¡A Huevos!: Part Two

Be sure to read ¡A Huevos!: Part One, which was posted earlier today!

I previously mentioned that I did very little research before traveling down to Guatemala. I thought that just traveling down here and figuring things out as I went would be the best method for me, as I don’t really care all that much for a whole lot of structure during my leisure time. So in many ways I came down here with some preconceived ideas as to what I would be experiencing. Since Guatemala is so close to Mexico, I figured that the food would be very similar to Mexican, and I would be a happy camper eating. This proved to be a correct—I am a happy camper. Another thing that I assumed was that since Guatemala was so close to Mexico, Guatemala would also be hot. It is on this notion that I wish I had done a little more research.

Mercado La Democracia

Don’t get me wrong; the days are pretty hot around here. With temperatures reaching into the 80s, walking around town during the day has been a rather pleasant escape from the bitter winter of the Midwest. Even at night when temperatures may drop down to the 50s, I am quite comfortable walking around in the various button-up shirts that I brought. But there was one consideration that I did not think of: temperatures on the volcanoes.

When looking at photos of the volcanoes in Central America there is one thing you never see: snow. Since you don’t see snow and the photos look so green, I had assumed that the temperatures probably weren’t so bad on the rocks, and as a result of this, I didn’t bring too many warm clothes. Also because I didn’t really care to carry around the weight of a sleeping bag throughout Central America, I also failed to bring one of those. Now some of my warm gear really isn’t that heavy (synthetic long sleeve shirts, Under Armor, etc), but for some reason I wanted to forgo that weight.

Well that was pretty dumb.

While on Acatenango, we quickly found out how cold it gets at 13,000 ft during the night. The cold was absolutely brutal, and it was only increased with the ferocious wind that tore deep into our souls. Thankfully, we decided to climb Acatenango with a guide, and OX provided us with whatever warm materials we needed. But when you hike with a guide, that sort of thing costs money—something we don’t really care to spend on activities we are perfectly capable of doing on our own.

When we arrived in Xela, we made pretty quick plans to make our way North and spend a day and a half climbing the 13,845-foot Vulcán Tajumulco, also known as the highest point in Central America. Back in Antigua, we met a group of Peace Corps volunteers who were toying with the idea of climbing the volcano, and as it worked out, set the date for their climb on the same day as us. In addition to having climbing buddies, we also resolved to save ourselves 400Q or so by doing the climb on our own—a choice that would mean that I was S.O.L. when it came to a sleeping bag and warm clothes. Thankfully, Xela has a vibrant market and thrift store scene.

So far we have discovered three open-air markets within walking distance of Jamil’s apartment. Each market has a large variety of vendors selling everything from fruit, veggies, and grains to clothes, shampoo and pirated DVDs. The market closest to us (Mercado Las Flores)only has vendors during the morning hours and pretty much only sells food.  As someone who has enjoyed being addicted to the Madison Farmers Market, walking around the various ethnic markets in California and spending a good portion of his free time in the Chicago area walking around the various big box grocery stores for entertainment, the Xela markets are an absolute godsend.

Freshly squeezed juice in a bag

Walking around Mercado Las Flores is a feast for the senses. The sounds of offers and bargaining fill the air, complementing the bright colors of not only the fruit and vegetables but also the garments worn by the Mayan vendors. In an attempt to get you to buy their produce, many vendors offer out free samples of their product, but for me, an avocado is an avocado and I can hardly taste the differences. While some of the smells are pleasant in certain areas of the markets (ie: where they’re squeezing oranges for freshly bagged orange juice), the market isn’t a place where you should expect to smell anything too pleasant. The main reason for this is that in addition to fruit and vegetables, there are also meat vendors at the market.

As someone who was a vegetarian for a good deal of time, one would think that the sight of freshly butchered and bloody carcasses hanging from hooks, dripping the familiar reddish color of cow juices on to the tiled stands would be disturbing, but I’ve had the exact opposite reaction to the carnicerías. In fact I actually really enjoy the fact that when I go to the market here in Guatemala, I have the opportunity to not only see but also buy animal flesh that I can tell was killed very very recently.

Back in the States, I think we’ve gotten too complacent with the idea that our meat is delivered to us shrink wrapped and stamped with government approval that we’ve become significantly disconnected from the reality of meat: the flesh was once an animal. Guatemalans do very little to hide that fact, and in some areas I’ve seen whole chickens for sale with a few feathers still on the meat—a rather comforting freshness.

