Bueno.

Well Buenos Aires, you’ve got me tongue tied.

“¿Che que onda?”

My thoughts exactly, what is going on? A month navigating Spanish in Guatemala was helpful...for the classroom. For the street, everyone might as well be speaking Portuguese. Porteños, or la gente de Buenos Aires, located on the mouth of the Río Plata, love their version of slang—lunfardo, customizing new vocabulary could almost be a national pastime. Well ¡Che Boludo!, how to even translate that ever-so-popular greeting? Once insult now turned affectionate is used for everything and everyone from your neighbor to your 5 yr. old cousin—“Eh Ché, quieres un café?!” Then, with a flip of tone it can become very much an insult once again if you’re not careful. Argentinos, especially Porteños, call it like it is, commonly referring to people by their physical attributes: “¿Gordita, vamos a la playa?” Of course, as a term of gordita/gordito is also a common term of endearment for very skinny people and young children. While flaco could very well be used to address a very large man.
Mix the strong penchant for lunfardo with a strong slur on ‘ll’ or ‘y’ sounds to sound like ‘sh’ or ‘j’, misho instead of mio. Add in lots of Italian and Spanish blood, and there’s still no way to describe a typical porteño. They’re a mix of people that can have an entire conversation just through hand gestures. It’s honestly enthralling just to watch them have conversations sometimes, even when you have no idea what’s going on.
Yet there is a part of Porteño culture that needs no translation, it may also be my favorite part: the kissing here is contagious. One must siempre kiss on the cheek as a greeting, announcing, “!hola estoy aqui, prestame attenciónnnnnn!” At once very intimate and friendly, it is done upon first meeting someone, while the concept of personal space and formal handshakes is non-existently humorous here. Well then Beso. Besito, Besame Buenos Aires, ‘cause here I am

Uncovering the Real Antigua

Antigua, hermosa Antigua. Literally translated as the ancient city, it was a city of past splendors filled with ruínas and scars of past earthquakes, filled with history and stories. With its arches, churches, and a certain stated charm to its cafes and streets to revel any of Latin America but also reminiscent of old school European rough glamour. It is truly a beautiful city, encompassing some of the best of Guatemala, siempre with its resplendent colors and nestled between three volcanoes. It might even be the only place where you can watch as sunset colors filter through regular cloudlike puffs from one of the three surrounding volcanoes, still very much active.
And as inviting and charming (and expensive!)* as all the cafés, bake shops, and restaurants with roof-top terraces and tinkling courtyard fountains were, they felt and resembled those any other nice city. Their sole uniqueness lies in the fact that we were still in Guatemala, and after so many chicken bus rides a return to civilization was civilized culture shock indeed. I loved exploring the ancient ruínas of the city—walking through columns no longer supporting the grand roofs now just bricks and dust under my feet. The plazas, arches, and doorways of a city whose allure was always peeking through some doorway or glimpsed just around the cornert. But here it was too easy; I soon forgot the taste of Guatemala, the rugged beauty and the challenges endured to uncover that beauty (ahem, 8 hours in a pull-man bus with no air conditioning to get to Semuc Champey). Despite all Antigua’s antiquated beauty, I was missing some connection to it. And then it hit me.
More like passed me on the street, looking darn good. I wanted that popsicle! I couldn’t help but narrow in one two girls and a small boy with undoubtanly the best popsicle I had ever seen, was that strawberry with banana chunks? There were definitely whole banana chunks. Without thinking, I scrammbled after the woman I had just seen licking my popsicle. “Compermiso, donde puedo encontrar esto paleta?” The girl did a double take. Her sister and her son, stopped and gaped at me open mouthed, forgetting their popsicles for a split second. They could tell I was foreign. The girl gave me a sheepish smile while her sister laughed and gave me directions. I thought I misunderstood, knock at the yellow carpenter’s house? I would have knocked at every yellow house and building on that street. Luckily for those inside, the girl came with me and directed me towards the, I was right, carpenter store. She knocked decisively on the wooden door, eyeing me curiosuly. “Si?”, answered the woman peering around the unmarked, heavy wooden door. They want paletas the girl explained and took off, glancing back once more grinning. The lady eyed us, and gave us her best smile when I asked what flavors she was offering. to be honest I couldn’t understand most of them, (leche (milk) was a flavor?).
“Which one’s the best?”
“ Fresa con crema, porque tiene pedasos de anana y fresas.”
“Quiero dos de esos porfavor.”

