Guatemala

As soon as we arrived in Guatemala City, Bret and I hired a shuttle van to Antigua. We shared the shuttle with two young Guatemalan women returning from a trip to Florida. About 10 min into the drive, I turned to one of the girls, who were seated behind us, and started a conversation in heavily broken Spanish. We learned that the two women were sisters, one working as a florist and the other as an accountant for a family-owned business.

Outside, we passed gas stations, American fast-food restaurants, and crowded buildings that had metal fences topped with wound barbed wire to discourage trespassing. The skies were dark and grey, and stray dogs with arched backs and patchy fur rummaged along the road, weaving between cars. Approaching the city limits, the road became more open, buildings more spread apart, and small mountains visible in the distance. Huge potholes also became frequent, forcing our driver to occasionally maneuver off the pavement.

Since the women were local to Antigua, we asked for recommendations on cafes, restaurants, and bars. The older sister took my phone and listed several cafes and clubs. We continued our conversation until the van crossed into Antigua and began shaking over the cobblestone streets. Antigua was an attractive city with short, pastel-colored buildings and small bodegas occupying every corner. For such a small city, it was crowded with cars and motorcycles; exhaust fumes loomed thick and heavy in the air, partly visible as an obscuring haze.

Bret and I made our way to the hostel, the Maya Papaya, which had a few dormitories, several private rooms, and a courtyard with a ping-pong table and bar. We had reserved a private room for the night. Leaving our bags behind, we wandered in search of a food market but could only find bodegas that carried snacks. Crossing into a park, I saw a young Guatemalan sitting on a bench. “¿Dónde está el mercado?” I said. Fortunately, the kid was studying English and able to communicate with us in a more effective manner.

“I show the way,” he said, and started walking down one of the streets. Bret and I followed him for three blocks until he pointed to a loading garage with people filing in and out of a small adjacent door. There were no signs or indicators that this was a grocery store. We thanked the kid and offered to buy him beer, which he declined. After he left, we bought bread and fruits for breakfast, as well as bottled water for our upcoming volcano hike. That one interaction with the kid left me with a great impression of Guatemalans.

Back at the hostel, as Bret was catching some rest, I met a Canadian guy, Yvan, outside the bathroom. He and his friend Armin had just arrived in Antigua and, like us, were planning to hike the dormant volcano Acatenango in the morning. They had even booked the same touring company. “Will you be at the bar later?” I asked.

Half an hour later, Bret and I went over to the bar and saw the two Canadians, each sitting with a pint. Two people were playing ping-pong, and a few others were smoking at the small round tables outside reception. We ordered two beers from the barman, Martin, who was a cheerful, heavyset Guatemalan from Antigua.

“You boys going out tonight?” he asked enthusiastically.

“No,” responded Bret, “we’re hiking Acatenango tomorrow, so we’ll probably go out Friday.”

“How about you, Martin? You going out with the boys tonight?” I said.

“Yeah, I want to dance!”

Martin glanced across the courtyard at the reception office and, seeing no one inside, reached under the bar to retrieve a bottle of tequila. He grabbed five shot glasses, laid them out on the bar in a disorderly line, and filled each to the brim.

“You boys going to have a good time in Antigua,” he said before distributing the shots.

We took the shots and started asking Martin about his life. In a few moments, we learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few hours ago. When he told us, there was a momentary flash of grief across his face, but it was quickly overcome by reassurance, and maybe the forgetfulness of alcohol, and a big smile reappeared.

“You seem fine for someone who just got out of a long-term relationship,” said Armin.

“Oh yea, I knew it wasn’t working. I kept giving it time, but in my mind, I knew it wasn’t going to work.”

After another round of beers, Bret and I retired to the room and prepared for the long day tomorrow, where we would have to wake at 6 a.m.

We left the hostel early, before Yvan and Armin, to head to the meetup location for the volcano trek. Bret and I had considered climbing the volcano on our own, but this was generally discouraged, and we heard that the entrance to the trail is blocked from people entering without an official guide, though whether this is the case is uncertain.

