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GUATEMALA
Update: look for Santiago de
Atitlán, January 15th 1960
La Democracia, December 22 th 1959
At dawn I leave my 'rathole' and ride towards the border. The customs office
is called La Mesilla. The important transitpaper is filled out in
the chief's bureau. The type of vehicle is a horse, and instead of the car
make the horse's brand is inserted. The column for the license number contains
Cintalapa, the owner is Ingeborg Blume and naturally I 'drive the
car' alone, without any other passengers. In addition I am told that Platero
is about 6 years old. At the end an annotation is put on the document:
"...que de ningun modo vendera el animal sin pagar los derechos que
corresponden!" But I don't have any intention of doing this. After all
I want to ride beyond Guatemala! (map)
Anyhow, I am quite happy to enter the country with my 'vehicle' without paying
any import duties. Life in Guatemala is more expensive than in
Mexico, the currency Quetzal stands at par with the U.S. dollar.
The distance between La Mesilla and La Democracia is said to be only 14 km. The guatemalan mountain range ahead of me, Cordillera de los Cuchumatanes, and its foothills form a natural border between the two states. The Panamerican Highway now takes the course of the valleys, but runs along the mountain side. You can hardly see the valley's bottom down there, it is quite narrow. So the gradient of this part of the highway isn't too bad, but the condition of the ground all the more. I am riding on a small sandy way through rising clouds of dust!
All the mountain peaks are glowing in the sun, but the valleys are still 'swimming' in a foggy sea out of which only a few very tall trees surface like submerged islands. At last the fog disappears. Water is running down the mountain sides everywhere. Banana-trees are growing on the slopes and here we are already in La Democracia. La señora Sofia, viuda de Argenta, has a room for me. It seems to me that the inhabitants of this place are more unfriendly and indifferent than the people in Mexico. Maybe this unfriendly attitude can be explained by the existence of an American mining company close by. The money (1Quetzal) for my room is asked for right away. I 've never experienced such a thing before! And naturally, how could it be otherwise: "Gringa, gringa .." I am so tired, that I sleep from 5 p.m.until 5 in the morning!
Xemal, December 23 rd 1959
The mayor of the village had promised to take care of Platero and to give
him his corn too, but I am not sure if my caballito has
really gotten his food. I leave La Democracia and as I pass the last
houses I read a real terse inscription: "Se prohibide la entrada de los
cotches!"
Cotches is the local name for pigs -otherwise the spanish word for
them is 'cochinos' - but it is also an insult to Mexicans. It isn't
clear if pigs or Mexicans are meant. After all the more succesful neighbour
is not liked at all, and the Mexicans, on the other hand, despise this
US-supported country un poquito.
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Plank covered bridge Platero in front of a gorge
The road behind La Democracia follows the same valley which is getting more and more narrow. During the whole day the noise of the river Selegua accompanies my ride. Incredible, on which kind of sheer slopes corn grows! Probably these small plots up there can be cultivated only by climbing. I ride into the El Tapon canyon. Here the way is carved out of the rock - no wider than a car more or less - and then runs over a plank covered bridge, which rocks gently back and forth while I am crossing it. Unfortunately, the road remains narrow on the other side of the canyon. As a precaution I dismount and lead Platero. I wouldn't like to drive along here by car. (Since the Panamerican Highway in the highlands of Guatemala is often obstructed by landslips, cautious drivers have their cars brought by train to Tapachula or even Guatemala-City. )
I pass a shack by the wayside and make inquiries about the nearest village. The people only know San Sebastian, 30 km away! I can already see myself wandering at night through canyons, but the information, thank God, wasn't accurate, since a bit later I am told that Xemal is just a short distance away. The village is said to consist only of a few small houses, but at least I can expect a police station and even a kind of eating place! I ride on, passing through another canyon. Most of the bridges are still under construction or just finished. At half past four in the afternoon I arrive in Xemal. I can stay overnight and recover from the strain of the day by eating the never changing evening meal. (Which Stephens enjoyed too: "Our usual supper of fried eggs, beans and tortillas." ) Reddish clouds are moving over the rushing river.
