I arrived in Cancun, Mexico on December 16th. As a Mecca for all-inclusive packages, it was not really on my agenda. The rest of Mexico is worthy of a trip on its own so on this occasion I stayed less that 24 hours. Around midday on the 17th I crossed into Belize for the shortest stay that I have ever had in a country, and 3 hours later crossed into Guatemala, the ancient and current homeland of the Mayan peoples.
As some of you may recall, this trip has always been about South America. Having already spent more than a month in North America and the Caribbean, you may be wondering why I am now diverting to Central America. I have no good explanation other than following my nose. Guatemala has always featured in my travelling dreams. Like Nepal, it was one of those countries that I fantasized about getting to when I took off to see the world. I was once the proud and grateful recipient of one of those indigenous Mayan shirts that began to proliferate in craft markets during the 80s. It was mainly cream-coloured, but with colourfully woven collars and cuffs. I sometimes wondered if it was made in Camden High Street, rather than Guatemala, but its first trip through the washing machine indicated that it was genuine. Every single colour (even the cream) ran. I vainly kept it hanging in my room for about a decade, resolving at least once a year to buy some of that dye-repair stuff. But, alas, it was never the same.
Ok so it’s a pretty thin reason, but I was in the vicinity (in a very general, hemispherically-speaking kind of way).
I met Justin on the bus from the Mexican border to Flores in Guatemala and we got to be good buddys over the next few days. Although he works (albeit indirectly) for the Evil Empire, he was a really good laugh. He had also been latched onto by an Italian guy who seemed to have a knack for attracting trouble, so I think he was quite glad to meet me too. We arrived in Flores late, ate late, and slept as soon as we could.
At 5am we rose to catch the first bus to the Ancient Mayan city of Tikal. My first foray into El Mundo Maya (the Mayan World) was almost stopped before it started as we found that we were locked into the hotel. After about 10 minutes of knocking and banging to see if there was anybody around with a key, we (and about 15 others) eventually had to break the locks on the front door as buses were lined up outside for us, blowing their horns and revving their engines. The main business of this hotel is from people going to see Tikal, and since most of them depart early to spend the day out there, locking the guests in seemed a little remiss to say the least. Not to speak of the fire hazard. Plus the disadvantage of not having your guests formally check out - it was only an hour later that Justin and I realized that we hadn’t paid for our room. Doh…
Our company on the bus to Tikal were a bunch of English backpackers, who having lived it large the night before, were suffering greatly. Loud stories about who had who’s dope and who got ripped off with the coke they had bought the night before, marked them out as people to avoid. In fact after we got off the bus in Tikal we never saw them again. I have a feeling they may have spent their day, if not their entire Guatemalan trip in a recovering stupor. God I sound so old…
Having dumped our bags in the only dorm room in the Jaguar Inn, we walked into the national park. Tikal is just amazing. A lush, green forest has grown mature in the midst of the ruins of an ancient city and all of it was shrouded in mist. The sun was up, but you wouldn’t have really known it. We meandered through the moss-covered ruins until we came to the Grand Plaza. The sun was finally peeking through behind Temple I, but it was still a fairly indistinct ball for most of the morning. The fog added to the sense of mystic and magic.
We climbed Temple II for some views. It’s amazing to think that someday our cities may look like this. The forest and the earth will claim all of the land again and all but the most solid of constructions will be consumed. People will wander through the trees and speculate and wonder what were our motivations, and who were our gods and what was our culture like. Can you imagine finding, in a deep, green, lush forest, the Sydney Opera House, or the Chrysler Building, or the George Pompidou Centre? Or even the “Stiffey By the Liffey” as Dublin’s new Millenium Spire has already been christened.
Climbing the Pyramid of the Lost World was a bit of a strain. Either the restorers were tall men, or the ancient Mayans had significantly longer legs than their modern day counterparts, but either way the steps were huge. But the view at the top and the cool breeze that greeted us made it all worthwhile. I was regretting not getting my hands on Graham Hancocks book, Fingerprints of the Gods, again. His theories on the ancients, if a little unconventional, are certainly interesting reading. I read it about 6 years ago, and again when I was in Egypt a couple of years ago. It would have been nice to have it on hand in another one of the sites he had investigated.
We walked on to Temples III, IV and V. The latter is being restored at the moment. It’s interesting and a little disillusioning to see how they restore it. In fact from the photos that I later saw in the museum of the before and after state of the temples, it makes you feel like the restoration turns the place into some kind of Mayan Disneyland. The restoration work is enormous and changes an indistinct pile of rocks in to a well-defined temple. But what if they are wrong? And what will our descendents make of it all if they rediscover the restored ruins?!
The trek up to the top of Temple IV was the hardest. But again, the views were breathtaking. An enormous jungle canopy stretches in every direction, with only the peaks (or combs as they are officially called) of the other three temples peaking through. The morning’s mist finally yielded to the sun’s heat, and it was gloriously warm. We sat there pondering the lost majesty of it all. Later, as we wandered back through the snaking forest trails, we saw many pyramid-shaped, foliage-covered hills gave credence to the estimate that thousands of structures remain unexcavated. What must have the original explorers thought when they emerged from the jungles?
I found out later that I had in fact seen the view from Temple IV previously – it was used in one of the Stars Wars movies. I am not nerdy enough to know (or at least not nerdy enough to at admit knowing) which movie but I think it was the one with the little furry bears from the Forest Moon of Endor….
But back to the present day explorers. We got talking to a girl at the top of the pyramid and after about 5 minutes she and I figured out that we had met before – 5 years ago in Thailand. We had been on the same train from Bangkok to Kanchanabruri and we had even shared a room for a couple of nights at the Jolly Frog Hotel at the Bridge on the River Kwai. Small world. Lost world.
After some food and a siesta, and returned to the Pyramid of the Lost World for sunset. It had the makings of a great one. We had good company up there too. I met an American family who are living on a boat and meandering through the Americas. The children, none of whom are yet in their teens, are being educated by their parents, and they get the see the world as well. I always figured I’d have to choose between the life I currently lead and the life and families that my so many of my friends are beginning to have back at home. Perhaps it is not so. Also on the pyramid was another keen photographer with a sawn-off-shotgun-shaped camera tripod. The idea being, that you bring the tripod to your shoulder and ‘shoot’ from this obviously steady position. In a country so recently emerging from Civil War it was an accessory that I would probably not have chosen to bring along.