At the meetup, Bret and I had breakfast and waited for the rest of the group. Slowly, backpackers wandered inside and grabbed bread with butter or Nutella, or both, and a shot of prune smoothie. Eventually, Yvan and Armin appeared.

At 9 a.m., the tour organizers gathered everyone in the courtyard and listed the equipment needed to camp overnight on the volcano. Each person required multiple layers, a hat, gloves, hiking poles, and four liters of water. Sleeping bags were already waiting for us at the cabins, which, as we would come to learn, were pieces of lumber and aluminum sheet metal hobbled together into shacks.

While waiting to register our borrowed equipment, Bret and I struck up conversation with a group of three girls ahead of us, Liv, Elaina, and Claire. It turned out they were all doctors who just finished medical school in England and were traveling for the summer before starting work at hospitals around the country.

After collecting our equipment, everyone filed outside to the bus. A Guatemalan hoisted our bags up to the roof of the bus, where his coworker fixed them with bungee cords. Bret and I maneuvered to the back, where I was sandwiched between a young Indian guy with long, dark hair—I think his name was Mike or Mikey—and an Italian girl with pink hair. I started chatting with both, somewhat independently, turning my head each direction to alternate conversations.

It turned out the Indian guy was here on a bachelor party to celebrate the guy about to marry his sister. “Is the groom a big hiker?” I asked. “Nah man,” Mikey replied, “but the best man thought it would be a fun activity.”

“Do you enjoy hiking?”

“Me? I don’t know, man. This is my first time.”

“This is your first time hiking, ever?”

“Yea man.”

“You realize we’re climbing a volcano?”

“Oh for sure, man, I brought some of this to help,” he said, and then pulled out a small bottle of whiskey from his jacket.

The van dropped us off at a food stand just across the street from the trail entrance. It was cloudy and about to rain. Behind the food stand was a vast corn field and, to the righthand side, a white toilet stall with a wooden door. Bret went into the stall and came out a moment later.

“Shit is overflowing onto the floor,” he said. The sewage level was at the brim of the toilet. Grim.

We started up the trail, greeting hikers headed back to the road while crossing deep crevasses in the ground formed from flowing water. Occasionally, someone riding a dirt bike would charge past the group, the rear tire slipping on the wet ground and kicking up dirt. At one point, someone attempted the climb—a gradient of about 10 degrees—with a motorcycle and standard street tires. The rider could barely keep the bike vertical and eventually got stuck in one of the ditches.

The guides stopped frequently to allow everyone to regroup. Bret and I, along with our Canadian friends, were keeping pace at the front, with the British girls not too far behind. At one of the stops, the guides handed out small Tupperware with meatballs and mashed potatoes covered in gravy. We sat down on fallen trees and started eating while a group of stray dogs congregated around us. As I reached down to grab a water bottle, one of the dogs, seizing the opportunity, extended her neck and licked the top of my potatoes. After that, I figured she earned most of the lunch and dumped the potatoes onto the ground.

By now, a dense fog had settled into the valley, blocking our view of the neighboring volcanoes. We continued walking for about three hours until reaching the campsite, just three kilometers short of the Acatenango crater. Almost on cue, we heard a sudden boom echo through the valley. One of the guides pointed ahead of us to the fog. “You see the volcano? Can you see Fuego?”

At first, I saw nothing through the fog. But then, moments later, a plume of dark grey smoke rose from the horizon. Another boom, and this time flashes of bright red appeared through the rising smoke.

Now I got excited. “Are we still climbing Fuego tonight?” I asked Oscar, one of the guides. Among his coworkers, Oscar was probably one of the oldest and most soft spoken, but he always smiled wide when looking into your face.

“I not sure,” he confessed. “It depend on weather. I hope so.”