I’ve also noticed that Guatemalans waste very little of the animals that they have butchered. Laid out on the tiled booths is just about every part of the animal, and each part has a price. Want some cow liver soaking in blood? 20Q. How about chicken feet? I hear it’s a great snack. Five for 15Q. There are so many parts of animals on display for sale in the meat sections of the markets that I have never seen many of them before. Even walking on the streets around the markets, you might be able to spot a cow leg or hip lying on the cobblestone, surrounded by hungry stray dogs.

I have found that its not only the sensory overload that make the markets so enjoyable for me, but also the culture surrounding the bargaining for prices and the ability to get so much for so little. After spending nearly $7 to $10 a day on meals in Antigua, being able to go to the market and realize that that same amount of money can buy us food for nearly two days is unreal. It also makes you think about how overpriced a lot of food is back in the United States, but then again when you are paying for apples to be shipped from New Zealand it ends up making sense.

Surrounding Marcado Las Flores is a wide variety of thrift stores. I have heard that many Guatemalans look down upon the thrift stores, thinking that buying used clothes is a dirty practice (I’ve definitely gotten this vibe in the United States), but that didn’t really bother me, as I would rather wear someone else’s clothes than freeze to death at 13,000 feet. The three of us were actually really surprised at the quality of the clothing in the thrift stores down here, as Adam picked up a fairly mint Woolrich flannel, Harvey a thick, well crafted hoodie, and I got a Sierra Designs fleece that was just about as good as new. While the thrift stores helped fill out some of the missing pieces to our mountaineering gear, I couldn’t find one that was selling any down sleeping bags or even gloves. So headed to Mercado La Democracia, the largest market in the city.

Encompassing an area of roughly five squared city blocks, Mercado La Democracia is where you go when you need...well…anything really. The market is not only located on the sidewalk and spilling out into the crowded city streets, but it also bleeds into an indoor labyrinth of vendors in a building that takes up an entire block.

We quickly found wool mittens that would work well in the dipping temperatures of the mountain, but I had trouble finding a sleeping bag. Unwilling to travel up the mountain without any sort of warmth, I ended up haggling a blanket vendor for a Mayan wool blanket down from 90Q to 65Q. Not a bad deal. Not wanting to have to carry the entire blanket up the mountain with me (it was the size of a king-sized bed), I used my knife to cut it in half and then quarter one of the halves, so I could add an additional wrap to my feet. With packs loaded, we awoke at 5am, made a quick breakfast and headed to the Xela terminal.

I had communicated with our Peace Corps friends in the days prior to our departure about meeting them at a certain time at the volcano trailhead. Without a cell phone (we lost ours somewhere…oh well), we knew that meeting everyone at the exact time without doing some waiting might prove to be difficult. To add to that, the three of us really have little idea about how long it would take to get from Xela to the city of San Marcos and then to the trailhead. Jamil estimated that it would take somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour and a half to get to San Marcos, so we figured we would try to get there early and wait for the others if needed. In one of the most amazing events I have ever witnessed, all nine members of our party (coming from 4 different regions in the country) met at the bus terminal in San Marcos almost literally at the exact same time. It’s amazing what you don’t need technology for sometimes.

Taking around five hours, our group flew up the mountain, hiking alongside what seemed like nearly every trekking company in Xela along the way. Some of the trekking companies had different ideas about the ethics of the climb, and one in particular drove their clients a third of the way up the mountain on a dirt road and proceeded to cut down a few trees when they got to camp. Believing in the principles of Leave No Trace (in short take only pictures and leave only footprints), the three of us were pretty appalled by the antics of the guides, while the clients were pretty oblivious to any wrongdoing.

Due to a combination of tiredness and the threat of cloud cover, the majority of our group opted to wait to push on for the final 45 minutes that it would take to summit the mountain in exchange for some rest and attempt the final climb for sunrise. Adam, Harvey and I thought back to our experience on Acatenago, where a bad night of sleep prohibited us from doing nearly anything the next morning, and took the more impatient approach of trying to summit before sundown.

After dropping our excess weight and gear in camp, we gathered our essentials (pretty much just water), and made the final push. The path to the summit proved to be very steep with some rock exposure that boarded on the easy end of Class 4, but there wasn’t anything that we couldn’t handle. Having forgot a carabineer at camp, I was forced to do most of the final push with one hand, as I didn’t have a place to clip my water bottle—sometimes taking a little bit of time to plan is good kids.