About 5 minutes before sunset, my camera gave off a funny burning smell and then the LCD displayed the letters H E L P. With which, my beloved camera, companion and conspirator in many journeys in the last 5 years, breathed its last. In a very ironic twist (as Alanis Morrisette would say) or in a very randomly coincidental piece of shite luck (as comedian Ed Byrne might counter), I had, only 5 minutes before, spoke glowingly of my cameras resilience to the life I have put it through, and stated with some sincerity that it had served its time, and that whatever else I got out of it was a bonus. Duh…
Even more upsetting was that the moon, full and bright, had already climbed above the trees by the time the sun was done setting. There is massive security in Tikal as this area is known for its bandits, and the armed guards were keen to get us out of the park before it was too dark. However we walked back via the Grand Plaza, and were treated to the spectacular sight of the temples in the moonlight, with the full moon resting on the shoulders of Temple I. I hadn’t planned to be here for full moon but I have to say, distracted as I was by the loss of my camera, my first full moon in the Mayan lands was awe-inspiring. I look around in despair as others pulled out tripods and timers and set up their pictures. I am hoping the promised copies I begged for later, will someday be forthcoming. Our roommates at the hostel, Simone and Beat in particular looked like they knew what they were doing…? Please guys??
We had a very pleasant dinner with Ian from Canada and Rob & Karen from Limerick/Belfast, and conversation on my homeland dominated as we all figured out where we stood on everything, i.e. how Munster were doing in the rugby. The restaurant closed around 9, which was signalled by them turning all the power off. We took the hint and departed.
A brief discussion ensued on whether we would re-enter the park after dark. But given the number of armed men who were “protecting” us from going back in there, we decided to call it a night.
The next morning, being still devastated at the loss of my camera, I decided not to go with Justin to the famed sunrise spot at the top of Temple IV, and instead took a guided tour of the ruins. Unfortunately I missed an amazing sunrise, as our guide droned on a little too long at the start of the tour. Still, he was an interesting chap, and seemed to have been involved for a quite a long time in the excavations and archaeological exploits in the area. Plus there are always Justins photos (particularly the Ghosts series) to look at (http://groups.msn.com/JustinCarderPics/justinincentralamerica.msnw?Page=1) - thanks Justin.
A couple of hours later, I found myself wandering alone with my pocket camera, which, having a black and white roll loaded, made a reasonable substitute for my expired SLR. The nicest part about walking alone in the forest was the quietness and the solitude, and the spectacular treat of glimpsing a tower or temple or pyramid through the trees when you turned your head or turned a corner. You could almost imagine you were the first explorer. Especially if you have a beaten-up old Drizabone hat like I do. Just think of Uncle Travelling Matt from Fraggle Rock and you’ll get the picture….
We headed back to Flores after lunch, and Justin took off on the back of a motorbike at 3.15 to catch a 3.30 flight from Flores airport. I would have liked to stay a couple of more days in Flores, but I was keen to see if I could get my camera fixed, so instead, I booked myself on the overnight bus to Guatemala City. I still had a few hours in Flores though and spent the rest of the day wandering around. The sunset over the lake was beautiful, and I envied the canoeists who were sitting out in the middle of the lake for it. It must have been a special place to be.
The overnight bus trip was a little restless. The woman beside me had her 4 year old son in her lap and he slept in a star shape – legs and arms all over the place. While having the arms or the head of a small child leaning gently against me did make me a little wistful for fatherhood, the third time I was awoken with a kick to the goolies made me glad for my continued bachelorhood.
Guatemala city has a reputation for being dangerous after dark. We arrived at 5 am, about 90 minutes before sunrise, and everybody who got off the bus, and most of them were Guatemalan, stayed rooted in the bus station until the sun was well up. As a result I didn’t really have a strong desire to stay any longer than necessary.
I wandered around for the day from camera shop to camera shop, and despite the cities reputation I found the locals to be unfailingly helpful, friendly and courteous. Several shops made serious (and free) investigations into the camera, only to find they hadn’t the tools or parts. It was late in the afternoon before I finally found somebody who told me that Minolta doesn’t have a distributor in Guate and therefore there was nobody who could fix my camera, and very little chance of me replacing it. Since I had Minolta-specific accessories and lenses, I really did need another Minolta camera.
The next morning, I arose at 5 am to call home, but couldn’t get through. Instead, seeing as the day was so young, I thought I’d get on my way. I caught a cab to the insane market that cunningly disguises the other bus station in Guate. The public buses are known universally as the Chicken buses in Guatemala, although I, for one, have yet to see a chicken on them. Every other possible commodity but not any chickens yet. The buses are almost all former school buses from the US and Canada which bear little resemblance to their former life or role. For a start, seats that were designed for two schoolchildren now seat at least 3 adults. Engines that were designed for slow relaxed driving, twice a day, to and from school, are now driven up and down endless hairpin bends at alarming speeds from morning till night. And they look a little different from their original life too. The yellow buses with black stripes have been transformed into high-speed, death-defying, over-crowded works of art. The colours, the designs, the panache, the buses driven at high speed, the drivers driving while high on speed.
My destination was Chichicastenango, home to a very large and colourful Sunday market. The Mayan villages descend on the town on Saturday nights to buy and sell their wares on the Sunday morning. Most of their customers are each other, but vast hordes of camera-toting backpackers also descend on the town to share in the experience and to buy clothes/trinkets that they will probably never wear/use/sell when they get home. So it is strongly advised to get into town on Friday night or Saturday morning for the Sunday market.
I got to Chichi at about 9am on the Saturday morning and managed to get one of the last 2 beds in the town. The owner had been quite rude when I tried to haggle on his high price, but I soon consented when another girl arrived having tried 7 other hotels, all of which were full. It’s a sellers market on market day and so Nikola from Germany took the other bed in my room.
As well as being market day, it was the last weekend of Chichi’s annual festival – the Fiesta de Santo Tomas, and the place was filling up fast. A weekend of madness ensued. For a country emerging so recently from a 36-year civil war, the obsession with very loud firecrackers and fire works seems a little unhealthy. That along with the 4 very amplified marimba bands who were playing within earshot of each other, the dancing troupes in front of each band (wearing costumes which mocked everybody from cartoon heroes to the Spanish Conquistadores), the massive swelling crowds, the constant smoke from the frying food, and the heat of the day, meant that hanging out in the square outside the Church of Santo Tomas was probably not a good idea. However, this was the only place to see the famed Palo Voladores – the crazy men who ascend to top of 40 metre pole and sitting in opposing harnesses, spin crazily at great heights and at great risk to their lives.