Everyone unpacked and sat around the campfire with hot chocolate, our gear stuffed inside the flimsy cabins. Originally, I took the sleeping bag next to Bret, but two older European women, who were part of the group, appeared at the door and started questioning one of the guides about sleeping arrangements. There was only one bed left in our shack, and one in the shack with the bachelor group. I volunteered to surrender my bed and crash with the lads from New York, giving Bret some nice company for the evening.

The sun set around 6 p.m. Aside, Oscar told me that visibility was improving, meaning a small group could attempt to summit Fuego. When news reached the group, Bret and our Canadian friends, as well as Elaina and Claire, were undecided about the trek. I think Liv and I were the only two committed to going. “When would we get this chance again?” I said to Bret.

By some collective change of heart, Bret, Yvan, Elaina, and Claire all decided to join the hike. Only Armin remained committed to base camp. And so, we joined a small subgroup and descended into the valley between the two volcanoes, walking single file down narrow paths and switchbacks, activating our headlamps after the last rays of daylight disappeared. Probably the most challenging part of the hike was a 15-foot crevasse that had to be crossed over a makeshift wooden ladder serving as a bridge. Several people walked across it gingerly, bracing themselves against the rock face for support.

After two hours, we reached the bottom of the valley, regrouped, and started ascending Fuego. A loud boom sounded from the crater, and excitement grew at the thought of watching lava flow down troughs in the mountain. The reality, however, would be disappointing as more fog descended into the valley, restricting visibility to about 20 feet. Temperature also trended downward, dropping well below 0C. By the time we reached the sub-peak, which was just shy of 100 yards from the crater, all we could distinguish in the distance were the headlamps of some other groups scattered about the volcano.

The guides stopped at this sub-peak and said that going any farther was too dangerous. So, we sat huddled together, staring blankly into the distance, in the supposed direction of the crater, listening for eruptions and struggling to see lava through the dense fog. After 20 minutes, the group collectively decided to return to camp, and we started the nearly three-hour journey back to Acatenango. Bret, Yvon, and I were up front and moving quickly, but the guide ahead of us stopped every 10 minutes to wait for the rest of the group to catch up. Admittedly, it was a bit frustrating, because we were cold and tired and had nowhere to sit while waiting.

We made it back to camp around midnight, just in time for the fog to clear. In fact, just minutes from camp, we saw Fuego erupt brilliantly, spewing lava hundreds of feet into the air, the vibrant red contrasting against the dark sky. The lava fell onto the sides of the volcano and rushed downward to a level below the sub-peak. Of course, the volcano would wait for us to hike the six-hour journey.

Some people continued to wait outside to watch for more eruptions, while others started wandering off to bed, but Bret and I both had to use the toilet. After brushing our teeth in the dark, with occasional fireworks from Fuego, we slid down the dirt path, our feet sinking in the soft volcanic soil, and made our way to an opening with an unobstructed view of the valley. Somehow the temperature was continuing to drop, and the wind was starting to whip against the exposed face of Acatenango. Bret and I put some distance between us and did our best to shit in the dark.

Bret couldn’t manage and gave up after a few minutes. Just as he walked past me to the ledge, we heard a boom that echoed through the valley and felt the ground shake gently. It was the largest eruption of the night, with so much lava that for a few moments we could see clear into the valley. Here I was, watching this incredible display of nature while squatting in the dark, cold and a little miserable. But the humor wasn’t lost on me. I turned to yell at Bret, “Looks like we got two eruptions at the same time!”

In the morning, I sat at the picnic tables with the bachelor squad while Oscar prepared bean burritos and instant coffee. He had that same smile and soft demeanor from the day before. You could just see in his eyes and face that he had an old soul. I thought about this as I tried a burrito, which was delicious, but the coffee was complete ass.

Everyone gathered and started hiking down the path. The sun appeared for the first time and raised the temperature to a point where we could remove layers. Bret walked alongside Yvon and Armin while I hung a few paces back and chatted with Tom, a Brit living and working outside Mexico City. He was managing a kind of branding consultant company that he started, with clients across the UK and Europe. He relocated to Mexico six months ago and had no plan to return to London.