As we reached the lip of the volcanic crater, dense clouds started moving in and blocking our view. From the top, the view had the potential to be amazing, but because of cloud cover we would only get a few glimpses of the view during short cloud breaks. But the glimpses we were able to see were unreal. A sea of rolling fog gave way to tremendous towers of clouds that seemed to be thousands of feet high. The sun broke through every few minutes and exposed the depth of the crater, whose edge we were standing on. Being up there was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, and as more dense clouds moved in, we decided to descend from the mountain.

Gassed and hungry, we scarfed down our dinner and shared stories around the campfire before retiring in our borrowed tent for the night. The morning bustle of the other hikers awaking in the still black predawn inspired me to try to make summit again for the sunrise, but I only made it half way up the final push before the altitude and exhaustion told me to stop. But I did get in a few pictures.

Sunrise with Agua, Acatenango and Fuego on the horizon

Summit!

We don't have the best of luck
with tents...

Machete S'mores

We’re going to be spending a few more days in Xela…through the weekend is the plan. We had plans to do a big trip from Chiapas, Mexico to the Mayan ruins of Tikal and over to the beaches of Belize, but we have changed our itinerary to spend that week and a half only in Chiapas in order to get a real feeling for the region. Having had a serious interest in the region since my sophomore year of college (through classes, my volunteering at a leftist bookstore and want to go on the Just Coffee Coop delegation to the region), I am very excited to experience Chiapas. Without a doubt it is the part of this trip that the three of us are most excited for. Hopefully, the next update on this blog wont take so long.

Take care all.

¡A Huevos!: Part One

Overlooking Xela

Most days waking up it’s nearly impossible to believe this is the life I am living. I haven’t been the best at updating this blog because I’ve had a bit of writer’s block and have really grown comfortable in my routine here in Xela. So much of what we’ve been doing here feels not like a vacation, but as if we are just living our lives in our own form of paradise. We aren’t running around visiting the tourist hotspots like so many other travelers, and as a result of that, I feel as though sharing my life here on the internet would only bore those that are reading this.

But alas, I will do my best to sum up this past week in this amazing city of Quetzaltenango.

After spending too much time in Antigua, Nosotros, Los Trés Gringos left the tourist trap for our natural environment—the Western Highlands of Guatemala. Our journey began with the three of us walking through the open air market of Antigua toward the bus terminal with our large packs on, towering over what seems to be an entire subcontinent of people, and surely sticking out like a trio of confused, sore thumbs. It didn’t take long for us to be approached by various men asking us where we wanted to go.

The Gringo Trail is pretty well worn here in Guatemala, and there have been numerous times that we’ve felt that those around us knew exactly where we were going—even if we didn’t.

After being directed to one of the infamous chicken buses to Quetzaltenango (or Xela, it’s Mayan name), a man (the ayudante) on the roof of the bus climbed down, effortlessly grabbed our heavy packs and swung them on the luggage carriage bolted to the top of the decommissioned school bus. 

The chicken buses are one of my absolute favorite things about life here in Guatemala. Walking through the bus terminal in any city here is like taking a step into chaos. Everywhere you look there are numerous people trying to direct you to a bus or sell you something to eat, and if you are not careful, you can easily get run over by a bus, micro (shuttle van) or taxi trying to race out of the terminal (aka, glorified parking lot).

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the chicken buses here in Guatemala are decommissioned school buses from the United States that have hit the 150,000-mile mark, are shipped down to Central America and go through a process of Frankensteination that transform them from the quaint, recognizable symbols of an American childhood to psychedelic, supercharged, bass-thumping modes of mass transit. While I haven’t spent a lifetime researching the “party buses” that we have in the States, I firmly believe not a single one can hold a candle to the buses down here.

Antigua Terminal

When the buses get down here, the original engine is ripped out of the body of the bus and refitted with an engine that has been strewn together with the ability to allow the bus to travel as many miles in a day down here in Guatemala as it did in an entire week back in the States. Above the windshield on the buses are the painted destinations to where the bus will be traveling, and because there is a large amount of illiterate individuals here in Guatemala, each route has a specific color scheme that accompanies the text. In addition to a lot (and I mean a lot) of chrome, those same colors completely cover the familiar yellow on the exterior of the buses in a large array of patterns.  