Or so the guidebook said.
We staked out the square for the entire day, and never saw one person climb that damn pole. In the meantime we were terrorised from the loud and very proximate explosions that went off every 2 seconds. On top of that, I had my second pick-pocketing experience of the trip. A crowd I was walking through swelled, and I found my pockets being groped. My two zipped pockets were undone before I got to them. I caught the hand that was on my money purse but it slipped free before I could grab it. The other hand had gone in and out of my side pocket, which had contained my pocket camera, my pocket camera case (a flat leather case) and a couple of other bits. Fortunately, the only thing taken was my camera case. The leather must have made it seem like a wallet, as the camera was untouched.
In some ways it was a lucky escape, but in others I was really really pissed about it. I had always had a clean record when it comes to being robbed, and it was as much the loss of this record as the concern that my profile had moved from being ‘not-worth-robbing’ to ‘worth-robbing’ that bugged me most. On top of all that, I got back to my hotel room to find that my deodorant had been robbed from my toilet bag. (Nikola denied taking it although she refused an armpit inspection....)
There was much to like in Chichi. The festival was wild, the costumes and colours were extraordinary, the fireworks, the noise, the market, the wares, the Mayan clothes, the food, the drinks and the drunks. It all conspired to make an interesting weekend. The hotel owner, once he had mellowed out a little, told me that 15 years ago there used to be a lot more drunks on the street (“they drink like horse” he said frequently before telling me that he learnt the phrase from two Irish girls he used to work with in New York). However, he continued, most people had converted from Catholicism to Protestantism and now there were much fewer drunks. Not sure how much the Pope would like hearing that.
I left Chichi on the Monday morning, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, the town was really trying to get to me. As well as losing my camera case and deodorant, while I was walking to the bus, an tiny old Mayan lady whipped the back of my thighs with some plastic cord as she walked past. Perhaps I had interrupted her pickpocketing the previous day or something. I don’t know. Either way, I kicked the dust off my boots before leaving the town.
My next destination, Antigua, is the prize jewel in Guatemala’s tourist crown and its former capital city. Its full name, Antigua Guatemala simply means Old Guatemala. So its shortened name really just means “Old”.
“Is this bus going to Old, Seńor?”
“Si, Gringo”.
It is verifiably beautiful, it is clean and safe and it attracts wealthy tourists who spend lots of money and ask few awkward questions about indigenous rights, political corruption and other such indiscretions. It’s a picture perfect Spanish colonial town, with cobbled streets, and ruined churches, and great restaurants and bars and a very pleasant central park in the heat of the day or the cool, lamp-lit evening. There are good bookshops and web access and sanitised craft markets. The churches that have survived the earthquakes are beautiful and those that haven’t are mystical, and since the city is surrounded on three sides by volcanoes, one of which puffs out smoke on a regular basis, there is a barely a view that is not picturesque.
In other words, a perfect spot to veg out for Christmas.
On the bus to Antigua, a rather large, rotund and greasy looking guy tried to pick my pocket as well, but I was not having any of it. I then spotted him picking the pocket of a local man. Comparing stories with another traveller a few days later, I found more evidence about the same guy. I think he just works buses in and out of Antigua all day. God I hate pickpockets.
I met Lucy and Caroline from Australia and Conor from Ireland on the bus. They recommended their guesthouse in Antigua so I followed along. I ended up sharing a dormitory with another Neil – this one a Newfoundlander and as the name implies, and all-round top bloke. Lucy and Caroline turned out to be great value and their stories of their time volunteering in Costa Rica were pricelessly funny. In truth the stories were outrageous, as some of the work they were asked to do was not only unneeded, it was unwanted. For example, they spent all day digging up a terraced field, only interrupted once by a crazy old man shouting at them, to find out later that the crazy old dude owned the field, owned the crops they were destroying and was not the owner of the field that they should have been brought to, which was somewhere else. The organization that was directing their efforts seems like it doesn’t know its ass from its elbow. It was well that they could laugh at the situation really, but I have a feeling that there will be hell to pay in a certain volunteer organization when they get back to Aus. In the meantime, Conor, Neil and I were trying to convince them that most of their efforts would turn up on Costa Rican Candid Camera.... (“Wait till you see what we got the Gringo Girls to do this week…”)
We spent the next few days over Christmas doing very little except eating and talking and drinking and relaxing. We found an Irish pub in Antigua and left quite a few bob behind the counter. The owners (an Irish couple and their Swedish partner) were getting a hard time from the local authorities who were making it as difficult as possible for them to keep their business going. On top of that, they hadn’t quite managed to convince Guinness to supply them with the precious black nectar either. If anybody out there can help – send your liquid donations to Reillys Pub, Antigua, Guatemala, Centro America.
We spent a lot of time on Christmas Eve and a lot of money on Christmas Eve, buying a vast amount of food to eat on Christmas day. This was in addition to the turkey dinner that we were booking on Christmas night. You can live to excess wherever you are in the world.
I started Christmas Day with a hot shower and a new t-shirt (luxuries, both). This was followed by an Irish breakfast (care of me, although not quite your Dennys Irish Sausages), an outstanding fruit and rum punch (care of Conor), some fantastic shrimp in garlic sauce(care of Neil), lots of crackers, cheese, Pringles, nuts and Champaign. Some great tales were told, and we were joined for a while by Nat and John from Australia who had great tales of their trip from Mongolia. A fabulous day of do-nothingness.
At 6pm we went out to see the Christmas Parade and more fireworks. Vast amounts of crackers were again set off. Somebody finally explained the obsession with fire-crackers - apparently they scare away the devil, which was particularly necessary for the Christmas parade as the Virgins statue being carried up the street. As in Chichi, she was preceded by advance troops who with hooked poles lifted all the low-lying telephone and electricity wires over her head.
Finally at eight, we went and gorged ourselves on a completely unnecessary dinner of turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, and all the rest. They had, disappointingly, run out of cranberry sauce, but everything else was just perfect, including the roaring fire we were seated by. We even got a complimentary drink. And to top off the day, as we waddled home around 11 we were serenaded in the street by some talented musicians.
Stephens Day started much as Christmas day had, with waffles and honey and scrambled eggs. All of which would have been consumed the day before if we had had the energy to cook or the space to consume. I had acquired a large but relatively painless lump in my forehead. After assuring me it was a worm or some other parasite ferreting its way into my brain, the girls left early for Lago De Attilan while Neil and I toured the sights for the day.
