Tim Høiland
28Feb/09Off

Guatemala, day two.

Last night, after writing up my little ditty about the day, I ate dinner, enjoyed a nice phone call with a certain young lady I happen to think quite highly of, and then went ahead and got a solid ten hours of sleep - which not even the pulsing beats from the dance club next door was able to stop.

This morning after discovering that ¨huevos fritos¨ is precisely the kind of egg I find disgusting, I set out around town with my camera and a photocopied map of the city. I visited Capuchinas, a convent in ruins which was an old family favorite whenever we were in Antigua. May the record show that mannequins of nuns - both dead and alive - have the exact same effect on me now as they did then. Basically, they freak me out. No need for them on this planet. At all. Period. Yes, I am a 26-year-old grown man, and I am freaked out by mannequins.

The one other place I wanted to be sure to visit in Antigua for old time´s sake was Doña Luisa´s bakery. It is just a fantastic little place with a courtyard filled with more Europeans than you could ask for. And they also make amazing bread. I remembered the raisin bread being really good, but lo and behold, ¨raisin¨is not in my Spanish vocabulary, or at least it wasn´t this morning, so I settled for two croissants. Can´t go wrong with croissants, right? Wrong. Who makes meat-stuffed croissants, seriously?? Doña Luisa, apparently.

With the time remaining before my shuttle to Lake Atitlan, I wandered into a couple of churches. In one of them there was a sign about obtaining ¨indulgencias¨ but only one per day. In the other, a wedding was taking place and the priest was really letting them have it about the significance of the commitment before he´d pronounce them man and wife. It was a strange scene: priest raising his voice and waiving his arms; couple standing quietly; kids smacking each other and laughing a few rows back; tourists taking photos of statues lining the sides.

I booked my ride to the lake on a shuttle (minivan) through a guy I met at the hotel named Oscar whose company, appropriately enough, is called Oscarito´s Travel. The van was supposed to arrive at the hotel at 12.30pm and Oscar showed up a few minutes beforehand, saying the van was on its way. We waited at the front of the hotel for it to arrive, and so we chatted. And chatted. And chatted. For an hour. He asked about Nike and Reebok and Trek bikes and Toyotas and told me about his travel company and told me about the underground tunnels that were built for the nuns but that are not open to the public today because of both a lack of oxygen and an abundance of bats. He also asked if I was into astronomy, and when I said ¨not really¨ he let me know that according to YouTube an asteroid ten times the size of the earth is going to hit us. Basically, we talked for a really long time. Finally I did get on that shuttle and sat in the back between a couple of middle-aged women, who talked for a while with the elderly woman sitting ahead of us who for the past four years has lived with her husband on their sailboat which is currently docked at a marina on the Rio Dulce, which is quite nice because they have a pool there and they can drink martinis. The nature of conversation by my fellow travelers would have been markedly different had I chosen to ride the chicken bus.

So here I am at Lake Atitlan in the town of Panajachel, which is a hub for both short-term tourists and long-term hippies. The hippies, from North America and Europe, are mostly left over from the 60s and 70s after which being a hippie became a lot less socially acceptable than it still is here. Plus, there are less beautiful places to settle. Aldous Huxley, a famous writer dude, narrowed it down to Lake Como in northern Italy and this place for distinction of being the most beautiful lake in the world. He went with Como, apparently, because Atitlan was too overwhelming for him with its volcanos and flowers and vibrant indigenous cultures. Having visited Como a few years ago myself, I can objectively report that Atitlan takes the cake, volcanos and all.

27Feb/09Off

Homecoming

I'm back in Guatemala. It's been eleven years since we moved to the US, and eight since I've been back to visit. As might be expected, some things change but others stay exactly the same. Last night I slept in our former apartment, in my former bedroom. Today I wandered around the old neighborhood in Guatemala City. I walked up to a big black metal gate on 7th avenue and told the guard that back in the day, when the place belonged to the Instituto Linguistico de Verano, I'd lived there and I wondered if I might be allowed in to have a look. He took great pleasure in welcoming me in, saying I wasn't the only one who's been back to relive old memories. It struck me that at that moment, the friendly guard who let me in and told me to explore was in a very real sense grace embodied. When we had left Guatemala and I heard that the center was being sold, it made me very sad, because I pictured myself returning to Guatemala in, say, eleven years, and wanting to visit my old home but being turned away. Grace is when you're surprised with something good, when it didn't have to work out the way it did. Today, it was grace.

From there I went to the shopping center a few blocks away where I changed my dollars into quetzales, purchased a pen, and made prints of some digital photos to replace the ones I was supposed to bring with me, but on account of absentmindedness, currently lie on the floor of my bedroom in Lancaster.

In the early afternoon I caught a ride out to CAG - Christian Academy of Guatemala - where I again got the chance to relive old memories. I talked with the three remaining people from my time there - Mr Rosa, the director; Ms Rensch, a teacher I never had but who is apparently awesome; and Mrs Ovalle, an older Mennonite lady who also happened to be my fifth grade teacher. Her students and I collectively did the math on how long ago that could have possibly been.

From CAG I got a ride to the town of Antigua with some people I just met: a pastor, his wife, and their two kids who are headed to a retreat for missionaries. They dropped me off at the central park as a procession with a statue of Jesus made its way down a side street with a hodgepodge following, which struck me as somehow poignant.

After a little bit of wandering, I found a hostel sort of place I had read about in my travel book, and it's where I'll be staying the night. I've got my own room, my own bathroom, and there's a nice quiet plaza where fellow travelers mingle. Tomorrow I'll visit a couple of the sites here in town before heading on to Panajachel, a town at Lake Atitlan where on a warm spring day I came down with chicken pox in the ninth grade.