Category: Guatemala

We’d heard that the only marina in Guatemala (only an hour from Antigua) wasn’t a really hospitable place for yachts, so we opted to hire a car/driver from Tapachula (Puerto Chiapas) to take us the 7 hours or so to get to Antigua, Guatemala. Turned out to be a good idea and we were able to see the landscape of Oaxaca in Mexico and the western side of Guatemala. The border crossing was fine, but the woman officer helping us was in a pretty grouchy mood until a gecko landed on my head – my shrieking made her laugh and she then warmed. Bienvenidos!

Volcan Acatenango and Volcan Fuego expedition – SEE blog post!!!

New Year’s Eve in Antigua:

Ten New Colors

“The lakes and rivers that no one had discovered in these virgin jungles of America, ripple dunia waters, which will no longer be so when the are seen. Dunia… Dunia…. Dunia

— Otto-Raul Gonzalez  (painted on the wall in original Spanish and English translation at a tiny little bar, Cactus Tacos in Antigua, Guatemala)

We were drawn in by the live music, eight people, sax, drums and guitars, two back up singers, jammed in the corner. Actually I was drawn from a block away by the look of the outside, totally surprised Diana and the girls (who know me better) by insisting we cut across to check it out. It didn’t look like you could fit another person in and we chickened out, but then were drawn back and crowded in around a small table. The elbow to elbow band were all friends, jamming for New Year’s Eve. A woman Diana’s age came over, the owner of Cactus tacos, excited to see if we liked the music and to tell us that the young woman mesmerizing us with a solo was singing in public for the first time. The bartender wore a T-shirt: Trump es un Pendejo. Yep.

A mural of the Mexican revolutionary, Zapata on the wall behind the band, lyrics in Spanish and English.

I kept re-reading the quote on the wall. Dunia, dunia, dunia… It haunted me. I had no idea what the word was, but it seemed like the perfect word for an indescribable idea. Something that is gone if it is witnessed. I didn’t know the poet who wrote it was describing a color. One of ten new colors.

Maddi did a little Internet search that night, Otto-Raul Gonzalez was once minister of land reform in Guatemala, way back in the 50’s or 60’s, when Guatemala’s government was overthrown by the CIA. He was exiled to Mexico where he continued to write.

Where else might you find one of his books, more about “Dunia,” than some bookstore in Antigua, and the most famous/infamous one, attached to the No Se Cafe (where you get a free bear with each purchase). A warren of rooms trying (maybe a little too hard, maybe) to capture that speakeasy feeling. A Mezcal bar with a two shot minimum. Illegal Mezcal. Another tiny bar with live music, a woman with a beautiful Alto voice accompanied by a fiddler. Dim, dim, dim.

The guy in the bookstore, who works there primarily for free drinks, was surprised to hear us ask about Otto-Raul’s poetry. He’d heard of a translation of Diez Colores Nuevos, and he even thought he might have a copy and searched the little bookstore, but eventually decided that he must have loaned it out. He gave us a note for two free beers for a couple of other titles we purchased from the eclectic mix.

He could only think of one person who might have a copy and it was the woman who owns Cactus Tacos, Otto’s daughter!

She was delighted to see us again, and even more so, to learn we came looking for her father’s book. She told us a little bit about him, about growing up in Mexico City, his sense of humor and about his emotional ties to his exiled country. He asked for his ashes to be scattered on Lake Atitlan, but was careful to tell his children raised in Mexico that he meant the small lake of his childhood, not the big lake that draws tourists from around the world. She got a little teary-eyed remembering him, and I think our interest really meant a lot. She signed and gave us one of her last copies, along with a round of tequila shots, pictures and exchanges of Facebook info. Our trip to Guatemala was brief, but left us with a bit of poetry that will resonate for a long time.

Here’s Dunia from Diez Colores Nuevos:

Dunia are the smiles which lovers

exchange like fools

Dunia is the flower which never looks at itself

and dunia, too, is the first smile

of a new born child.

Dunia is the color of all the immaterial,

the color of absence

the color of goodbyes

and the color of music and poetry

when they go for broke.