It seemed like the gods didn’t like the presence of Catholic churches in the area. Considering the frequency and timing of the destructive earthquakes that Antigua has suffered, it seems it was all designed to eliminate each church a couple of years after it was built. I also endeavoured to search for a friend of my mother’s family, Fr Alfredo O’Loughran, a Franciscan friar from my hometown. Unfortunately, he seemed to have moved on.
Conor had spent the next day arranging flights and plans, but despite the fact that Caroline had left us with headcolds, Neil and I climbed Volcan Pacaya in the afternoon. The bus ride there was awful, as I spent most of it perched on my tailbone (which does still have its uses, despite what the anthropologists say – it was the only thing keeping me on the seat).
The climb was lovely, and our guide Augosto was most unique in his enthusiasm. I’m not sure I have ever met such a happy tour guide. Security was provided on the climb as many backpackers had been robbed or assaulted on this volcano. Although to be honest from the look of the boyos providing security, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they proved both security and insecurity, depending on whether you paid or not. Pacaya is still quite active, and although the caldera was shrouded in mist and cloud, putting your hand a couple of centimetres into the soft dust revealed hot burning sand. A nice warmer-upper at the damp, cold and unfortunately, fog-bound, peak.
We all ran at full tilt down through the volcanic scree (Mark I’m sure you remember how much fun this was on Tongararo), and none of us enjoyed it more than Augosto, our guide, despite his doing it every day. His good humour was really infectious. We got below the cloudline for a beautiful sunset, and I managed to perch my botty on a full seat for the way back. We finished the evening with a last few beers with Conor for a few last beers as he took off the next day for some voluntary work on the coast in Champerico.
Next morning, I delayed my enquiry a little too long, and my hoped-for overnight-trip to Monterrico to see the baby-turtle race from the local Turtle Sanctuary couldn’t transpire as the bus had already left. So instead, Neil and I headed for Lago De Attilan. At this point, we had almost got used to calling each other by our own name. I haven’t met that many Neals/Neils in my lifetime so it was a little weird to use my own name. And everybody we met, especially in the pub, thought we were putting them on when we introduced ourselves.
After our bus ride to Panajachel (the fat pickpocket showed up again), Neil and I caught the boat to San Pedro, across the lake from Pana. We found our hotel, grabbed a bite to eat, and then Neil suddenly got as sick as small hospital. My cold had gotten worse and between my snuffles, and sneezes, and headaches, and his vomiting and fevers and chills, it was shaping up to be a classic New Year in San Pedro.
The next day, Lucy and Caroline showed up again, and moved into the room next door. Neils illness was receeding, and my cold was still being battled on all fronts, so we took it very easy for the next few days. Alot of tea, and alot of sitting around and alot of talking. Despite the desire for rest, we did take off horse-riding for a few hours on one day. As it was only the second, and last, time in this lifetime that I will partake in such an activity, I am hoping that my chances at parenthood are not completely extinguished. It certainly felt like they were.
You learn so much when you are travelling. Not just from the countries that you visit and the cultures you observe, but you also meet people from so many walks of life, into whose orbit you would normally not stray. In this part of the trip alone, I was in the company of jazz musicians, wilderness guides, sustainable agriculture consultants, web site editors. Sometimes the only thing that we had in common was the desire to travel. And yet, in talking to them about their lives and their experiences you learn more about the world that your have left behind than you would have learnt if you had never left it. If travel broadens the mind, so too, if not more so, do the wonderful people you meet on the way.
That being said, there were times I felt that my mind was getting a little old for broadening. Having asked me at one point how long I had sported a goatee (on and off since 1992), Lucy and Caroline couldn’t help responding that they were 8 years old when I first grew it. This was something that was repeated several times with a lot of laughter at my expense, and something that stuck in my head for weeks afterwards. In fact it got even worse when their friend Christopher turned up and was 2 years younger again. None of them had ever even heard of the TV Series “Cheers” for Gods sake. Talk about feeling my age....
New Years was going to be a feast of beer and food. No great surprise there. The occasion was spoilt a little by some assholes that were staying in the same hotel and were throwing crackers off the roof for hours. The crackers have short fuses, which meant that anything thrown from the fourth floor invariable blew up beside the second floor, where we were staying. The last straw came when one blew up right beside Caroline’s head. Both Lucy and I went up to ask them to stop, but a small Caroline-shaped tornado swept up the stairs after us and almost ripped through all-and-sundry. That girl will go a long way if she can direct that temper... Not that any of it had much of an effect on the American asshole that was throwing the crackers. She asked him why he didn’t bugger off and join the US Army if he wanted to blow things up. He replied that he had tried but they didn’t want him. ‘Nuff said.
Despite the fact that everybody (especially Lucy, poor chuck) who wasn’t Neil had a cold and Neil was still suffering from his stomach bug, we made a damn good effort at celebrating New Year. Much beer, and many margaritas were consumed. We headed out to the point after midnight came and several countdowns had passed. A few bonfires with hosts of gringos were lounging around and displays with pairs of swinging firepots were the order of the night. Caroline, Neil and I struggled to stay up till about 4.20, and then struggled home to take our medicines.... The night’s activities (or was it the cold and flu remedies) got the better of me around then, and with very little in the way of a dignified exit, I, ahem, retired for the night… Lets just say that 2003 didn’t really start with the level of dignified self-conduct that would have befitted the elder lemon of our little gang.
New Years Day? Hmm…. I don’t think anything happened. Apart from a hurting brain. Bad BAD alcohol.
On the 2nd Neil, Chris and I hiked around the lake to San Marcos. We were stopped by police on the way who told us it wasn’t safe for us to be out there. They made chopping like actions near each others arms, indicating that our hands would be chopped off by machete-wielding bandits. This was all said in a matter-of-fact way. In fact this kind of danger was always an undercurrent in San Pedro and indeed in Guatemala. Several places were off-limits without guides or armed security, and enough stories abounded about people being robbed and assaulted for us to take the warning seriously.
In fact, Conor told us that he had been hiking with two girls to a volcano in San Pedro and they were robbed at the top. Conor had nothing worth taking apart from his cigarettes (which they took, although he managed to get one fag back before they left), but the girls that he was with lost their daypacks, cameras, lunch and even their boots. So when we set out, we only had stuff with us that we were prepared to lose, but even so, we were deemed a target by the local constabulary. It was more than a little frustrating to be honest. To be made a prisoner in a town by the propensity of bandits waiting outside the town to separate me from my belongings (or hands) made me question if my presence (and tourist dollars) would be safer spent elsewhere.
