What a busy few weeks it's been. I was already a few weeks behind when we last spoke, so there's a lot of territory to cover this time. I'll try to hurry.

OK, So I'll Go to Antigua

Why yes, she is lactating water.

I wound up following Renee to Antigua to meet up with her friend Nick from Sydney. I only planned on staying a few days to check out the touristy bits of town—which would basically be all of town—but since Nick had just arrived in Central America and didn't speak any Spanish they decided to stay there and study for a week. So sure, I'll stay.

I'm glad I did. We rented a couple rooms in this great out of the way guesthouse with pretty good showers and a good kitchen. Now I keep running into the other guy that was living there. We had a good time, communal dinner in the evening, being able to get phone calls for free, and the best bit: a really nice TV—with cable! Spent way too much time getting caught up on music videos on MTV-Latin.

A much larger and less interesting fountain

Antigua—by the way, this is La Antigua, Guatemala, not the small island nation the Beach Boys sang so fondly of—was the Spanish colonial capital from 1543 to 1773. It was razed several times by earthquakes and rebuilt, until 1776 when they finally gave up and just moved to Guatemala City, 60km away. Yah, like that'll work.

The entire city of Antigua is a UNESCO World Heritage site, and one of the two usual tourist stops in Guatemala (Tikal being the other). There are a lot of foreigners there, but it is easy to escape that. There are many hotels and tourist-class restaurants and shops that will take payment in Euros ringing the central park with the interesting fountain, but once you've made it past the first few cathedral ruins (there are about a dozen) you rapidly stop seeing many tourists. Antigua is surprisingly affordable, even on my budget—room for the week was only us$30, and being able to cook there meant that I spent about the same on food as I would have anywhere else.

Partially restored ruins of the Catedral de Santiago

I saw most of the ruins, but didn't get the chance to climb the active volcano there. There are restored ruins of an abbey that claims to have the largest fountain in Central America, 27m across. It doesn't really seem quite that big, but it is a beautiful piece of work. A few of the cathedral ruins are open to wander in, and the one right by the park is being restored now.

But You Can't Make Me Stay

I had intended to go to Coban right from there, but decided to backtrack past Xela to Huehuetenango, in the northwest near the Mexican border, to visit the village of Todos Santos. Many of my friends have been there and all spoke of the incredible setting of this mountain town. I wasn't disappointed.

The road from Huehue to Todos Santos jumps steeply up the slopes of the Cuchmatans, the highest non-volcanic mountains in Guatemala, climbs above the clouds, then turns to dirt as it descends into a lush valley that echoes with the sounds of native languages. The area was a center of Guerilla resistance during the civil wars. Accommodation there was expensive, but I found a Spanish school willing to set me up with a family for a few days—room and 3 meals a day cost less then one night in the hotel there. The patriarch of the family is a town elder and respected leader of the resistance that was happy to tell me stories of actions during the war and of his people, the Rabinal Maya, residents of isolated, unchanged towns that are a dream for anthropologists.

A small girl in Tzunul

The second day there I walked to Tzunul (tsoo-NOOL), a village of weavers an hour or so from Todos Santos. They are well off the beaten track and seemed delighted to see the few of us. An ancient man there let us work his loom and sold some beautiful handmade cloth to a member of our group. The teachers in the school told us that the new government stopped funding their school lunches—a cost of about us$30 a week for 50 students—and that now they are only able to have school until 11 o'clock. They fear that many parents will stop sending their children, as the free meal was a major incentive, just as it originally was in many of our countries.

I returned to Huehuetenango to begin a three-day journey through the mountains to Cobán, through what is reported to be the most beautiful and least-visited part of the country. Once again, I was not to be disappointed. I had to stop the first day in Aguacatán, since there were no more pickups to the next village that day. I had hoped to make it a bit further, but was happy I didn't since I arrived just in time for the annual feast of Our Lady the Holy Blessed and Sacred Virgin of something or other. The village of 2000 had swollen to three times that for the festival, and all the streets were closed and packed with the normal food and festival wares. No one likes tourists, but when you are the only tourist people love you. I was well taken care of that evening.

And the next, as it would happen. I had to end the next day's journey in Chicamán, where I had to wait until 3:30am for the first and possibly only bus to Cobán. I spent much of the afternoon talking to a restaurateur outside his eatery right off the park, watching basketball games and exchanging English words for Spanish. Later on I helped him translate his menu, and he gave me dinner for free.

As I left most of the town was gravitating toward the municipal building, where a noisy party was getting underway. I was herded along with the masses into the hall to join the party for the anniversary of the Instituto, a sort of vocational training center. It was almost a repeat of the night before—everyone jovially shouting 'gringo!' and asking the usual questions and offering drinks and snacks. Good for my Spanish, good for their English. A fair trade.

The unfair bit was that I had to make it an early night to make the bus at 3:30. There were still a few people going when I walked past in the small hours of the night.