Huehuetenango, December 24/25th 1959
On Christmas Eve I ride on. Behind Xemal I notice the first orange
trees. Prior to that some Indios had sold me these big and very juicy fruits
for only 1 Centavo. This is almost a give-away! It surprises me, that here
the banana -and orange trees are growing solely in the highland valleys.
As soon as the road goes downhill and the mountains are lower, woods or scrubs
appear. But as the temperatures are more or less the same, this must be a
question of water supply rather than of warmth. In this high mountain region
there exists an incredible amount of water. Sometimes it just runs down the
rocky mountain sides. I wonder where it comes from, because we are in the
dry season and it is not raining.
The river is getting wider now and it flows more slowly. An Indio, who is carrying a load, comes my way. I 'see red' again, a colour which is liked around here a lot. It's remarkable, how many Indios are to be seen in Guatemala. The men usually wear only a red sash with their unicoloured working clothes. But I like the women better. They wear a black skirt, their blouses are reddish or white and their sash is also red. The Indias use a 'cloth ring' (a red cloth, which is rolled together) to carry baskets. The Indios on the other hand carry their loads by means of of a headband.
The Panamerican Highway doesn't go directly to Huehuetenango, another road leads to the city. This 'road', without question, is (so far) the most awful sandpath I have encountered on my voyage! Poor little Platero! He has difficulties in making headway. I emerge onto a high plain, pass an airfield and ride into Huehuetenango. If I can trust my feelings, I have been riding downhill all the way since I left Xemal, but the city still lies at an altitude of 1800 m. A friendly señora helps me to find accommodation. I am not quite sure - does she expect to be paid for it? At last everything is arranged. Platero will stay in the patio de la Casa de Posadas and I take lodgings at the Hotel Palacio, Calle del Hospital Nacional.
Again I compare Guatemala with Mexico - it seems to me, as if the people are friendly too, but a bit less helpful, and surely more indifferent and uninterested in my travels. But when I am on my way and greet everybody I come to meet in a friendly way, I can't find any difference to Mexico. "Buenas Dias" - "Que te vaya bien" they answer too.
The town doesn't seem to offer something special to look for. So I spend my time in the hotel writing. The nights are cool here, but during the day it is pleasantly warm. On Christmas Day I hear the bells ringing frequently of course, but on the other hand Christmas is as far as Canada and the snow.
Somebody offers his services to guide me to some kind of ruins. He charges
2 Quetzales, but that's too expensive for my liking so my answer is an abrupt:
"No."
(That was very stupid of me, because these ruins had once been an Indio
fortification, founded in 1470. The last king of the Mam, Calbal Bam, defended
himself here in 1525 over three months against the siege of the Spanish under
the leadership of Gonzalo de Alvarado, the brother of Pedro de
Alvarado")
(Stevens, naturally, visited the place: " In the afternoon we rode to
the ruins …They lie about half a league distant, on a magnificent plain,
bounded in the distance bv lofty mountains .. The whole is a confused heap
of grassgrown fragments. The principal remains are two pyramidal structures..")
Meanwhile I have been getting used to handle the different currencies. Considering accommodation and food the difference between Mexico and Guatemala isn't so serious as I had imagined. Cost of repairs, however, is higher. The same work, like the sewing of a handbag, for instance, costs nearly thrice as much here as in Mexico.
Malacatancito, December 26th 1959
Next morning I again encounter difficulties when I want to change a traveller's
cheque. At last I succeed at the Zaculeu hotel, the owners being German.
Asked about my further travel destinations, I tell them of my planned visit
to the coffee finca Nahuatancillo. My brother in Hanover had told
an aquaintance of his who is now working on the finca, about my forthcoming
visit. But in the meantime the ownership of the finca has changed. I decide
to ride there anyhow. After all, it is possible that the friend is still
working there.
I am riding now on the road 9 N, which is a direct connection between Huehuetenango and Quezaltenago. The marked-out line of construction of the Panamerican Highway, which - from the border on - hasn't been completed yet, runs past these two cities. It leads more or less directly to the capital, Guatemala-City.
The bridge Hacum in Malacatancito turns up. There is an 'assembly'
by the wayside. The men offer me some beer. Not wanting to be impolite I
drink half a bottle. (I must have been very thirsty!) I ask them about
the distance to the nearest village, but nobody knows how far it is. But
I can stay here, the señora Adela (Photo1)
gives me shelter. In case I need some water, there is the river on hand,
but how about food? "Hay un comedor para cenar?" "Nada, nada
...nothing of the kind, there isn't anything to eat.."