Still, the warning was welcome – the police certainly had nothing to gain, other than good karma, from warning us off. We heard another story later of the same policemen chasing down a local thug who had decided to accompany a couple of tourists who were doing the same hike as us. This individual turned out to be carrying a small bottle of petrol and his M.O. was to sprinkle it liberally on tourists and then threaten them with a lighting Zippo.
Caroline and Lucy and Chris headed for Mexico on the 4th, and were much missed, and Neil headed for Antigua. I stayed in the hotel for the day and slept and sweated and tried to shift the cold that still lingered. The cold sores on my lip and nose were receeding but I was still feeling pretty crook and generally sick of being sick too.
After a day and half in bed, I got moving again, and headed to Xela (also known as Quetzaltenango) for my long overdue Spanish classes. As Xela is higher, and colder, and damper than Lago De Attilan, this move did nothing for my cold, and it persisted for the entire week.
Many people, particularly north Americans, travel to Guatemala for intensive, one-on-one Spanish lessons. Most go to Antigua, but I had heard that Xela was a nice town with fewer gringos, and hence a greater chance of speaking more Spanish. Plus there was the possibility of having classes with a recommended Spanish teacher, Maria, who also happened to be a former guerrilla with a clutch of great tales. Unfortunately, Maria, and the school she was working for, were both overbooked.
Instead, I went to Celas Maya school. My first impression of my teacher, Rocael, was that he was a grumpy old bastard. Just from the look on his face really. It turned out to be wrong. He was in fact a very friendly, very jovial and very humourous man. Which was nice but not necessarily quite what I was looking for, as he spent the entire week greeting everybody who walked by our desk or stopped by the nearby coffee machine. He had a word and a handshake for everybody. I found out later in the week that he is a local politician and since it is election year, his behaviour was to be expected I guess.
Despite this though, we covered a lot of ground in Spanish grammar, and our conversations were stimulating too, as he tried to explain the political system to me at both the local and national level. Two major parties, FRG who are currently in (a very unpopular) government, and PAN, dominate the national scene. His party, Xelaju, dominate the city politics and the current mayor was planning to run on the national ticket in next Novembers presidential elections. His running-mate I was told, would possibly be Rigoberto Menchu, the 1992 Nobel Peace Prize winner and author whose book on the civil war and conditions of the indigenous Mayans brought Guatemala rather embarrassingly to the world stage a few years ago. And since his mayoral seat would then be free, to be taken by a senior member of the party, Rocael was planning a move up the ranks.
I felt quite cruddy all week with my cold, so I didn’t take part in too many of the schools extra curricular activities. I did go on the visit we made to an indigenous women’s weaving cooperative and it was as enlightening about the amount of work that goes into their products as it was about the beauty of some of the work.
As this was meant to be immersion study, I also stayed with a local family for the week. Perhaps my expectations were a little high, but rather than getting to speak Spanish all week, my contact with the family, and in fact it was only with the mother of the family too, was restricted to mealtimes. Other than that, it was no different from staying in a hotel. Not quite what it was sold as, but there you go. If fact the conversations improved when another student, Boris, from San Francisco, but originally French, moved into the house midweek and we could talk to each other. Its not that I think my hostess wasn’t trying, I just didn’t feel that the family were too keen on being involved, and I don’t think the school had given them guidelines on what they needed to provide in terms of exposure.
One other thing to mention about Xela. My best mate, Mark, co-star of most of the Asian, Australian, New Zealand and England expeditions, worked absolute wonders and had a new camera delivered to DHL in Xela in the first week in January. I cannot thank him enough for his sterling efforts in this regard and hope only that my photos match the effort and belief that he invested in them. And DHL were very helpful too.
I went to Todos Santos the following Sunday. Since my cold and cough still hadn’t quite cleared, and since Todos Santos is even higher in the mountains, this might not have seemed like a good idea. In fact, the high, clean air seemed to have an immediate good effect. I signed up for another four days of Spanish in the Hispano Maya school.
This school was smaller and the coordinator, Therese, as well as the coordinator of the other school in town, Renee, provided an excellent selection of extra-curricular activities. My teacher wasn’t quite as good as Rocael had been in terms of organizing the class, and to be honest she seemed a little bored by the whole thing. However, I did plough through an amount of grammer that I still have to revise and learn, but now that I have the notes at least I can do some work myself. At some point.
The family I stayed with were nice, although again, it seemed that I was only really spoken to at mealtimes, and then only if I initiated the conversation. And this was in the house of a teacher and 6 other adults too. I spent more time talking to Juanito (4), Melissa (5) and Noemi (6) than I did to all the adults combined. And the kids were quick enough to correct me when I got it wrong. In fact they were really great fun even though they covered me in muck on a few occasions while clambering on top of me.
Living conditions in Todos Santos are basic at the best of times. This was compounded by the fact that my family had dug up their entire plumbing system the week I was there. The other thing that amazed me was the fact that despite the persistent cold, no attempt was made to heat the house. The only fire was the kitchen range-cooker, and the door of the kitchen was always wide open. I can only assume this lack of heat was the reason why, on one particularly damp evening, Seńor Juan, the grandfather, was seated on top of the range, in his armchair, with all the dinner pots bubbling around his feet. Nobody thought to explain to me whether they were cooking him, or whether it was for his arthritis, so I thought it impolite to ask.
I did have a great week there, and I learned a lot more than just Spanish. We did some fantastic hikes in the surrounding countryside, up to some ceremonial Mayan caves on one occasion, to a weaving village on another. I also hiked up on my own to the top of Central Americas highest, non-volcanic peak, at La Torre. The views were spectacular, and Geronimo, the guy guarding the radio tower at the top, was a very pleasant host. There was also two movies nights (one with Lord of the Rings, and the other, Like Water For Chocolate in Spanish) which were both excellent even if we were all huddled under blankets to ward off the cold.
For company, I had Therese, our hardworking school coordinator from the US, Phillip, a massage therapist, also from the US, Melissa a soon-to-be-medical student from the US, and a really sweet young Israeli couple, Yair and Dana. The other Spanish school joined us for activities so Nils, an engineer from Denmark and Halie, a journalist from the US, as well as their Swiss coordinator Renee. A big dinner on Wednesday night was the social highlight of the week with vast amounts of food consumed, as well as a little alcohol to stave off the cold night...