Even though there are typically three adults to a seat (with many more packed in and standing on the bus,), when walking on the buses the first thing you notice is not how crowded it is, but the deafeningly loud music. Blasting anything from the bass heavy rhythms of reggaeton to Spanish-language covers of 80’s pop songs, many of the sound systems that we’ve experienced on these janky buses are some of the best I have heard in any automotive. Hannah, a friend down here, has a theory that you can tell how the ride on a bus is going to be based on the music that is blasting from its speakers. If the music is mellow, she claims, you’re in for a relatively relaxing ride, but if the music pulsates with the sounds of the sweaty clubs, then you better hold on for your life.

And finding a firm hold is a skill that is never underestimated.

While coming back from a backpacking trip earlier this week, our group had trouble finding seats on the bus, so we were forced to stand, crushed against each other directly behind the cab of the bus. While we were barreling down the curvy mountain highway, whipping around every turn, holding on to metal bars fixated on the ceiling of the bus for dear life, and trying not to fall into each other, Harvey turned to me and poked my shoulder.

“Hey, did you see the speedometer?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“Because there isn’t one.”

Speedometers don’t exist on chicken buses, because speed limits don’t exist in Guatemala. The drivers use their best judgment in gauging how fast they should take each turn, and most of them don’t have the same conscientious judgment that we are accustomed to in the States.

What is most impressive about these buses is that while they are barreling down the mountain roads at 70 mph, the ayudante is not only calling out the various stops, but also climbing on the exterior of the bus like a monkey, pulling luggage off the roof and climbing back into the open door of the bus without even breaking a sweat.

Often the drivers are in such a hurry that they feel there is little time to come to a complete stop to let people on an off the bus. As a result, it is not uncommon to see people literally running and jumping on to the bus, while the poor ayudante grabs their bags or baskets and swings them on the roof.

Xela tagging

After a four-hour ride that felt nothing short of four years, we finally arrived in Xela, and my first impressions of the city were that of a joyous shock. Having done zero research before coming to Guatemala, I had assumed that Antigua (a city of which I had actually heard) would be the larger of the two, but I was way off. Being the second most populous city in Guatemala with 160,000 people, Xela bustles with the vibrancy of any large city, and unlike Antigua, gringos are—thankfully—few and far between.

I was pleasantly surprised to have a rich and diverse Guatemalan culture thrusted in my face, and despite being in a large, smoggy, metropolitan area, the micro culture shock that I experienced was a breath of fresh air. As when experiencing any large city for the first time, Xela’s winding streets, lock of English speaker, and dense, fast moving traffic is very intimidating at first, but has been a pleasant challenge to try to fully know and understand. I think each of us have really taken to the chaotic, loud nature of this city.

Upon arriving in Xela’s Parque Central, we were greeted by a beaming Jamil and friends and treated to nearly a dozen litros of the locally brewed cerveza Cabro and one of the best burgers I have ever eaten.  After dropping off our bags in Jamil’s huge apartment, we headed to his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar, where we were told that the nightlife would be a little different in here than in Antigua.

In an effort to try and enforce a curfew in Antigua, the city pretty much shuts down at 11 pm, as the bars lock their doors and refuse to allow any more entrance. Being from cities whose last call is around 4 am, the three of us were really taken aback by this early schedule, because if you didn’t know where you were going for the night by 10pm, you probably were not going to be able to make it out to any place that was hopping.

Parque Central

Xela on the other hand does not operate like this. After going to a party at the bar by Jamil’s place, we went to an after party at the club down the street. After the after party at the club, we found ourselves at an after after party at another bar before stumbling home to the after after after party in the apartment, where we collapsed on the couches and floor in exhaust. Xela has been a nice return to balance in that regards.

But while each of us enjoy a few drinks of indistinguishable clear liquor mixed with apple juice now and then; we didn’t come down here to only party—that would be too American of us. Nestled at 8,000 feet in the Guatemalan mountains, Xela poses as a perfect jumping point for many of the larger volcanoes in the region. Since we have an informal goal to trying to climb the three highest volcanoes in Central America, we resolved to tackle the highest point in the subcontinent early in our trip: the 13,845-foot Vulcán Tajumulco.

The highest point in Central America

To be continued...