week we eat lobster and chicken in the Wish Willy Restaurant before
meeting our guides
at
the "I & I Bar", the laid-back locals' hang-out.
We join Raz, who is slurring slightly, to "taste a few beers".
After the first few Belikins I enthusiastically stagger up to the top floor and
find
Jimmy,
wistfully smoking a joint. He explains that his girlfriend has left for San
Marcos, where she is
fasting
at the hippy camp for five days. He is worried that she'll forget him and I
drunkenly agree that
food
will be the only thing on her mind. We rock back and forwards on little swings
by the bar until
Rajni
decides to take me home.
We
fly to San Pedro, the second city of Honduras, from Belize city. The ebullient
capitalist tour guide
Manny
taxis us to Belize airport, babbling about a group of Mormons paid him $700 to
take them to
the
zoo the day before. We buy flight tickets from Jabba the Hut and fly off to El
Salvador airport for
coffee
and the connection. We also buy some local "dulces tipicos" that look
like cashew nuts and turn
out
to be... cashew nuts.
San
Pedro city centre by night does not look welcoming. Hordes of suspicious looking
gangs crowd
badly
lit streets. We race up stairs to the hotel to find another crowd of dangerous
looking men
loitering
in the lobby. What's more, the receptionist won't accept dollars and seems about
to turn us
away
until I give him my passport and beg for mercy. Our room looks like a prison
cell, with the hotel
name
stamped in big black letters on everything from the walls to the pillowcases. It
is also written on
the
shower curtain in felt-tip. Too scared to go out, we wait until morning to eat.
The
city seems entirely safe during the day, and we have a pleasant stroll along its
large commercial
streets
to the main square. The layabouts, loiterers and money changers mill about
quietly. The sixth
bank
we find agrees to change money so we have breakfast at a smart hotel, picking up
sandwiches
for
our long bus trip to Copan Ruinas. We catch the bus at 11 and arrive at 4. The
journey takes us
over
beautiful green mountains on an excellent road. At about 2 o'clock the 90 minute
downpour
starts,
so heavily that the bus windows are repeatedly forced open by the driving rain
while the
conductor
races around trying to close them.
Dodging
the child guides we find a small, friendly hotel run by a busy family. That
evening we climb
a
steep hill into town where a political party is staging a fireworks display with
child basketball. Rum
and
cokes on a cafe balcony help to numb the ears a little as firecrackers resound
in the square. The
point
of Copan, as far as tourists are concerned, is the Maya ruins. It is generally
agreed that they are
smaller
than Tikhal, but with better carvings. There are no nightclubs to speak of in
Copan, so we
manage
to get up early and walk to the ruins.
Copan
became important in a Mayan way around 500-700 AD, growing first under the
leadership of
Moon
Jaguar. Most of the "stellae" - carved and inscribed statues - were
built by Eighteen Rabbit, who
had
a fondness for likenesses of himself. So much so, that around half of the dozen
or so stellae
represent
him. Somewhat later, Smoke Shell constructed the famous 63-step hieroglyphic
stairway
which
incorporates statues of his predecessors. The carvings have survived pretty
well, and lots of the
hieroglyphics
remain completely intact. However, many of the statues are impostors, the real
ones
having
been moved to the museum (which was closed for repair). Some of the most
appealing statues
incorporate
turtles and snakes, occasionally with a ruler's head peeking out from their
mouths.
Another
statue seems to portray a jaguar disco-dancing.
Copan
is much tamer than Tikhal; its grass for example is maintained by a team of half
a dozen
lawnmower
men. A team of tame red parrots flit around the ticket inspector's shack,
carefully
climbing
around the barbed wire with beaks and feet. It also costs $30 for complete
access to
everything,
about the equivalent of a week in a cheap hotel. Locals of course, pay about $1
- the
government
is keen to milk the endless stream of tourists for revenue. I don't blame it,
especially
having
read that the capital's sewage system is about to explode.
In
travelling on to Gracias we pass through Santa Rosa. Nothing happens there,
except that our bad
value
hotel room and unfriendly staff make Rajni burst into tears and our dinner makes
her sick. Also
lots
of children ask us for money in the main square. "You shouldn't beg from
strangers," I tell them,
and
they laugh at my naivety.
We
are suspicious of Gracias, and don't believe we have arrived until we see the
cobbled streets and
churches.