And they were the best. At 2 pesos apiece (25 cents cada uno), they were freshly made full of sabor and fresh, juicy chunk of bananas and strawberry. We sat on the stoop to concentrate at the task on hand, and as I waited for mine to melt I noticed several people walking around with the standard Sarita chain ice cream, glancing at our prizes enviously. I think it’s safe to say we were the only extranjeras who had discovered Antigua’s secret: good, homemade food is hiding behind closed doors and carpenters stores. Here was the treat, and the connection with the city I was craving. It just proves the old age advice ask the locals, do as the locals do to get the cremé de la cremé without the added foreigner disadvantage tax.

*Cultural Note: Nothing in Guatemala is really expensive, some of the nicest meals at the nicest restaurant in smaller towns, not Antigua, cost $10-12 US dollars, a normal, not even great meal in the States. Cost is all relative, but what goads my goat is when things are expensive because of tourism. The quality goes down, prices go up, and you’re left wondering exactly what you paid for and where you are because it’s just like home. Some travelers like that, but I go out of my way to find my own dirt track off the beaten path. I’ve rarely been disappointed, hey even diarrhea is an adventure when you’re far from home.

Semuc Champey: The Adventure Diaries

Well we did it, we topped the Volcano experience, no easy feat to be sure, but exploring caves filled with water past your shoulder and swimming with a candle in hand was far more wildly stupid and completely thrilling. But leave it to two tiny, little girls to seek out the craziest adventures in all of Guatemala and you would have a pretty fitting description of us. For most, staying at our huespedaje would have been adventure enough. Out in the middle of nowhere we were left the first night with no lights, no idea what to expect and no mosquito net when the generator cut off, unbeknowingly to us (but all too apparent within a few minutes) at 9:30. We’re lucky we had a sheet for a blanket, apparently others were not so lucky in that respect.
However, we were staying at the hands-down BEST place anywhere near Semuc Champey. Guatemala’s premier water park, Semuc Champey is resplendent with natural limestone waterfalls and a tier of perfect aquamarine pools that go from shallow for laying out and sunning to deep enough to dunk in and still not touch the mossy bottom. Add some friendly fish and you have the perfect mixture of natural wonder and comfortable enjoyment. Semuc Champey may just be the most beautiful area in a country as full as hidden gems and rico as any royal treasure trove. Our huespedaje was only an 8 km walk from the falls, right on the bank of the Río Cabahon. Posadas Marias, completly run and managed by a friendly staff of native K’echi Indians was established for vistors to stay in the area while ensuring their tourist dollars were going towards conservation of the sensitive ecological surroundings and into the hands of the people from the altaverapace area. Not far removed foreign investors, which is a problem with many touristy places in Guatemala, a sad fact that does nothing to help improve the lives and surroundings of the true inhabitants. For this reason, accommodations were basic yet perfectly sufficient. The focus was interacting with the area and community, not just hitting another must-see tourist spot.
This is where the caves come in. The Kan-ba caves were dark inside. Dark, and filled with water, and cold, up to your shoulders cold water, and bats. Awesome. And it was, our small group of five including guide, had the caves all to ourselves. Hugging the sides of the cave with water up to my knees and candle clenched tightly, I felt like a pioneer. Scaling over stalagmites or crude ladders held together with what looked like duct tape only to jump down into dark pools below I felt only very grateful I did not go first. Hey it was dark in there, but I didn’t ask too many questions once I realized how fast my candle was burning.
But the exhilaration...if the cold didn’t steal your breath away, the excitement would! It was unbelievable... very, very unbelievable, all things considered this was an attraction that would never be opened for tourist trade in the States. No part of it was for those faint at heart. And when our guide all too innocently joked about jumping off the 30 ft. high bridge into the río where we were currently relaxing in our oddly lumpy tubes... I shot him back a wide full-teeth grin of a smile, “We,” I replied wickedly, “would love to.” Love, might not have been the word I would use as I was flailing through the air minutes later; but it is the perfect sentiment for me to describe Semuc Champey. Loved it, you got to go... And go before they realize taking tourists through water filled caves with candles may actually be a really, really stupid (and dangerously fun) idea.

Living La Vida Lívingston

I didn’t know what language to speak, the landscape changed completely, I started out in Guatemala and ended up in the Carribean. “Sí, hubo un otro mundo completamente diferente.” Another world, our argentine friend remarked later laughing about Lívingston, sitting on a floating dock on the Río Dulce River in the late afternoon rays.