Cobán was all it was cracked up to be, one of the more pleasant Guatemalan cities I've encountered. I'm ready to make some awards now: the Fluffy Sheep Award for the most comfortable bed in all of Central America goes to...drum roll and envelope please...Casa D'Acuna. And the Soap-on-a-Rope Medal for the best shower goes to...Casa D'Acuna. These are not awards I would hand out frivolously; they are really that incredible.

I toured a coffee finca and learned all about coffee beans and why espresso has so much caffeine. That's about all there is to do in Cobán, but after that I went back and took another shower, just because, and that in itself is occupation enough.

The netherworld of Semuc Champey

The pools on top of the cave

The main reason to go to Cobán is because that is how you get to Semuc Champey, a natural wonder that is difficult to explain and a bit difficult to fathom even when you're standing in front of it. I had completely the wrong idea from the explanations I'd been given, so I'll try to make it a little bit clearer. There's a big creek. A big cave swallows it, and it flows underground for about 300 metres before it is spit back out. With me so far? Now, what makes this one special is that before the cave swallows it, a small branch splits off and stays above ground—on top of the cave—where it cascades into a series of shallow rimstone pools. Got it? Just look at the pictures, and imagine that there's a big creek flowing underneath, and you've got it. Pretty nifty, and really beautiful.

There is a hostel right down the road, close enough to walk to both Semuc Champey and a small but very wet cave I took a tour through. I'm pretty sure that in all my time caving, I've never used a Our Divine Lady of the Grutas votive candle as my primary light source, and I am completely certain I've never taken an innertube in a cave. But it was an adventure. The hostel does a nice set dinner, with a vegetarian option--the same meal, minus the hunk of meat, plus a lump of chocolate cake. Probably not dietician approved, but nice just the same. I shared a room that night with two English girls and more big hairy spiders than we could count. My two biggest fears, collected together under one roof.

OK, 1500 words is coming up quickly. Got to make up for some time.

Left Semuc Champey, back to Cobán then onto Puerto Barrios, my new least favorite place on earth (To be fair, that may be only because everyone there drives with one hand on the horn, honking continuously at pedestrians who dare use the sidewalk three block in front, and taxis that are convinced that if they follow slowly enough for long enough, honking continuously, naturally, I will cave and hire them to carry me the entire block back to my hotel. Have you noticed that I still am bothered by all the horns here?) No more connections to anywhere in Honduras that night, had to stay. Oh joy. Next day, onto Honduras, met a new friend at the border, which proved to be a good thing if for no other reason than that it becomes difficult to manage your money when they have paper money worth—I'm not making this up—7 cents American. When you have an entire pocket crammed full of notes it's easy to fall into the illusion that you have a lot of money, when what you really have is a dollar. We spent a week borrowing money back and forth.

Honduras is quite lovely—much cleaner and with a better feel about it than Guatemala. The chicken buses are even more comfortable, and have—I'm not making this up either—drivers and ayudantes with photo ID badges. Everything is very green and lush and fresh looking. The people are very nice and facilites are very clean. Wish I had a little more time to spend there.

I spent 10 days or so on Utila, one of the Bay Islands, learning to scuba dive. I did the Basic and Advanced Open Water courses and Rescue Diver course, and am now qualified to flit beneath the waves amongst the dolphins and mermaids, and bring you safely to the surface when the mermaids take your breath away. On my last dive we saw an eagle ray circling around us, just checking things out. We went looking for whale sharks but weren't able to find any. I got to do a night dive for the advanced course. I knew that the surf was going to be choppy. For a moment I felt like I was 12 again and playing Navy Seals, I asked the man at the bank if I could borrow his AK-47 so I could make the game a touch more realistic. He didn't seem too interested.

Utila is an unusual place. It is certainly touristy, but you only need walk a block off the main street to immerse yourself in the local culture. There are 6000 people living there, about 20,000 crabs running around the streets at night, and about 942 diving schools. Each of the 942 has pretty much the same deal: come dive with us, we'll give you free accommodation, and the whole package won't cost much. Promise. So really the only variables are whose instructors you like the most and how long of a walk from hotel to dive shop.

Definitely came out on top here. The shop I decided to go with puts you up in the nicest hotel on the island, and the only one with a swimming pool. How nice to come home at the end of the day all sticky with salt water and be able to dunk yourself in a nice refreshing pool. After that, you're best to wander back toward the school, follow a narrow brick walkway past a few houses and over a bridge to a back-alley dream—a restaurant that serves a 12-inch plate of incredible food stacked 3 inches high, all for about us$3.50, where the attractive waitress will remember your name after your first visit. The best bit…they are the winner of the Mr. Potato Head Award for Excellence in Potato Mashing (Skins Included category). Is this heaven or what?

Well, not quite. There are two problems with Utila that I can see. First: sand flies. These are not included anywhere in my definition of heaven, in fact, they would have been an excellent choice for the eighth plague. The particular strain on Utila even seems to be resistant to deet. Secondly: it is ridiculously hot at night. It takes a little while to learn how to sleep without any part of you touching any other part of you, but it is an absolutely necessary behavior modification.

But there is a truly excellent ice cream shop there, homemade daily in the back room and everything. A nice respite. We all know what an ice cream snob I am.