The hotel dueña asks if we want two beds. I tell her one, and she smiles then
says "That's good; that's very good." I don't know whether to be
charmed or shocked. The next day we take a day trip down to the thermal baths,
where the local children are celebrating the annual "día del niño".
There are also some men with binoculars hawking the local giggling girls. The
guard offers gives me two 10 lempira tickets and asks for 30. "Isn't it
20?" I ask innocently. He says, "Yes, but..." then scampers away
to hide. The Hondurans clearly lack the experience and skill of Guatemalans in
dealing with tourists. Three small, circular, baths border the large square one.
All are kept at 38 degrees. water flowing in from the hot spring. The large pool
is empty and splashing children have filled two small ones. We head to the last
small one, where several girls eye us suspiciously. I feel underdressed without
a t-shirt and slink to the side to enjoy the water. Later we have a pleaant time
attempting to swim lengths of the large pool. The heat of the water makes us too
drowsy to get any real exercise, except when Rajni is attacked by a leech. We
take the shortcut back walking, and have to ask directions several times from
the peasants. One of the farmers appears to have gone mad, but they all direct
us helpfully to town. The last even scratches out a map in the dirt for us and
recites his directions three times: "First you come to this turning. Do not
go right, but instead turn
left.
Then at this turning you ignore the road to the left, and take the path to the
right..."
Gracias
has a few reasonable restaurants, most notably the Restaurante Guanascos. On the
hill, below
a
small white castle, it provides good views of the town's churches and the hills
beyond. We meet up
with
some Norwegian doctors and decide to share a Guanascos pick-up truck to the
local cloud forest
the
next morning. The Norwegians, a couple, are called something along the lines of
"Umi" and
"Ioni".
They look like experienced outdoor types and their long muscled legs intimidate
us a little.
They
are very keen, and stop repeatedly to examine things - mainly mushrooms and
brightly coloured
spiders.
Once they find a sweet potato plant which Ioni (the man) attempts to eat. He
also cuts us each
walking
sticks with his surprisingly resilient pen knife. We trudge resolutely through
the pine forest,
which
apparently feels just like a Norwegian one. The trees are very slim and
numerous, and
occasionally
we hear birds in them. Once we see some bright yellow finch-types with brown
tails.
Many
Honduran rivers begin in the cloud forest, which reaches well over 2500m in
height. The
sources
are very pure and we stop every so often to drink some river water. It makes a
delicious
change
from the sterile Central American bottled water, which undergoes filtration,
reverse osmosis
and
ultraviolet bombardment before it gets to the shops. Some of the rivers are
beautiful, including
little
clear pools filled by trickling waterfalls. The path is very steep and our
ankles start to ache from
the
angle after a few hours. We carry on until the campsite, about two thirds of the
way up the
mountain.
It consists of a shack with a few beds inside, and some flat ground. We feel
glad not to be
staying
the night, as the mattresses consist of a few lengths of string tied between two
planks. I toy
with
the idea of continuing up to the genuine cloud forest, but Rajni points out that
we are already
surrounded
by clouds and that the air is very cold. The Norwegians, surprisingly, have also
had
enough.
When we reach the bottom, four hours later, I am completely exhausted and glad
to have
been
overruled. Gracias welcomes us back by staging one of the biggest rain storms we
have seen so
far.
We stop to ask the way from a man who is hiding from the rain in a pipe.
Although he cannot
move
his arms, he smiles and jerks his head in the right direction. By the time we
reach the centre of
town,
half the roads have become rivers. I leave my shoes on a shelf to dry out, and
Rajni throws away
her
Guatemalan trainers.
By
now, we only have a few days left until our flight leaves from Tegucigalpa, and
it is time to think
about
getting to the capital. Unfortunately, the only official bus route takes us all
the way round the
country.
The other road, which is in appalling condition, goes through La Esperanza. We
decide to
hitch-hike
as many of the locals drive pick-ups between the two towns. This proves to be an
excellent
decision,
as we enjoy the best of Honduran mountain scenery and strong sunshine almost all
the way.