Tom was also an old soul, and a definite hippy who was into meditation, yoga, deep retrospection, and spiritual bonds. We shared a few stories. Some of what he told me was a bit unusual for my tastes, but he was the rare person who is simultaneously an animated conversationalist and engaged listener. Not many people really care when you speak, but Tom listened and, even more, provided insightful responses.

The bachelor group caught up to the front of the pack, with my friend Mikey from the bus wearing an open jacket, sunglasses covering half his face, and a wide, goofy grin. He carried a small bottle of rum, given to him by one of the guides, and started telling some story about bullshitting his way out of a ticket with a cop back in Queens.

“Yea man, there’s this stop sign by my house that I pass every day. And cops hide behind the bushes waiting for people to roll through it. So, this one time, a cop caught me, and I thought, ‘Oh shit!He’s gonna take my license,’ because I already had a ticket. When he came to the door, I told the offisuh, ‘Hey man, I had such a bad day. I didn’t see the stop sign. I was laid off work. It won’t happen again.’ And the mothafucka let me off!”

We made it down to the trailhead and waited for the bus to bring us back to Antigua. Most of the group, including myself, fell asleep on the bus ride, though we would be jarred awake every time the driver hit a speed bump. When we arrived, Bret, Tom, and I, as well as the Canadians, had lunch together in an outdoor café and it occurred to me that probably the best part of Guatemala was the fresh produce.

Bret and I checked into a new hostel, Ojala, where we took a private room with a view of the surrounding volcanoes. It was probably the most beautiful accommodation I’d ever seen—you entered the place through a metal gate, passed reception, and found yourself in a bright courtyard with lounge chairs, hammocks, and lunch tables under umbrellas. Adjacent to the courtyard was a small coffee bar and on the opposing side an arched entryway that led to a smaller courtyard that had more privacy and green space.

We sat outside in the courtyard with iced lattes, then showered and reorganized our bags. Plans were made with the Canadians and Brits to grab dinner at a Phò restaurant. We all met outside Ojala andwalked across the small city toward the restaurant. Liv and Elaina showed up wearing bright yellow and purple ponchos with pointed hoods that made them look like they belonged to a cult organization for kids.

As we started to walk, a steady rain developed, forcing us to take shelter single file under the short sidewalk overhangs, while the cobblestone streets began flooding. When we reached the restaurant, the host told us that there was about a half hour wait, so we migrated next-door to a cocktail bar, which was mainly a courtyard with tables and chairs crammed under umbrellas. At the center of the square was a water fountain, and at the far end was a guy with a wide-brimmed hat and guitar singing American classics from the ’70s and ’80s.

We ordered cocktails and wine and got to know each other beyond the shallower conversations from the volcano trek. By the time we finished dinner, the rain had mostly stopped, allowing us to search for a bar with decent music. Closer to the hostel, we found a club with a downstairs dance floor and tequila shots for less than four quetzals, or about 50 cents. Bret ordered a round for the group and passed each shot along with a lime. We downed the shots in unison, with no one flashing the classic contorted face. “I think I feel more hydrated after that,” I said to Bret over the loud music.

We made our way to the dance floor, squeezing through the crowd at the upstairs bar, and walking down a narrow stairway where a bouncer stood guard at the landing. The dance floor was completely packed. People could barely move and just had to bop up and down to the bass. We did another round of tequila shots, which only made me more sober, and crawled through the tight gaps to find space to dance. At first, Armin and Yvon wanted to stay behind at the bar, but we managed to drag them out for a few songs.

On one side of the dance floor was a narrow platform—probably a bar during the daytime—that people used for extended dancing space. With Bret pushing me from behind, I climbed onto the far end of the platform and began dancing with my feet practically hanging off the corner. I half-expected to fall onto the group immediately below me.