Phew, that's a lot of territory to cover. Think we'll take a stop here.

New Feature

Take a breather for a second, let's switch gears and imagine that you are flipping through the pages of a second-rate airline magazine (perhaps Southwest's Horizons or EasyJet's InFlight). Maybe one day you'll see this—my attempt at a semi-publication quality article:

The day I first arrived in Guatemala was much hotter than I was prepared for. So is today. My back and legs are already drenched with sweat from where they touch the seat and it is far too hot for the light pants I have rolled up to my knees. My left side is getting sticky from brushing against the man with the cowboy hat and distinguished nose in the seat beside me. There are three of us in this row: me in half of my seat, his bag of mangoes in half of his, and him straddling the middle between us. Today is not a day I need anyone else's body heat.

I feel lucky that today I have a seat. I'm traveling the Carreterra al Atlantico somewhere between El Rancho and Puerto Barrios, headed for the Honduran border. Chicken buses in the east and north of Guatemala tend to be much less exciting than their highland counterparts—instead of recycled school buses these used to be actual coaches, a la Greyhound or Peter Pan or National Coach, with luggage compartments underneath and much more conservative plumage. The seats are a bit more comfortable, and have much more legroom than their elementary school counterparts. Today is my last day in Guatemala, and this nicest of chicken buses will be the last of many for me.

A boy with fiery red hair and freckles stands in the aisle beside me, insistent on tugging at my whiskers and fingering the sleeves of my shirt. My shirt is nothing special, not that different than his, and like many other things about this strange place I don't understand his fascination. His mother, a Ladino woman, sits in the row behind me with the rest of her collection of mismatched children—his brother and sisters, or half-brother and -sisters at least. She is feeding the youngest of them, a fair-skinned blonde girl who is far too big not to have been weaned yet. I seem to be the only one not immune to the noise when the girl switches from playful laughter to a shriek at a volume completely disproportionate to her size.

Two security guards, probably just off their shift guarding the shoe store or gasolinera, board the bus, their shotguns still harnessed around their necks and fingers perched at the ready—inside the trigger guard. Neither of them can be more than twenty years old. No one else thinks twice of it, but I cannot get used to having a heavily armed gunman unlock the bank door every time I need to cash a travelers' check. In their seats they both drift off to sleep—a chicken bus trick I have yet to learn—with their guns at their sides, fingers still hovering perilously close to the triggers. Guns loaded. No safeties. I am glad to be out of the line of fire.

We make a brief stop and the aisle is suddenly filled with vendors selling everything from ice cream to newspapers to ballpoint pens. The singsong voice of a boy with a stack of papers is first to break through the confusion of people climbing over each other to get on or off the bus. "Prensa-Prensa-Prensa-Prensa-PREN-sah!" he sings. I remember sitting on board another bus on another day, alone, waiting for more passengers so we could start moving toward my weekend in San Pedro, when another boy selling the same paper boarded and chanted the same line. I was the only one on the bus, and I had already bought a paper from him just a few minutes earlier. Something else I cannot hope to understand.

The bus starts again and we jerk our way into thicker and hotter jungle. For all the ugliness of garbage and dilapidated buildings that man casts upon it, this beauty of this landscape shines through in its unmatched variety. I will never forget my first glimpse of that most magical of places, Lago Atitlán, from the CA-1, still too far away to truly comprehend but already an awesome combination of elements—earth wrought from fire soaring to touch the sky, stopping the wind to capture passing clouds that rain down the water that becomes her. Or the paths overlooking Todos Santos, where fog makes the ordinary mysterious and stars dance with the peaks and people that pierce the clouds. And the calming sound of spring rains on a tin roof. This land captivates you in ways you can't expect.

Just like the combination of violent fire and calm rains that formed Atitlán, similarly opposing forces have shaped the people of this land. A half millennium of migration and intermarriage and elitism and repression have produced a society uniquely blended between Mayan and Ladino, a fragile coexistence where the ivory sounds of marimba music float alongside the haunting notes of reed flutes, where Catholic churches display icons of locally canonized Mayan heroes, and where sometimes the bus still won't stop for indigenous peoples wearing traditional clothing. Stop by stop these people leave the bus. We slow for the turnoff to a town where a friend lives now. For a moment I think of taking a detour, diverting for one last visit. But the thought of spending tomorrow snorkeling the Honduran coast silences it, and I will let the crossroad pass by.

Guatemala has become an old friend, the towns I know here tranquil oases in a trip and life of uncertainty. I am not sure that I am ready to leave, but I am certain that I cannot stay any longer. It's been nearly five months of stationary living among strangers in a place I probably don't belong. There are seven countries in Central America, I have visited only two, there are 14 blank pages in my passport, and I have but one life to live.

The sky darkens as the jungle thickens even more. There are just two of us left on the bus now, myself and a European backpacker who I recognize but cannot quite place. The road sign says "Honduran Frontier—10km."

The border calls. It is time to move on.

I'll be looking forward to comments on that bit, especially from those of you that earn your living putting pen to paper.

Hasta la proxima—
-Tim(!)

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