The educational highlight of the week for me, was the 4 hours where I managed to view two documentaries on Todos Santos, and then attend a lecture on Mayan cosmovision and related topics. The documentaries were made before and in the wake of, the army occupation and massacres in 1982. It shed a light on the recent history of the town that none of the locals talk much about. Relatively speaking, Todos Santos escaped lightly, compared to many other indigenous villages in the region which were exterminated by the government in an attempt to remove support and recruits for the guerrillas. Incredibly the war criminals who ordered these massacres are still in the higher echelons of power both in the government and the military, and one of them is running for president again in November.
The movies were followed by a lecture by a local historian who is also the chairman of the national shamans association. His fascinating and enlightening lecture on the Mayan religion, the calendar, its sciences and its rituals have ignited in me a desire to read more about this ancient people, whose civilization was at its height while we in Europe was staring suspiciously out of the caves at each other.
The Mayans are known to have invented zero before the Greeks did, and their knowledge of the stars and the seasons still stands up to scrutiny. On top of which their grasp of the interdependence between mankind and mother earth is something our society has lost in its entirety, as we make the earth sicker and sicker and then wonder why she is abandoning us to our misery. The Mayan calendar for this epoch ends in 2012. However, it’s not a doomsday year. Just one of great change and great upheaval and it is believed that those who live as we should live, in balance and harmony with our planet, will survive and prosper. And those that don’t, will no longer be supported by the sickened planet. Our lecturer also said that the many of the Mayan people of today are as compromised and as lost as the rest of us. It gave us all pause for thought.
Having heard so much about the struggle of the indigenous people, I did, sometime later, purchase Rigoberto Menchu’s first book, the one which was largely responsible for bringing the plight of the Mayans to the worlds attention, and her name to the attention the Nobel Peace Prize committee. Her history and that of her people were undoubtedly horrendous, and I do not want, in any way, to belittle her struggle, her tortures, and the abuse of her people, but I must admit that there were times that I couldn’t help comparing it to one of my least favourite books, Peig, which will be familiar to all my compatriots and old school friends. Both are utterly joyless books and both of the authors, even on days when they aren’t being downtrodden and victimised, they spend their time reinforcing their misery by focusing on how miserable they are. For example, when recalling the day of her sisters wedding she recounts the vow that her sister takes as follows:
“The girl says: ‘I will be a mother, I will suffer, my children will suffer, many of my children will die young because of the circumstances created for us by the white man. It will be hard for me to accept my children’s death but I will bear it because our ancestors bore it without giving up’”.
Much of the book is in this tone. Perhaps I am insensitive, and certainly I am ignorant of the trauma that these people suffered, but there must be something healthy in the power of positive thinking. Even for a day, even for an hour, even in taking a wedding vow which aspires to a better future. Perhaps I am victim of my own culture (and I am speaking of the ‘western’ world here) which, far more than the Mayan peoples, is in utter denial that we are architects of our own destruction. Perhaps we need to share their realism rather than they share our optimism. I don’t know.
In the end, Todos Santos was such a lovely town that even while I was leaving, I knew I should stay longer. However my plan was to do the full moon hike from Xela to Volcan Tajamulco, the highest peak in Central America and it was too much of a lure. The guides were from Quetzaltrekkers in Xela, a voluntary tour group whose profits go to support a school for street kids.
We set off early last Saturday for the base of Tajamulco. Our quiet but confident leader was Franz from Austria. The rest of the group made up of Carlos and Alberto, two young lads from Quetzaltrekkers school, Teresa, a trainee guide from New York, Sean from Seattle, Celine from Belgium, Martin and Julia from Germany, Marie from New Hampshire, Simon and Claire from Manchester, Nathanial from Oregon, and Eric from France. And a lovely crew it was too.
We shared out the common gear between us, and everybody had some food and at least 4.5 litres of water. Marie, after suffering a bad stomach for the morning, was eventually convinced to continue, and we distributed most of her gear in other backpacks. Her recovery, coinciding with our arrival at the top, led to scurrilous allegations of faking, particularly by me as I had then almost 8 litres of water in my possession, as well as which, none of my food portions were consumed during lunch on the way up. Too much for an old man like me. The conversations in the group ebbed and flowed all the way open depending on how out of breath we all were. Considering the steepness and the altitude, I am surprised we got past introducing ourselves.
We set up camp at 4,000 m and went in search of firewood. Camped nearby was a large group from Guatemala City. We had met them on the way up and they appeared to have rum and whisky but no water, food or sense with them. Once the fire was lighting, we trotted to the top of the nearest peak, about 100 m higher, for sunset. Only a few of us went – the rest were convinced that the clouds would block everything.
We were rewarded with a spectacular vista of gold and yellow and red. As soon it went dark seemed like the entire landscape dropped away to twinkling lowland carpet as the villages and towns lit up. Soon afterwards, the sighing, cooling earth was coddled for the night with a woolly white blanket of cloud stretching out to the horizons. We, in our lofty perch, high above the cloud banks, had the clear, star-filled sky and, later, a shimmering and brilliant full moon to illuminate our view of the nine other volcanic peaks piercing the white blanket, and later, to light our descent back to our camp.
In the meantime, Franz had whipped up a fantastic fire and an even more fantastic dinner, and afterwards we sat around the campfire, wondering how long it would take our neighbours to pass out from alcohol. In fact it turned out that they were worse that drunken party animals – they were CHRISTIANS!! God almighty if they sang one holy song they must have sang ten. We were going to reply with “Bridget McGrath” or some devil worshiping song, but we didn’t quite have the heart. On and on and on all evening. Give me drunks anytime.
We sat around talking, in English and Spanish and German and a bit of French, and poking the fire till about 9 or 10, and then shuffled off to our tents. I shared a tent with Simon and Claire, the two coppers from Manchester who had been such great company on the ascent. They were at the end of a 13-month trip around the world, and are full of mixed emotions about the niceness of going home and the sadness of the trip being over. They were also replete with some great tales.
We all slept restlessly. The altitude, the smoke, the Christians, all resulted in my waking up every couple of hours. Simon suffered alot during the night from altitude sickness, which only seemed to get to him when he went to bed. We were due to get up early to climb to the summit for sunrise, and by the time my alarm went off at 4.30am, his headaches and nausea had got worse.