We were staying in what I like to think of as “the tree house”, or the crazy cabin on wooden stilts on the side of the Río Dulce River. Complete with wooden boardwalks connected to the main cabana and other cabins, canoes, a water taxi to get to the mainland, and mosquito nets, it was not your typical huespedaje (aka cheap hotels that function along the same line as a hostel but are more common in Central America.) It was so much better, isolated and serene after the hustle and bustle of cities and tourist traps. Dulce, or sweet in Spanish was a perfect way to describe this unspoiled river with banks of lush vegetation and shear walls of limestone bordering this rather large river. Much less commercial and visited than Lago de Atilan, boats were necessary to get from point to point but the pace of everything was much more reminiscent of island style living.

This way of life might also have been instigated by its proximity to the Carribean, Río Dulce flows right out into the Carribean Sea. Lívingston right on the upper lip of Guatemala and the carribean coast, is a fusion of Guatemalan heritage and culture mixed with Caribbean lifestyle and flavor. Lívingston is also unique to Guatemala in that it is home to the Garífuna, an independent population of black Guatemalans that trace their ancestory back to the Carribean island of St. Vincent and later displaced by the British and shipped to the islands off of Honduras. It is here where I wasn’t sure if I should be speaking Spanish or English. The Garífuna are affectionately known as the only black community in Guatemala, who carry their Caribbean roots alongside their Spanish speaking Guatemalan adaptations.

Lívingston is really a small community, not much more than a stopover for people traveling by boat from Belize, Honduras, or the Río Dulce, one could see most of it in two hours. Pero, para conocer Lívingston, se necesita mas tiempo. In Spanish there are two verbs for to know: saber and concocer. Saber is to know facts, such as Lívingston is the only place to get unique pan de coco or coconut bread and Tapado a fresh seafood soup rico with coconut milk. Conocer on the hand is to know a person or place intimately. My trip to Lívingston is a perfect example I have been there, passed a couple of hours, researched it; por mí sabé Lívingston, pero para concocer Lívingston necesito mas tiempo. I need more time to explore its streets, exotic cuisine and Caribbean charm. More time to head out to the beach or uncover more of its Caribbean roots in dancing styles and idiomatic expressions.

Part 2: Surviving the Cone

My shoes were burning, I could feel the heat underneath as the smell got stronger. There was a thick mass of people making their way up behind me, there was nowhere to go but up and fast. Ouch! I yanked my hand back from the rock, full of searing heat whenI had tried to boost myself up by grabbing a hold. Getting up was much harder now, still as steep as ever, but now burning hot as well. I scrambled 10 meters up, and stopped dead in my tracks not caring if my shoes melted off my feet—molten hot lava less than 7 meters from me. So close a tall European boy was standing with his face turned against the heat, his hand outstretched in the opposite direction roasting a marshmallow. Roasting a marshmallow from the heat of molten hot lava, cooool. Plane to Guatemala $330, expensive hiking gear $200+, hiking 2 hours up steep, precipitous volcano slopes $9.99, a bag of Guatemalan marshmallows $3.00, stick that will later be given back to the children who sold it to you $0.61 cents, seeing molten hot lava a few feet away: priceless.

Molten hot lava is awesome, words nor pictures can do it justice, and I think that’s because it’s not something you just see, it’s something you feel. Literally it’s hot! The lava slowly creeping down the side of Volcán Pacaya was a rich nutrient black volcanic rock shiny from the extreme heat and pressure of melting criss-crossed and terraced with the burning ember and orange glow that is not a color so much as a property of heat. Another reason, I think it’s so awesome to see lava, is because let’s face, when do you ever see lava unless you stupidly hike-up an active volcano looking for it (best case scenario) or a volcanic eruption occurs (worst case scenario). And it was stupid, there we were dozens of people, gawking at real, live molten lava, roasting marshmallows and posing for pictures while suffering intense heat and the consequential strong smell of burning rubber.