The skin of a colt or calf

three days old is an intense dunia

the same as an embryonic pearl

the stars that can’t be seen from Earth,

closed petals of flowers

and the eyes of babies sleeping

in their mother’s womb.

What has never been touched is dunia

like the atmosphere of mirages

and the feathers of birds

we hear singing, but can’t see

The lakes and river that no one has discovered

in these virgin jungles of America

ripple dunia waters

which will no longer be so when they are seen.

Dunia… Dunia… Dunia…

 

We took a shuttle for around 4 hours to the Central Highlands’ Alto Plano town of Quetzaltenango. Never did see a quetzal bird, but did manage to spend some of the local currency, called quetzales.

Blue sky belied the howling wind, which caught my breath as soon as I stepped out of the van that had brought us to the volcano. Already lulled into tropical complacency after a couple weeks in the heat of coastal waters, the chill bite in the air nudged a small knot of apprehension. Buck up. I told myself. You’re used to the cold. I bounced on my toes to warm up and tried to remember that I’d be warm as soon as we started moving. Shouldering our packs with calculating a glance up the slopes, we started climbing.

From the outset, Volcán Acatenango rose at an unrelenting angle, the trail eroded by the footsteps of curious visitors, laden porters, and then washed away annually in the torrents of the rainy season. As we began to trudge ever upwards through the cornfields, a scruffy pack of local dogs followed close on our heels, willing to make the trek in hopes of acquiring our leftovers along the way. Their unusually healthy appearance suggested that it was probably worth the hike, more often than not. Some say the first ten minutes are the hardest. Our guide, Lando, opined that it was the first hour that felt interminable, and I’m inclined to agree. Passing by relieved hikers on their way down, we asked “how was it?” to each group in turn. “Coldest night of our lives,” they responded, a little shell-shocked. Gulp.

As we climbed steadily, the landscape changed. A patchwork of farmland gave way to the chaotic tangles of the cloud forest – dripping, lush, sounds muffled yet conspicuously loud with life. We passed a tree that had seen a millennium and a half pass by, seen the volcanoes erupt and ecosystems adapt to accommodate the changes, yet stood unscathed. At ten thousand feet we stopped to enjoy a cup of strong coffee, prepared by locals who carry the supplies up here each day to make a business out of delivering energy to weary hikers. A short but brutal push up the six hundred vertical feet of “record hill” brought us suddenly out of the cloud forest and into the sub-alpine zone, offering a breathtaking view of the Guatemalan highlands dotted with volcanoes.

A stunning traverse along Acatenango’s flank brought us to “Vista Camp,” our base for the night. As we turned the corner the summit of Volcán Fuego came into view, intermittently shrouded by racing clouds. The wind still howled, though hugging the slope offered meager protection. A couple of determined dogs who had followed us from the base waited patiently to be rewarded for their efforts. After a couple of hours rest to set up camp, catch our breath and stave off the first signs of altitude discomfort, we set off to climb the knife ridge of Volcán Fuego, hoping for a closer look at the periodic puffs of smoke and crossing our fingers for an eruption, despite the volcano’s recent inactivity. The hike to the ridge promised to be grueling: 1,300 vertical feet down to the saddle between the two peaks and then up another nearly 1,400 feet up the slopes of Fuego all in under half a mile. Then we’d have to do it all over again to get back to camp, in the dark.

Forty-five long minutes later, we stepped sweaty and panting onto the knife ridge. The tousled hummocks and stunted trees of the sub-alpine zone gave way suddenly to a quasi-lunar scene. Barren and windswept, Fuego’s ashen slopes plummeted thousands of feet into the valley below. Towering cumuli with scintillating edges rose above and around us, enveloping the sunset below. Wisps of fog chased us along the ridge, gone as soon as they came, opaque for the briefest moments before the mountain appeared again. Quiet for the time being, Volcán Fuego still struck an imposing figure above us from the ridge. From close up we could see the paths the lava had traveled, the fresh scars on the banks of the mountain. And all around the panorama of the Guatemalan highlands. It was breathtaking. We wandered and spun around and dropped our jaws in awe, and smiled and huddled (extra hugs for the birthday guy!) and tried to document the indescribable.