We regrouped at the bar just in time to see a random woman start feeling up Yvon. She started dancing up on him in front of us, which made him noticeably uncomfortable, and us as well. She kept at it for several minutes, with Yvon not knowing how to get himself out of the situation. Bret and I fought hard to hold back our laughter—I think part of me was actually impressed at her complete lack of inhibition.

Before the night was over, we said goodbye to the girls, who were each leaving Antigua the next morning. We also departed Antigua to head to Lake Atitlan, which is a lake formed inside a volcanic crater. The Canadians agreed to combine our trips, and Yvon found a local driver on Facebook to bring us to one of the closest lakefront towns. The guy, who met us at Maya Papaya, was probably about 10 years older and drove a beat-up Honda sedan. I sat up front in the passenger seat and did my best to communicate with him in my tormented Spanish.

As we were leaving Antigua, we drove past the football stadium and saw locals waiting patiently outside the entrance, in single file, for at least a mile down the road. We learned from our driver that it was a match between the two local teams, which had a long history and heated rivalry. People stared at us as the car passed down the street, a light rain clouding the windows. Some leaned against the buildings, hiding underneath the overhangs, while others sat on the sidewalk with feet on the cobblestones. There were children, teenagers, adults, and the elderly, all congregating together, the ones positioned near the entrance presumably waiting for hours already. How much longer till the game?

We continued beyond the city limits, where the landscape transitioned to forests and farmland. About half an hour outside the city, the roads became suddenly littered with potholes, sometimes massive ditches that covered an entire lane width. Our driver had to slow the car to a crawl to navigate around the depressions, and sometimes he miscalculated, causing the car to bottom-out with a loud thud.

As we got closer to the lake, small villages began to appear off the roadside. Women walked alongside the shoulder, carrying baskets on their heads, supporting the basket with one hand and using the other to guide a child. We saw a handful of people were incredibly overweight, which was emphasized by the Coke and Pepsi logos that appeared everywhere, on the sides of vending old vending machines outside grocery markets, suspended on small signs from convenience stores, painted on the sides of buildings, probably visible from a mile distance. We started counting the signs and placed bets on whether Coca-Cola or Pepsi had a greater “presence” in Guatemala. But after we reached an absurd count, exceeding 20 for each brand, the betting lost a bit of humor. It made me wonder how much we—Americans—were responsible for the desolation and poverty of some of these places.

We made it to the town and paid our driver the equivalent of 20 dollars, for over two hours of driving. He waved us goodbye and started the return journey to Antigua. Seeing a nearby sign for toilets, I left my bag with Bret, walked over to the group of outhouses, and paid a kid 50 cents to use the one designated for men. The kid transported the money over to an old woman sitting on a wooden chair outside the entranceway. The whole place smelled awful, and the toilet was missing a seat. My heart went out to the old woman, who probably was responsible for the upkeep of this terrible place. How many tourists must pass through this area on the way to the other lakefront villages? She was maybe the first Guatemalan I saw who looked sad.

As we approached the shore, a young boy confronted us and started speaking Spanish and gesticulating toward the water. Assuming he worked for one of the water taxis, Bret said that we were trying to get to San Pedro. The boy nodded his head several times, then abruptly turned around and started walking away from us down the shoreline. We hesitated for a moment, since we were surrounded by boats also presumably shuttling people between the towns.

Ten feet away, the boy looked over his shoulder and motioned for us to follow. When he saw our hesitation, he started to insist in Spanish and some broken English. We relented and followed him past several large boats to a small blue-white vessel made of flimsy fiberglass. The boat was half-full of passengers who were mostly locals commuting back to their hometowns. We waited for another 20 minutes until the boy shepherded more people onboard. Then the captain, who was sitting on the pier smoking with some buddies, tossed his cigarette aside and climbed onto the boat toward the stern.

