I, having recovered from the arduous 2-1/2 day backpacking trip and Edie having recovered from the equally arduous stomach ailment that prevented her from going, we both met at the busy village of San Pedro on the shores of Lake Atitlan, sun shining, waves bouncing and volcanoes sending out the odd whiff of smoke in the distance.
Soon after, we took a lancha (launch – a 30 x 8 foot mostly open boat with sun roof to San Marcos, the fabled San Marcos, named after Marco Polo who, upon reaching China across the Gobi desert, mistakenly thought he had found Central America.
It was from this paradisiacal setting that we set out to circumnavigate the lake, or at least walk a goodly part of its shores, heading east towards the fabled markets of Panajachel, the town at the head of the lake from which all lanchas, launch.
We didn’t get that far. Our beginning was not auspicious. Mike, proclaiming familiarity with the terrain from last year’s trip, took the low route by the lake, above which stood a spacious house and grounds owned by a fellow reputed to be a Microsoft partner, not as in, ‘Cleveland State is a Microsoft partner’, but as in ‘Bill Gates is a Mircosoft partner’. This fellow apparently took offense to Mike’s friend Gary’s comment about his big sombrero last year and we decided to steer clear of touchy folks like that on our hike. The low route petered out, as do most routes in Guatemala (see We Climb to Solola) and we found ourselves scrambling up a steep slope with few handholds. Edie was dismayed and proceeded towards an opening in a wood fence where workers building a wall on the hacienda were beckoning her. They pointed to an easy path up to the road and our eventual escape from the low route, now named the ‘No Route’. Such is chivalry along the Atitlan shores. Mike and I would have been left for the sun and the lizards.
The lovely road became a somewhat less lovely road, finally turning into a dirt path. We stopped at a fancy hotel clinging to the cliffs above the lake and dropped many stories down the stone path leading to their restaurant for a meal. We met some of the fellows from our backpacking trip, treating themselves sumptuously to make up for their prior privations on the trail.
Edie and I proceeded on, Mike deciding to return by lancha, although, in fact, he also decided to continue but was too far behind to call us. The trail turned into a rough, rocky track.
When an American couple hailed us from one side of a steep descent I was momentarily distracted, fell and then to my surprise tumbled forward. By the time I arrested my fall I had a bloody elbow and knee and a very apologetic couple in attendance.
Lacking first aid equipment or knowledge we chatted for a moment before continuing on our way. The accident was to have fortuitous consequences. I recommend such an accident to traveller.
The Mayans are reserved people. They speak one of 23 dialects, none of which resemble Spanish. It wouldn’t matter if it did. I can speak 23 dialects of New York-ese. But not Spanish. It’s hard to do more than murmur ‘buenos-dias/tardes/noches’ depending on the time of day. If you don’t know the time of day, you can estimate it by trying one of the above. If the response is buenos tardes, you know it’s afternoon. If it’s buenos noches, you know it’s evening. This can also be determined by noting that the sky is dark.
As we passed through Mayan villages, people would stare at my knee. When I stared at it I saw what drew their eyes: blood had trickled in 3 distinct streams down to my socks. It looked awful. It wasn’t, but who was I to let on. The Mayan men would looked briefly, then avert their eyes, the women would look interestedly, then shyly look away as I tried to catch their eyes, the children would stare wide-eyed and I took to feigning an exaggerated limp which would send them into giggles. Most unseemly.
As the village of San Something-Or-Other we made out final breakthrough. The lancha had landed some 15 -20 foot long squared off ridge poles for a house. These were very heavy, more like oak than pine. And down at the dock woman after woman would lift these beams, place them on the cloth wrapping they used to protect their heads and form a stable base, and then carry these beams on their heads up the very steep path to the village above. One poor young woman had not quite mastered the technique, despite practice since near-infancy. Her beam was front heavy and kept rocking forward threatening to hit the steep ground ahead of her up the hill. Emboldened by our limited success in communication via a bloody knee, we came to the rescue. We know about portaging canoes and what happens when a canoe is front-heavy. I made as though to shift the beam rearwards a bit to better balance it. But body language has its limitations. The young woman thought I was going to help her carry it. And apparently I was. As I grabbed the front end to shift the weight, she moved to the back and I realized that I was now her partner. Silently we proceeded up the steep hill up up up, how far I wasn’t sure, until about 10 minutes later we reached a building site where her family was waiting for that beam. I made to shake hands with her. She limply responded and we bade our goodbyes. Turning back I saw another pair making their way up hill. Edie had similarly grabbed the front end of another beam and was helping another young woman, carry her roof beam up the hill. We had make the grade. We were Mayans for a day.
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