A strange little corner of the world

Sometimes, you just know that things are going to get weird.

Two days ago, Isolde and I had one of those moments.

We were staying in San Marcos, a little lakeside village largely populated by smiley new agers with glazed eyes. The room we had was euphemistically billed as a cabana and would, I think, make Ted Kaczynski feel right at home. The wall boards didn´t connect -- keeping the mosquitoes happy -- and our lock actually fell apart several times.

But that all would have been fine. The village was cute as hell, even if most of the other tourists there had come for enlightenment. Turns out the trick to personal power is pyramid-shaped lodging and yoga. Very kind people though. The Mayans who lived there busied themselves (at least by day) harvesting avocados and firewood from the hills above town. Occasionally, we´d see men wander through town carrying machetes and net bags packed with 100 or so avocados.

A cute, woodsy place. Like camping. Peaceful. Sane.

Then we met the man from Austin, a recently hired ¨security guard¨ for a little bodega.

The storeowner himself was a piece of work. We´d popped in to the tiny shop looking to buy a little food for dinner. It was well stocked, as far as the places go here. Most people here stick to eggs, tortillas and beans, with a little rice or sweat bread. This store had Nutella and Top Ramen, and wine, which is quite the rarity. The storeowner proved to be a rare breed too. An American who we´d later learn had only been in town for a month or so and was not well liked, the man could not give a straight answer to any questions.

¨Do you run this store?¨ ¨Sometimes I think it runs me?¨ That kind of thing.

But his little friend -- the giant Texan -- seemed to have all the answers. The man had been gone from the states for two years. He didn´t like the new age people -- they wrongly thought there were many ways to god, he said. The local people knew ¨the truth.¨ As it would turn out, he was all about ¨the truth.¨

He was glad to be gone from the states. But he´d heard that more Americans were figuring out that 9-11 was ¨an inside job.¨ That was the moment things took a turn for the surreal.

The man went on to explain how his friend, a self-proclaimed expert on the 9-11 attacks, had found that the U.S. government was behind it. But his friend, he said, failed to comprehend the ¨the truth¨ -- that the attacks were predicted in the Bible. He then started talking about numerology, and how the Guatemalans knew to be meek (and inherit the earth, one supposes).

We left. Fast.

The man had also given a dubious description of the robbery that necessitated his new position as security guard at the tienda. It all made for a hurried walk home to our cabana.

But then, just after sundown, the chanting started. From churches situated in the hills above the village, preachers and choir members spread the Pentecostal word of God throughout the valley. The songs and sermons -- in both Spanish and the region´s Mayan language, which is usually pleasant but that night sounded a bit like chickens arguing in German -- from two or three competing churches formed a deafening cacophony that filled the valley. It reminded me of the scene in Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen rose out of the swamp to kill Marlon Brando. Just loud and crazy.

The churches continued until after midnight, when a now-creepy silence fell on the jungle. Then they started up again at about 6 a.m.

We´d later learn from an gracefully aging hippy -- a former fashion writer in the Canadian press -- that Evangelicals had moved into the highlands during the 1980s. Back then the Guatemalan government, you´ll recall, was not too happy or kind to Catholics. And many citizens looked to the Evangelicals to prove they were not in league with the guerrillas the government supposed the Catholics were aiding. For whatever reason, it seems to have stuck.

Apparently, the new churches have taken to fighting for souls via loudspeaker. And it´s driving out the tourists, which may be what the residents have been praying for.

Isolde and I returned to San Pedro the next day. The little city is much more relaxed, or at least relatively free of chanting.

Hello from Guatemala!

So, without further ado, a post.

Isolde and I reached a little town called San Pedro del Lago yesterday after bouncing from touristy Antigua and Panajachel. That´s not to say it´s not nice and touristic here -- we´ve got little, three-wheeled taxi trikes carry visitors up winding stone streets, and football (which I will not be referring to as ¨American football¨) -- but it´s less hectic.

A bit of history: We landed in Guatemala City -- a sprawling urban center, home to more than 1/10 of the country´s 12 million people -- early Thursday morning, then immediately hopped a cab to Antigua. The former capital, Antigua´s claim to fame is its colonial ruins and volcanoes. Brightly painted, single-story facades face its narrow, cobblestone streets, on which tourists from Guatemala and abroad roam.

From there, we took a garishly decorated retired school bus to Panajachel. What was supposed to be a cheap ride got much more expensive when a very nice seeming woman managed to steal about $100 from Isolde. The lady slit Isolde´s skirt and hidden money pouch to get the Quetzals. Not much fun.

The ride itself was a bit of an education on Guatemala. It´s easy to see how folks from these mountains come to work in Washington´s fields. An unending Spring in the highlands leaves the world a familiar shade of green, and there are even a few pine trees. Lines of men carrying wide-bladed hoes can been seen from the bus, and women weave by the bus stops waiting for someone to buy their wares.

The same day we got in to Panajachel, an American living in the city was nearly lynched by a mob. Not that we noticed. My loving mother informed me the following day via e-mail. Apparently the man was thought to have sexually assaulted an 11-year-old. As Pana seems to be a home for lost souls -- think Seattle´s University Ave. but much, much cheaper -- it wouldn´t suprise me if the mob was correct. The AP said the man was a tourist, but I´ll wager that he was more of an expat.

That brings us to yesterday, when Isolde and I took a launch across Lake Atitlan to San Pedro del Lago, from which I´m writing. The ride was a treat -- $2 bought a seat on a narrow motorboat that took us across what must be one of the world´s most gorgeous lakes. Created by a colapsed volcano, the lake is ringed by green peaks. As a Washingtonian, it´s strange to see tall mountains devoid of snow. But, as it´s now the cold season and temps aren´t dropping below 55 or so, I think I can get used to it.

San Pedro is a treat. Old stone and tile roads wind up a mountain from two docks, meeting at a gritty market that serves as the town center. Most of the people here are Mayan, and speak to one another in language that has yet to be displaced by Spanish. Women in traditional dress ply tourists on the streets with woven goods and baked goodies. The bannana bread is unbelievable -- it tastes like American bannana bread but somehow more bannana-ish.

It´s also mind-blowingly affordable. A hotelroom with bathroom and lakeview runs about $5, and most meals cost $2 to $4. The only drawback is that beer prices seem to be set by some higher power -- $3 a liter, would you believe. I know it´s not the worst thing the Guatemalan government has done, but ...

We´re off to another lakeside town tommorow called San Marcos. It´s home to some meditation center, so if I come back asking to read your aura, please understand. More importantly though, all the hotels have something called a Mayan sauna -- proof that all good people are Finnish, deep down -- and there´s $2 yoga for my bendy traveling companion. From there, we´ll be heading to Quetzaltenango, where we´ll be studying Spanish.

Welcome to my blog

Hello there anonymous web surfing people. As stated earlier by way of the title, welcome to my blog.
I’m heading for Guatemala in a few short days. This is how I propose to stay in touch.
That’s my traveling companion and girlfriend Isolde making a silly face. See her there? Aren’t we cute.