If the way going up was hard, the way coming down was just plain dangerous. There were too many people and the footing was loose volcanic rock on a steep slope, never a good combination. At points I could have been surfing down the mountain, I had so little control of the rocks underneath. Going down by yourself was dangerous, but I was more scared of the people behind me. A boulder was knocked down, and we all scrambled to get out of its way. The guy in front of me clamped it between his legs to stop it from hitting a frightened and paralyzed women in front of him. He suffered a serious gash, but it could have been much worse. And it was starting to get dark. Carlos was a great guide though, he hustled us together and got us moving through the worst parts before there was no natural light left. The worst was over, we still had to hike an hour and a half in the dark but it was mostly declining trails. Behind me the lava, brighter in the dark was picking up speed and giving a magnificent display. Dozens of people were attempting to capture it and you would see the constant pop of camera flashes going off. How they were getting down in the dark beats me, but I didn’t envy their trip one bit.

Finally at the bottom ourselves after a mainly uneventful hike down, we reached the kids begging for the sticks and flashlights back so they could re-sell them to a swarm of tourists the next day. There was a festive air, but it could just be because we were all thrilled and happy we survived. It was probably one of the more touristy, crowded things we had done thus far. There were certainly no Guatemaltecos besides the guides and taxis. Yet to me it resounded as one of the most authentic experiences I’ve had. Nowhere else are volcanoes such a prominent feature of the landscape and integrated into the dynamics of the land from soil properties to abundant hot springs. Nowhere else would offer such an adventure either, not for nine bucks, and definitely not without a slew of waivers and requirements to sign off. But here was a country that settled a village at the base of a volcano. Carlos, the other guides, and townspeople including children grew up traversing the volcano and exploring their land with or without tourists. As Carlos explained to me, “ I love my job, I get to go out and climb a mountain everyday, breathe fresh air, stay close to my home, meet people from all over. The people that leave to go out to the big cities are unhappy, the do work they do not enjoy, and travel far from their homes and families for what? I am happy to stay here, and I am glad people want to see all parts of Guatemala as Guatemala is.”

Climbing the cone. Part 1

In a land filled with no less than 35 volcanoes, climbing up one, is far from unusual. In fact it might be one of the more touristy things we’ve done. For starters it was cheap, the whole thing guide, shuttle, entrance fee was just around 9 dollars a head, if you have a good. cheap Spanish speaking bargainer that is, which actually almost describes me perfectly (the Spanish gets a little rural at times). After receiving the very cheap (I’m assured begrudgingly) special amiga + estudiante price of $35 quetzales (the exchange rate is 8.2 Q to $1 US dollar) plus the park fee of 40 quetzales we’re all set. No waivers, no warning, nada. Oh, and a warning to buy two flashlights and some marshmallows if we want. Okay...

The next thing I now we’re off. Crammed into another shuttle van with our backpacks stuffed into our laps with 11 other tourists. The 13 of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into, but then again, neither did the multiple other vans of tourists from other companies (who I assume did not get the special amiga + estudiante price). Even the 2 girls who had hiked the San Juan Volcano in the Lago de Atilan area, remarked how different the 2 experiences were. And what an experience we had...

After a 2 hour drive from Antigua, skirting the outskirts of Guatemala City, we arrived at the town of San Francisco Sales. Here surrounding the Volcan Pacaya, we were met by a tienda with last minute supplies and a swarm of town children hawking marshmallows, twice the price of course, and more necessary, walking sticks. “Es necesario, “ they assured us with somber faces, in both Spanish and English fighting each other for the sales. Even the littlest one had a stick to sell, launching at anyone who had two empty hands. I politely declined. Necessary, I decided was a word used too lightly by vendors in Guatemala. More importantly, it was here where we met our guide, Carlos, and became Los Dragones. Dragons, he explained, was our group name and it was very important to stay together as a pack using our name, lest we becomes hostages in another group to another guide. Aye, Aye Capitán.

I’m not going to be modest, I’m out of shape, I spent my winter break ignoring the whole concept of exercise. Hiking straight up a volcano sans stick in long pants with a heavy backpack (how do they always get so heavy?!) was going to be what I will politely term “interesting”. I felt reassured by Carlos though, he was a small guy, skinny in a sweatshirt and jeans, I have no idea how old he was but he looked 17. He was a great guide; patient, nice, good at his job and no doubt much older, but he looked 17. But if I was anxious about the 4 hour hike both ways, at least I was willing to do it on foot. For everyone else, there were “taxis” exhausted guide horses and their owner who offered to shuttle people up for 100 Q most of the way, one way, a small fortune in Guatemala if used both ways. After 10 minutes of walking, 7 member of our group were being taxied up, I for all my inactivity was fine, so far.