He powered the engine, filling the air with gasoline fumes, and backed away from the pier before pushing forward in the direction of one of the volcanoes. Picking up speed, the boat lifted itself above the waterline and skimmed across the surface, thudding as small waves crested against the bow. We stopped at two towns to drop off commuters before reaching San Pedro. The sky was grey as we stepped onto the dock and walked through a narrow alley to the cobblestone street. Yvan navigated us to the hostel, Mandala’s, which was a block away from Mr. Mullets, which, we learned, was a popular backpacker party hostel.

We turned the corner after the entrance sign for Mr. Mullets, which was a llama smiling with sunglasses and a mullet haircut. We wandered down an even narrower alley until coming across a large copper door. Pressing a doorbell off to the side, a man appeared and led us through the courtyard lobby with sofas and a hammock. A cat spied on us from the pastel blue spiral stairway that led to the rooms. At the top of the stairs was a rooftop lounge area, with a beer fridge and short centerpiece table surrounded by mats and bar stools, with a stunning view of the lake. In the near distance, music echoed from Mr. Mullets.

We put down our backpacks, showered, and went out to explore San Pedro. We had dinner at a low-key restaurant with a great view of the lake and then returned to the hostel to hang at the lounge. Armin befriended a younger Israeli woman who had just finished her military placement, where she worked in intelligence. Now, she was backpacking around parts of Central America before returning home to start law school. I think she wanted to become a human rights lawyer.

The five of us hung around the lounge, drinking beer, and chatting about all sorts of topics, from sex to politics to cultural differences—the usual conversations between people from different countries. I found that I appreciated the Israeli woman’s perspective on many of the issues we discussed, if nothing more than it seemed her ideas were independently formed.

Around 11 p.m., we decided to go out, and walked down the main street along the lake until we came across a massive dance bar. We walked inside and ordered beers. Armin and Yvan greeted another friend from the hostel in Antigua. Bret also became quite social, but the Israeli girl seemed to grow a little shy. I slipped through a crowd to the dance floor and tossed my jacket onto a wooden frame support, where no one else could reach. Bret and the Israeli girl joined me, and we danced for about 10 minutes to a great music selection, until one of the DJs abruptly lifted one of the speakers onto his shoulder and walked off the stage. His colleague muttered something in Spanish through the mic and then began disconnecting the cables. I looked down at my watch—it was 12 a.m. People began to migrate to the bar, and we assumed the DJs were just switching sets.

We bought some more drinks and, eventually, learned that the entire bar was closing at 12:30. In fact, all the bars had to close at that time, which is wild considering that San Pedro has the reputation for being a major party destination. But, sure enough, at 12:30 the entire town seemed to shut down, and everyone retreated to the hostels. We spent another few hours chatting in the lobby before bed.

Morning brought the first bit of sun to Lake Atitlan, so we hired a tuk-tuk to drive us to one of the neighboring towns. At this first town, we stopped to watch a game that can only be described as “hip ball,” where the objective was to pass a heavy rubber ball between teammates and knock it into a suspended tire before the opposing team. The men playing would crouch real low, almost lying on the ground, and hit the ball with some upward momentum to keep it in play. At one point, we actually saw someone send the ball through the tire, and the whole field started to celebrate.

At the next town, which was one of our last stops for the trip, we started climbing a steep paved street up the side of a volcano to reach a cafe with one of the best views of the lake. Just a few minutes into the walk, a guy in a pickup truck pulled up next to us and offered a ride. We all hopped in the bed of the truck and looked out at the lake as the vehicle climbed the serpentine road. About a hundred yards from the cafe, we passed a woman walking alone in the same direction. The driver stopped a few yards away. “You wanna pick her up?” he said through the back window.

He backed down the road, and we asked the woman if she wanted a ride the rest of the way. She agreed and climbed onto the truck, where we extended the invitation to join us for coffee. She ended up being a young French girl in university who was spending the summer backpacking solo around Guatemala. We all chatted for a while over cappuccinos and smoothies, and I stared out at the lake wondering how many people like us were out there, and would we ever meet them, here or somewhere else?