I stumbled from my sleeping bag and back into the single piece of clothing that I had removed before going to bed (my fleece). The climb to the top was tough. It was dark and cold and we were all a little stiff from the previous days climbing. Not to mention the god-awful earliness of the hour. But boy was it worth it. The cloud blanket was still there, moon-lit in the west, and increasingly gilted and rouged and yellowed by the reflected dawn light in the east. The curling line of the 9 other volcanoes stretched out to the pacific. It was at the end of this perfect leading-line that the sun chose to smile its first rays on us. I was torn between staring and photographing, and in truth the brilliance and the colours lasted long enough for there to be ample time for both.
Our Christian friends started up again with more god-chanting but they were so good-natured and happy that even the most cynical (me) couldn’t help but smile at them. Finally, in a move that will surely have him canonized, or at the very least, knighted for services to the chilly, Franz produced a box of the most beautiful, most tasty, most scrumptious cookies that I have ever had the privilege of consuming. What a legend.
The morning rays eventually streaked across the blankets of cloud and kissed our cold and runny noses. As it did, the full moon beat a valiant retreat behind the western hills, and we circled the caldera, soaking up the suns heat on our way back to the camp, our rekindled fire, and a big serving of oatmeal for breakfast. We broke camp and peeled off our outer layers of clothes as we descended to warmer altitudes.
The descent was a little faster than I would have chosen but there were only two buses out of the area, so it was safer to aim for the first. Lots more conversations on the way down, as well as some photos. As always, two shorten the road, and I had Marie for company on the way down. Deep discussions on life, on religion, on travel and other navel gazing topics soon had us all back in Xela before we knew it.
The plan was for us all to meet up for dinner that evening, but only Franz and I showed up. Sean arrived later for a couple of beers and by the time that Marie managed to get there, we were all a little tipsy. No matter, Monday had nothing on the agenda except getting every single item of clothing, as well as myself, washed and dried.
The washing of all my clothes required some militarily-precise planning. The only clean things left to wear were my swimming shorts (not speedos you’ll be glad to note) and a tee-shirt. There are only about 2 hours in the middle of the day where it is possible to be so-attired, it being cold and damp in the morning, and, um, cold and damp in the evening. This therefore had to coincide with the two hours it takes for the launderette to wash and dry a full load.
Monday night was a spectacular night for other reasons. I went to see the new James Bond movie. What a laugh. Actually I went to see the second Lord of the Rings movie but stuffed up my timing, so it was Mr Bond instead. There were more than Halle Berry who had their world rocked though – in the middle of the move, an earthquake hit Xela. Never having been in one before, it never occurred to me what it was. In fact since I had my feet off the ground and on the seat in front, I assumed it was only my seat moving. I thought, in fact, that somebody was bonking in the row behind me. “Did the earth move for you, Mish Moneypenny?” “Why, yes James, it did”. Typical.
My comrades at the movies were some of the gang from Todos Santos, Yair and Dana, Phillip and Melissa. Have you ever met someone that you instinctively get on with without knowing why? Phillip and I had chatted about various subjects during our week in Todos Santos but it was only in waiting for the movies to start that I figured out why we got on – he was a serial VW Kombi owner. I would have been happy to abandon the movies and spend the evening chatting about the Dubs.
With this gang, plus the group from the trek, the week in Xela passed quickly. I was adopted by the expat/volunteer community and got a glimpse of the life they lead. My plans to leave on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday all fell by the wayside. Its always hard to leave good company.
My evenings were largely spent with the trekkers or the school-gang, and the days exploring Xela and the surrounding villages. On the Wednesday I went up to the village of San Francisco del Alto to see what must be one of the biggest and most diverse markets I have ever seen, selling everything from livestock to vegetables to curiously colourful twine-woven shopping bags. It is principally supplied by small farmers and salesmen, every single one of whom drives a Toyota pick-up truck. In fact aside from the Bluebird bus company who have sown up the public transport side of things, Toyota supplies almost every other moving vehicle in the country. And even some of those which are not moving.
On Thursday evening I visited the famed Café Q for dinner. I had tried to go there on my very first night in Xela, but at the time it was closed for the Christmas and New Year holidays. A sign indicated it would re-open on the 20th of January. At the time, I thought to myself that there was absolutely no way I would STILL be in Xela by the 20th. I thought I might even be as far south as Panama. Oh the innocence…. Café Q was worth the wait though – and the company, particularly a Scottish journalist called Andy, made for a very interesting evening.
I had decided to do another trek and in the end it came to choosing the one leaving on Friday or waiting another week and accompanying Franz on his final trek with the group. It would have been nice to do Franz’ last trek, particularly since a lot of the same gang were getting back together for it. But tempus was fugitting and I felt like I should get on the road. As usual I was torn and in this case sought inspiration in a book of poetry I found in my room.
The page opened had one of my favourites, from Robert Frost:
“These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promised to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.”
It was enough of a sign, so I bade farewell to my friends and for the second Friday in a row, packed my rucksack for a weekends walking. In the next 48 hours we walked more than 50kms through the mountains and valleys of northern Guatemala, following the routes beaten bare by the guerrillas during the long years of resistance. The second day in particular, was undoubtedly the longest days walking I have ever done, but ended in the most spectacular campsite I have ever slept in, on a hill overlooking a lake which was once described by Aldous Huxley as the most beautiful place in the world.
Our guide, Amanda, was pretty, pleasant and petite. She was also one of the strongest and resilient hikers I have ever met and an enthusiastic leader. Not only did she seem to carry more of the supplies than any of the rest of us, not only did she walk faster, longer, and harder than everybody else, not only did she do all the fire-lighting and cooking every time we stopped walking, this was also the third weekend in a row that she had done this trek. No amount of fatigue seemed to dampen her enthusiasm and energy and positivity. What a legend.
Our first couple of hours were pretty much straight up an escarpment, so it wasn’t an ideal time for introductions and getting-to-know-you-chats. But we soon levelled out onto the plateau. The group was pretty big, about 17, but only 11 of us made it through to the end, with the others bailing out due to stomach bugs, sore feet, and other minor ailments. For the rest of us, we had the joy of walking through some of the nicest countryside I have seen in Guatemala.
Our trail led us into the clouds for our lunch of the first day on a wooded ridge overlooking rivers and forests and farms. The routes we walked were kept open by the farmers who worked the almost vertical fields along the route and several of them passed us bearing loads that made our comfortable backpacks look puny.