Cut to 40 minutes later, almost half way there, and the going is rough, it’s loose sand good for making your calf muscles quiver and it’s not straight up, but with steep winding cuts making the way longer, and an hour left to go I’m not sure which way I prefer. Our group is young, all college age kids and we’re moving fast with breaks every once and awhile. But the terrain is changing drastically, the trees are disappearing, there is no brush in sight and the dusty dirt path has turned into shards of porous black volcanic rock. At certain intervals Carlos will point out specific lava formations from a year ago, then 3 months ago, then 3 days ago, we’re getting close. We come to a ridge at the end of the winding path, and there it is, the mouth of the volcano. Okay, it’s still a way’s up but it’s the closet I’ve ever been to the mouth of a smoking volcano.

There was smoke coming out in copious amounts, thick plumes of it. The rest of the way ia straight up. Straight up on loose gravel, and freshly fallen lava chunks. The footing is not very secure, at regular intervals a small rock-slide would start, or some good size dried lava chunks would crash down. Carlos, assured us this was the toughest part and we were almost there. We didn’t need him to tell us we were close, I could feel heat radiating out of the rocks... The going was slow, each step had to be carefully tested to not create a mini avalanche, picking our way up like mountain goats through terrain so steep you could really only see the person and rocks in front of you. Luckily I was just behind Carlos who had the best footing and was not knocking stuff down my way. The next blast of heat was intense, uncomfortably hot—we had made it. Not to the mouth of the volcano of course, but to a point about 8 yards away from slowly flowing lava. The smell was worse than burning rubber, it took me only a second longer to realize it was the bottom of my shoes burning...

To be continued.

A Taste for Tortillas

“We only trust people who eat what we eat,’ she told me one day as she tried to explain the relationship between the guerillas and the Indian Communities.”—Riogoberta Menchu

The Mayans have always attached a particular importance and significance to maize. Believing themselves to be born and descended of maize. They treat the plant that gives them life with the utmost respect using every bit they can from the leaves or hojas, to the kernels in tortillas, tamales, or tamalitos. There is even a sweet drink, distinct to Guatemala—Atole, made from ground up corn, it is sugary and unusual. It has a decidely corn taste, sweet and thick with a few yellow corn kennels hidden at the bottom for texture. Chile or cinnamon is commonly added to the Atole based on the customer’s preference. Still and yet, the most famous signature maize staple is the torilla.

You will first hear the clap, clap, clap of tortillas being made on baked clay comals before you see them anywhere—correction everywhere: street side vendors, small shops, restaurants. This is very important as people here are used to having fresh tortillas right off the comal, or if worst comes to worst, prepared that day. There are no store bought tortillas here, that is absurd. Tortilla making appears to be a social activity as three or four women come together over the flashing hot comal, forming balls of dough that they clap between their palms to flatten out while they gossip, laugh, and smile. For festivals and celebrations, there are more tortillas vendors, and little comedors with table and chairs will walk to the vendors for fresh tortillas to accompany the ordered meal. But the vendors themselves will sell you their specialty. For a festival there are larger, sweeter tortillas sold with sugar added into their mix. Hearty and sweet, people will line up for these tortillas and the vendors need no advertising or hustling calls.

There are three types of tortillas blue, white and yellow reflecting the three types of maize that grows wherever the people can cultivate it. The blue tortillas, so dark blue as to appear almost black with brown spots from the heat of the comal; these ones are the best and are much rarer. Always a treat they are exotic, both slightly sweet and smoky with a rich thick bite.

Maize is undoubtedly the most important crop for Guatemala. Not because it’s a huge economic export like coffee. It’s a crop of the people, with a rich cultural and culinary history. So significant is maize that in a country filled with economic poverty, low sanitation standards, and social unrest still today, everyone from farmers to the people far removed from the field in the city, was aware of the plight of maize in 2009. Global warming, which is still not fully recognized in the United States, a first world country with the most access to technology, education, and free-flow of ideas, is being watched here. Here in Guatemala, it may not be given the same name as “Global Warming”, but it is given the same interest and concern. Last year for the first time ever, there was a serious lack of rain in Guatemala, rain that is counted on for the corn to grow. But the rain did not come and the corn could not grow. Crops failed prematurely, farmers lost everything, whole pueblas could not eat. The president of Guatemala, declared an emergency and ordered corn from the surrounding countries is Central America, El Salvador and Honduras, and onwards. Food was collected for pueblas without maize.

This year the weather is watched carefully, Guatemala is waiting for it’s customs to continue, it’s crops to grow.