Saigon to Superior: Lake of the Volcanoes

Mayan Church Yard

It's been ten days since we arrived on the lush shores of Lake Atitlan, in Guatemala’s mountainous west, via a ride with the chicken bus driver from a Talladega night. His was vehicle number two of five during our two-hour journey from Antigua. His school-bus chariot lived up to its flame paint job as over sixty of us crammed into seats so wide they left just six inches of aisle in the middle of the thing—with Mayans, Mestizos, and two clueless Gringos sitting six across, clutching onto seat bars for dear life as the driver rocketed within inches of every turn, all the while the nice English-speaking gentleman next to me remaining calmly focused on his Latin American edition of the New York Times.

The whole time, the driver’s assistant, dressed in a dusty White Sox cap, stood on the steps by an open doorway and smiled in good-humored conversation with the amped pilot. They’ve gotta lose a few of these guys a year to the G-force. They must. The Guatemalans were really good to us, pointing out where we needed to go, slinging bloated backpacks under dashboards. We owe major karma to them. Without their kindness, we’d likely have been lost in Nicaragua this afternoon rather than standing on a raptor’s perch overlooking one of the world’s most beautiful lakes.

After a hard day of hiking, my buddy Andy and I just saw what we both agree may be the most incredible view we have taken in along our many life travels. Imagine being on a restaurant patio with soft bongos and Latin guitar in the background. Before you, five miles across a placid azure lake, sits a 10,000 foot volcano. On its left, in a valley five miles long, sits a blanket of satin white clouds, rich dollops hanging over the foothills just above the lake. To the right, a five-mile spread of small mountains, their pointed peaks purple-black from the scarlet glow of the setting sun just behind. Atop the grand behemoth, a small puffy cloud perfectly encircles it in the fading blue twilight, as if some holy headpiece were required for this perfect Sunday evening.

We had just returned from conquering – okay, surviving – our ascent of this very marvel. It is not the highest in the Guatemalan neighborhood—the one next door is 1,000 feet higher—but 10,000 feet is not bad for a day’s climb by two guys who had committed the prior evening to watching World Cup Soccer amid a crowd of beer-drinking fans. I’m proud to say I outpaced Andy and a young German venture capitalist who exudes so much fitness he had gone so far as to purchase a gym membership for his month of Spanish study here – This is where I also admit that, today, the German’s intestines had just emerged from a two-day bout with Montezuma´s Revenge.

Prior to our hike, we had been instructed by our Lonely Planet travel book and the locals to hire a guide. Finding one is seldom a problem, as there are a flock of them awaiting one’s arrival at the ferry boat dock at Volcan Atitlan’s base. There is a common warning on the street here: If one doesn’t spring the ten bucks for local accompaniment on the steep ascent, one will likely be robbed by bandits along the trail. Although the rest of Guatemala has a reputation for random and violent crime, it is also well known that the country’s police force has made it a priority to keep Lake Atitlan safe for a burgeoning tourist industry.

Our conversation with a couple of guideless English climbers who had in fact been victims of banditry, however, did reveal that criminal activity was alive within these hills—albeit in a more benign form than guide book lore. When these bandits found that the hikers had no money, they kind of scratched their heads, looked at one another, and replied, “Well then… Give us your sandwiches.” Was this the work of bandits or an informal labor union? Regardless, our American teachers’ salaries made us wealthy guests in a foreign land. We hired Jose as our local guide and headed up the mountain.

The first few thousand feet consisted of a ride in the back of a pick-up truck. From there, we were dropped into a corn field, which rose several thousand feet up the side of the volcano. I wondered if the risk of a lost crop to rolling lava flows from a major eruption every twenty or so years is offset by the returns reaped from the loads of free fertilizer regularly dispersed by the mountain’s rich volcanic ash. The recent wreckage of a town in the valley below, however, revealed the perils faced by the valley’s economy. Entire neighborhoods were torn to bits, half submerged in the hard black rock that had consumed them while in its glowing and flowing form. Across the lake was another town torn asunder by the elements, this one’s houses, even a cement playground, thrown into a now-shallow river by mudslides triggered by torrential rains. Yet the locals carry on with all forms of boxes and bags on the backs of trucks, rickshaws, motorbikes, and persons, rebuilding atop the old as their ancestors have done for eternity.

On we climbed, moving from field to forest, the lack of switch-back trails so commonly found in the United States now apparent more than ever as we clambered for roots and tree branches to pull our way straight up the side of a rocky face, past the tree line onto a solid rock perch, where we found ourselves on the roof of an emerald and sapphire world.

Lake Atitlan is breathtaking, big enough to make opposing shores seem distant in the mist, and dotted with enchanting towns all around. Each has its own ambient niche, often connected only by ferry service and the watery reflection of three active volcanoes that ring the flooded valley forming this crystal blue, thousand-foot-deep lake.

Spanish language schools are everywhere and cost a mere $135 per week. They include one-on-one instruction and a family home-stay with three meals a day. How can it be that affordable? We Americans are clearly blessed with the currency of a strong economy. Mayan Indians are also everywhere, clad in their brightly stitched craftsmanship from head to toe—the men, too, with one brightly patterned vest over another brightly patterned shirt on top of another brightly patterned pair of pants, all underneath the light beige of well-tended straw cowboy hats.

The place is also surprisingly hip, with high-speed internet cafes, discotheques, and big-screen World Cup Soccer mixing with the goat herds, motor rickshaws, and Mayan craftswomen carrying colorful loads on balanced heads to sidewalk markets. The motor rickshaws are imported from India, yet they carry the Thai nickname, tuk tuk—a fun tidbit of commercial history to be explored.

Gazing down from our heavenly peak at the sparkling dots of humanity sandwiched between the emerald and sapphire landscape, West Guatemala seemed like a super place for an extended stay. Nicknamed the “Land of Eternal Spring” for its ever-pleasant weather, it is also a great spot for Spanish language immersion on the cheap. Perhaps a whole summer here would be a wise way to go if one truly wanted to make inroads with Spanish, on a weekly budget one could easily blow on a Saturday night in the States.

(6/23/06)