Finally, our chill got the better of us and we started the long haul back to camp. On the trail leading to base camp on Acatenango, a passerby with a penchant for cliché had graffitied No sabes que tan fuerte eres hasta que ser fuerte es la unica opción. You don’t know how strong you are until being strong is the only option. How painfully right he was. From the saddle Haley and Mom battled the viselike grip of altitude sickness with iron determination, struggling up every inch of the relentless mountain. With each push skyward, the relief of a moment’s rest. Another climb, encouraging words from Dad and I (the cheerleading squad) and a bouquet of flowers for each from our thoughtful guide. Behind us, shrouded in fog, Fuego’s cone remained silent and dark. Out of the blue, Haley (in the midst of an impressive second wind) shouted. “Fuego! It’s Fuego!!” I looked up from the trail, excitement bubbling. Above a ledge, less than 50 feet ahead, an orange glow flickered in the darkness. I scrambled for a better look. Hesitant to spoil the excitement, Lando informed us that what we were staring at was a campfire, not a caldera: good news in a guise of disappointment, we were almost at camp. A final push and we cleared the ledge. Applause rang out through the campsites. For a confused moment we thought somehow they were cheering for Mom and Haley’s herculean effort, then we turned. This time there was no doubt what we were seeing. For the first time in over a week, a fountain of lava spewed from the volcano with a thunderous roar as lava bombs the size of cars rocketed into the night sky, briefly free of cloud cover.

Simultaneously, Mom’s altitude sickness overcame her and she emitted her own Strombolian eruption. We laughed in disbelief at the synchronicity of this unfathomable day, and across the valley far below, the lava flowed again. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Dad! Happy birthday to you. Chocolate cake, a sip of rum, (courtesy of Lando) and molten lava aren’t a bad way to celebrate, huh? Still considering a sunrise hike of Acatenango (depending on the condition of the group) we turned in early for a restless night.

An unmistakable rumble infiltrated my dream as my conscious mind slowly caught up. My eyes flew open with a start and I scrambled towards the door of the tent, frantically struggling with the zipper. “Fuego’s going off again!!” We crowded around the tent flap, eyes wide in disbelief, and watched the mountain rain fire. Lava chunks tumbled down the mountain. Even through the fog we were awed at the enormity of the phenomenon before us, the rivers of lava flowing down Fuego’s bare slopes, the impossible height of the towering effusion, lighting up the clouds. The night continued sleeplessly, with increasingly frequent interruptions. Each time we tumbled haplessly out of the tent to watch the eruption with wide eyes. Sometimes it was a flare beyond the clouds, diffuse and ethereal. And sometimes the sky was so clear that the ocean was discernable, miles away, where the lights suddenly stopped. Then we could watch each lava bomb roll and crack and ricochet down the mountain, till the echoes finally faded into the night.

Dad and I decided against climbing Acatenango in the morning in favor of staying in camp to watch for more eruptions with Haley and Mom, still suffering the effects of the altitude. Morning dawned cold and clear, and the sunrise over Agua lit our first daylight eruption, astonishing in its enormity. There was no lava visible through the tower of ash, but the sunlight cast a reddish glow on the explosion. Only a few minutes later the magic light was gone, the sky acquiring its bluebird hue as we packed up camp for the descent and those of us who were able ate breakfast. No coffee, for the fuel had been used up trying to make a fire (unsuccessfully) with our pile of thoroughly damp wood. We guzzled water (no reason to bring that back down with us) and got ready to start our descent, pausing periodically to marvel at the latest eruption.

One last Strombolian from Fuego: catastrophic, earth-shattering, wondrous. The very air seemed to quiver in the aftermath, the ghost of the last eruption suspended against the blue sky and the last dust settling on Fuego’s flanks. We turned to join the crowds of spectators on the trail, starting the long way down. From start to finish it was a knee killer: badly eroded, often slippery, unrelentingly steep. I jogged, the heavy pack jostling with each heavy footfall. We rewinded through the ecosystems in double speed. In a blink we were slipping through the mud of the cloud forest, and then the fields of corn rose to either side. Several times we stepped off the path to let the next group of climbers pass, relieved to be on the way down. They looked daunted and sweaty. I tried to be encouraging: “It’s worth it,” I told them with a smile.

Oh, and it really was.

Maddi Stevens