Solola is reputed to have been lost to the mists of time. Edie and I set out to find it. Taking a lancha to the nearby Mayan village, we inquired as to the directions and got explicit advice to go uphill, somewhere, vaguely waving his hand, uphill. Since we were down at Lake Atitlan, and the land rose everywhere about us, it was not hard to grasp that indeed we were going to go uphill. But which hill?
Climbing to the village above us up the steep road we finally came face to face with the old church, around which we were to walk, skirt the garbage dump and proceed on our trail. We did so, found our trail and headed up a gentle grade through a forest, with a stream trickling down below.
Soon after, our trail seemed to grow a bit less distinct. It appeared to cross a boulder-choked ravine but didn’t appear to continue across the other side. It didn’t appear to climb the ravine either. We followed a diminishing path up ever steeper, scragglier and more precipitous terrain. Clearly there was some kind of path, but for whom? Goats?
Finally, after struggling several yards further through increasingly tangled undergrowth Edie called a halt. It was well she did. I did not appreciate this at the time. My view of a good hike is to keep on going in the face of increasing evidence that we are not on the proper trail until we finally burst out onto a golden path with smiling natives profering us cold drinks and happy animals mooing contentedly. This has not yet happened.
More frequently I emerge dirty and bleeding, in a desperate state of thirst, hoping that someone will show up to lead us out of the mess before darkness falls. Edie knows this, hence our retreat.
We came down our trail far faster than we ascended and near the bottom happened upon an old Mayan woman and what was probably her young grandson. We said ‘Solola’ and she pointed. There was a very large mountain in the way. We said ‘Solola’ again and she again pointed towards the mountain. Then she wisely sent her grandson to show us.
We soon found the trail and happily wound our way up a grassy slope. ‘Now, this is more like it’. And so it was, until the fine trail through the grassy slope turned the shoulder of the mountain and apparently proceeded downhill to the next village below. This was clearly not Solola. We retraced our steps. I checked the water supply. Half gone. I checked the sun. Half gone too.
Working our way along the mountain slope I heard voices and spotted several men descending from above. ‘Solola?’ I pleaded. ‘Si, Solola’. ‘Quantos horas?’ How many hours hike? ‘Tres’. Gulp. 3 hours more. All uphill. We had to scramble to attain the grade. Rains from last year’s hurricane had washed out parts of the trail. White paint on some rocks appeared to inidicate the path. Or was it warning us away from it?
Up and up we scrambled. Somewhere up there was supposed to be a dirt road to Solola. We had taken so many wrong turns and spent so much time on the mountain we had almost given up finding it. Only the thought of having to face Mike, leisurely floating on the shoreline waters of Lake Atitlan and having to admit defeat, kept us going. Or at least kept me going. Edie was kept going because I had all the water.
Finally we found the dirt and gravel road. No more scrambling. We looked a mess. Dirt and dust everywhere. One bottle of water left. And maybe 2-1/2 hours to reach Solola and the bus to Panajachel.
The last lancha leaving Panajachel for our town of San Marcos along the lake was leaving at 6PM. After that….?
We hiked the switchbacking road up and up. Bulldozer tracks could be seen guaranteeing us that the road had to come out somewhere at the top. I told Edie we only had another 6 switchbacks. After those 6 I predicted another 6. The water was gone. And finally, hours later, we were at the top. The top of what?
Ahead was another garbage dump. And walking by that dump was a kid who most likely lived off it, toting what appeared to be a realistic pistol. We waved. ‘Buenos tardes’, and walked hurriedly on, not daring to look behind. For some reason, no shots rang out.
We came to farmed land, then a village, then what appeared to be a suburb of sorts and far below, way over on the other side of the valley was Solola. Much too far to be reached in the half hour we had left to catch our bus. Still we walked and walked and walked, found a small tienda from which to buy a Coke and walked some more until an open-backed truck came by and to our delighted, assented when we gestured for a ride. This was common in Guatemala where most people don’t have cars. Others piled in along the route. I kept watching the time and the distance and the increasing traffic.
Finally in town I gave the driver what I thought to be a good fare, asked directions and dashed to the plaza where the buses wait. Edie had a better idea; let’s flag down a taxi. A taxi, in this case, was a 3-wheeled motorized golf-cart like vehicle with seats for 2 in the back and a canopy over us. ‘Panajachel’ we cried and, I think, understanding that we were trying to catch the last lancha, he launched his vehicle into the steeply switch-backed 1500 foot descent into the town. We made it dashing down the street, with 15 minutes to space. And a story of how we conquered the route to Solola.
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