The
first pick-up agrees to take us half-way, dropping us at San Juan. Three
teenagers take turns to
drive
it, showing varying levels of incompetence. Luckily Rajni and I have the whole
luggage-bay to
ourselves
and end up sprawled across our rucksacks, staring at the sky. At San Juan we
pile onto a
pickup
already loaded with bags of grain, then a dozen farmers pile onto us. The ride,
despite our numb legs, is beautiful again,
and the farmers touchingly cling to each other so as not to fly off on
the tight corners. We try to take photographs of equally ridiculously overloaded
trucks coming the other way. The weather sharpens, and half a mile before
Esperanza the pick-up stops to collect some money from its passengers.
Hitch-hiking along that road has become an earner for those with pick-ups, and
they don't want potential freeloaders to escape the small charge. However, the
farmers immediately race off into the undergrowth, and it takes us a minute to
realise they are all going to urinate. I join them while Rajni - the only woman
on board - waits on her rucksack. At Esperanza we swing off the pick-up straight
onto a luxury bus, the first one we have seen in Guatemala.
A
few hours later we're in Tegucigalpa which looks almost enticing for a Central
American capital city. The bus, as is traditional, drops us in the most
dangerous part of town - the Comoyaguela market. Leaping heroically into the
nearest taxi we escape through the crowded market streets. An unusually animated
but typically miserly German girl rides with us, insisting that the driver is
over-charging. For our last few days we extravagantly book into a $20 hotel
where our room features mirrors and a hypnotic ceiling fan, and leave to wander
around town. "Teguc" centre has several squares, lined with trees and
churches and spattered with stalls and comedores. In the Plaza Central some
children are standing on display, holding up the national flag until the
afternoon rains come. In the evening the square fills with the sound of birds,
who sit in the trees and shriek at each other. The city is reputedly dangerous
at night, but we wander around the darkening streets without any sign of
trouble. The next day we have lunch and cocktails at one of the best
restaurants. Rajni has fish in squid ink sauce and I have paella; both are
excellent. The waiter serves us beautifully, and retreats cowed after attempting
to remove Rajni's unfinished drink.
The
artisans' shops are a little disappointing after Guatemala. The earthenware
bottles don't close properly, and guitar strings fail to align with fretboards.
In search of other souvenirs we take a bus to nearby Valle de Angeles, a
small town with many artesans. On the bus someone with AIDS talks to me but I
find it impossible to understand his mutterings. HIV is very common in Honduras,
and the Catholic archbishop has even approved the use of condoms to prevent its
spread. He wrote in a newspaper, "Sinners have a right to life, too."
The bus stops early because the mountain road has fallen apart, and we have to
cross a pit. We scramble down as women with shopping bags overtake us, some
laughing and some fuming. About twenty metres of the road was simply swept down
the cliff by a flood, which is reported on the newspaper and television. Rajni
and I kiss in front of a TV camera, but the ultra serious Honduran newsmen
probably burn the footage. La Tribuna melodramatically
describes the journey to Valle de Angeles as "a ticket to hell". In
fact people simply pay half price and catch a second bus on the other side of
the pit. The town is a dusty white, and children have assembled in the school
playground with brass instruments to practise for the independence day marches.
The shops are all identical, and mainly sell carved wooden boxes. Rajni finally
buys a round present for her mother and an export quality Guatemalan flute,
which produces something approaching a sound when she plays it. For a while the
invalid from the bus had followed us and now he appears eerily in the doorway of
the shop. He watches us for five minutes before wandering away into the town. We
have an unusually good pizza before returning to town for our last night in
Central America.
We nervously take a taxi into the Zona Viva, expecting a Spanish-style fiesta to celebrate the eve of independence day. We find a stylish restuarant on the main road, which serves tender though unspicy Tandoori chicken. Strangely, they refuse to give us alcohol despite the countless Chilean and Spanish wines on the shelves around us. I am so surprised that the waiter has to repeat himself twice to be understood. We leave the restaurant and bravely enter the club next door, where despite the obligatory body search at the door the people and atmosphere seem relaxed and informal. We read a notice explaining that in celebration of Independence Day, Central America enforces an alcohol ban. The club provides pineapple juice instead, so we drink that and dance with the locals. At first they dance like nervous teenagers, bobbing from side to side, but by midnight their movements have become more outrageously latin as couples start to grind their hips together. After a few hours dancing, Rajni and I are exhausted and catch a taxi back to the hotel. Although the "dry law" made our last night low-key, it saved us from the hangovers we had nursed on all our previous journeys.