We camped that night in a football field just outside one of the remote villages. Safety is a strange thing in Guatemala. Our destination was none other than the same spot where the police warned me, on the day after New Years, to get off the road unless we wanted our hands chopped off. The routes we were following were at one point known only to the guerrillas. And yet the treks that we were doing, which Quetzaltrekkers do every week, on the same day, on the same route, were never targeted. Its almost as if the routes are too hard for the bandits to be bothered. Its one thing to rob some rotund American blue-rinses in Antigua or some stoned hippies in Panajachel, its quite another to hike up a mountain at dawn to rob some unwashed backpackers of their muesli.
Despite 5 tents being erected for just 11 people, my tent ended up with 4 people in it. Tip: don’t sleep in a tent which is on a, albeit very slight, incline, and if you must, don’t sleep at the bottom of the incline. It was not the most comfortable nights sleep I have ever got, but I certainly wasn’t cold.
Our first stop the next day in the square of the local village. We had some breakfast, refilled our water bottles and gave ourselves a quick wash too. My visit to the outhouse of some nice locals (for a small fee) was enlightening. The paper supplied were the used school copybooks of some of the family’s children. I perused the geography homework of one young student and discovered that children of Guatemala are taught to draw their nations map with the neighbouring state of Belize included in its borders. Considering that the Guatemalan government would still like claim the territory, it seems a little ominous and insidious that the nations children are already being taught to expect it.
My trip to the outhouse was of even more value later when one of our group, the one who was in possession of the shit-shovel, retired from the trek, but remained in possession of said shovel, which, of course, makes digging an environmentally-friendly shit-pit just a little bit more difficult.
Amanda set a cracking pace for the day, and the only time her stride was broken was when we stopped in various villages along the way distributing photos of the locals which were sent in by previous trekkers. It’s a lovely custom which gives those of us interested in portraits the opportunity to meet willing models, and the models the opportunities to receive photos of themselves. Maybe it sounds a little hokey but the locals seem to love it and Amanda was mobbed by kids and adults alike as they looked for themselves in the hundreds of photos that previous trekkers sent back.
Having so recently seen Lord of the Rings II, my mind was remembering my trekking in New Zealand as we wandered through the trails and over the hills and down to the stream-worn valleys. Exquisitely colourful and delicate flowers littered our dusty trail and fields of golden corn appeared in the most improbable places at vertigo-inducing angles. The slow and the photographers lingered towards the back at all times and as the day rolled on the benefit of a walking stick became apparent to all. Mel, Marnie, Meredith, Sharon, David, Daniel and I seemed to take up the back-marking position on a rotation basis, due to photographical or conversational distractions, while Amanda inevitably bounced merrily along with the others up at the front.
We took a break at a small wooden bridge at bottom of a lush valley and then followed the river for most of the afternoon before climbing again and leaving the trail just as the darkness was closing in. We followed the road into San Juan for an hour and had an excellent dinner in one of the local comidas. The locals were expecting 17, but the rest of us more than made up for the missing stomachs. We had, after all, covered at least 30kms since morning.
After a courtesy call to the local constabulary, Amanda led us up a hillside a small way out of town and we soon saw the beautiful Lago de Attilan shimmering in the moonlight. The towns surrounding the lake – San Pedro, San Marcos, Panajachel and the others, were like small constellations of stars encircling the mirror-calm lake. I don’t think on my previous trip to the lake (at Christmas) that I had really appreciated its beauty. Perhaps it was because I was so sick or perhaps it was the ominous threat of banditos, but that night, as we set up camp high on ledge overlooking the greatest crater lake in the region, I began to see what Mr Huxley meant.
We slept out under the stars like a tribe of Benetton centipedes in our brightly coloured sleeping bags. I took a couple of photos with only the moon and the stars and the village lights to illuminate, and I have to say they are some of my favourite from the trip. Our position on the mountain ledge, facing due east, also meant that we woke up to a sunrise so beautiful, so peaceful, so exquisite, that no words that I could say would truly reflect my awe.
The dark night receded to purple and blue and gold and orange and the reign of the moon yielded to the sun as we began our descent to San Pedro. This was the first and only time that Amanda said we could be in danger of bandits due to our proximity to the tourist areas. Our descent was fine and we chilled out at the lakeside, swimming and trying to establish which of our leg muscles ached most, and then we ventured into San Pedro for lunch and the end of our journey.
My plan to leave that night was again victim to good company although the delay in the arrival of our other bags from Xela gave me another excellent excuse. Even the next day, under particular duress from Daniel and Mel, I almost had to fight my way out of there. I am not sure this journal does justice to this group of people. It’s amazing how much you can knit together in a short time and the conversations were formative and stimulating and they were as varied as they were interesting (both the conversations and the conversers). I was sorry, again, that I was taking my leave.
But in the end I went. First to San Marcos. I had half an inclination to stay there for a few days and do a massage course. San Marcos is famed as a spiritual/hippyish/healthy retreat. They run courses in massage, reiki, shiatsu and a month-long meditation retreat. My alternate plan was to head south and do a massage course with the slightly mysterious Dr. Bill who I had met up in Todos Santos. Again, I was leaving things to fate, and I knew Bill was starting a course in a few days, so I figured I ask if there was anything happening in San Marcos any sooner.
I guess my attitude (being in a rush and wanting to start a course tomorrow) was not really in keeping with my own travelling pace of life, nor with the pace of life in San Marcos. But I still had this inner compulsion to get moving as I had spent almost 6 weeks in Guatemala. In the end, the timetables made my decision as the next course was not starting for another week or so. I left in the afternoon and spent the evening shopping for baby-clothes in Panajachel (I still haven’t heard from the recipients if the colours have run or not). I sat by the lake shore as the sun set, still enchanted by the colours of the dying sun, silhouetting the volcanoes and hills on which I had so recently hiked through and camped on, and reflecting symmetrically in the gently rippled contours of the water.
That evenings dinner was a culinary delight but a linguistic challenging experience. Some of the items on offer were far more delicious that the dictionary-driven translations would have made them seem: “meat to the iron” turned out to be grilled steak; “meat to the wine tints” a rather tasty steak with red wine sauce; “vegetables to the vapour” merely steamed vegetables; and the “integral” bread was merely brown. All my perusing of my dictionary however could not figure out what words were looked up to arrive at one item on the dessert menu:
“IT LIVES!” Yoghurt
Perhaps its one of those fancy new pro-biotic yoghurts with elcasia-immunitas or whatever its called. Whatever ‘it’ was, however, didn’t live for long, as I scoffed the lot.
(Continued in part 2....)
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