I prepare my night's rest on the pine needle covered floor of the hut.
(Stephens did the same: "We made inquiries with the view of hiring for
the night the bedsteads of the principal inhabitants, but there was not one
in the village; all slept on the bossom of mother earth, and we had part
of the family bed." )
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I give an account of my travels, mentioning Canada. The people here haven't got the slightest idea what this actually means! Even Mexico is only a vague conception. So in spite of their kindness they do know less than in other places - and above all, they don't have any idea of distances... Que frio en la noche!
San Carlos de Sija, December 27th 1959
Early in the morning I ride uphill. The villagers, in their Sunday-best,
walk downhill. I see nothing but wooded mountains, and I have the feeling
as if I am riding straight into heaven. Looking down I can see the church
of Estancia de la Virgen. At midday I eat a bit at Chiquival.
The village consists mostly of shacks. "A que distancia se queda
Sija?"-"A 20 kilometros." But nobody mentions what lies ahead
of me! Now the fun really starts, for my way leads up to the Cerro
Calel, 3296 m high. The road winds itself uphill. Far away, down there,
I can see Chiquival and other roads. (Photo 2)
Flowers are blooming at the wayside, then the timber-line appears, and very
high up only dense copses of a high grass grow en masse. On the highest point
of the mountain lies a lonely hut. Feeling that I have made it and glad to
be up here, I ride along leisurely and sample the view. Unfortunately Platero
tears at the bridle, he wants to feed on this delicious grass. I allow him
a short rest, but then we have to get going, because Sija is not yet
in sight and in the distance it looks like it is going to rain. On the other
side of the Cerro Calel extends a wide high plain, dotted with white
little houses. My descent begins. I have to urge Platero on, going
past isolated huts, further downhill, then again through woods. At last we
are down in the plain. Wheat is cultivated here in terraces. Sija
is still 6 km away! It's getting dark.
About 7 p.m. I ride into the village. A crowd, mostly women and children,
surrounds and welcomes me and overwhelms me with questions. "Hay una pension,
por favor?"-"Si, pero no bestias en el patio!" A young girl helps me;
I buy some bread. Some children and their mother escort me, what a fuss!
Platero is removed to another quarter, I eat my evening meal; peace at
last...
Today I have covered the largest stretch of my voyage so far - 46 km. Once
more my bed is very hard and the chilliness in the night is cruel - no surprise,
Sija lies 3000 m above sea level.
Quezaltenango, December 28th 1959
From Sija to Quezaltenango it's not very far. A pleasant ride
down the valley of a river and suddenly an impressive panorama unfolds itself.
Up from the mountain highs I look down upon the city, which lies at the foot
of a conical volcano,
the Zunil.
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"Two leagues beyond we came in sight of Quezaltenango, standing at the
foot of a great range of mountains, surmounted by a rent
vulcano constantly emitting smoke;" (Stephens)
(But in 1959 the volcano wasn't smoking any more.)
It takes me nearly two hours to descend. The path being very steep, I have
to lead Platero. The fields in the plain are cultivated here with a plow.
An agricultural experimental station lies by the wayside. I ride into the
city; the second largest in Guatemala.
("In a few minutes we entered the city. The streets were handsomely paved,
and the houses picturesque in architecture; the cabildo had two stories and
a corridor. The cathedral, with its facade richly decorated, was grand and
imposing. The plaza was paved with stone, having a fine fountain in the center,
and commanding a magnificent view of the volcano and the mountains
around.") (Stephens)
Quezaltenango, as the legend goes, owes its name to the Quetzal, the bird of paradise. (When Pedro de Alvarado defeated the Quiche Indios in 1524, and the Spanish were reported to have slain 30000 Quiches, a swarm of coloured birds, beating their wings, and screeching loudly is said to have settled on the fallen Indios and to have covered them with their glittering plumage.) The bird of paradise is the heraldic animal of Guatemala. Unfortunately, I never had a chance to see this wonder bird, since it lives in the virgin forest and is a very rare specimen.
I like Quezaltenango a lot better than Huehuetenango. The city
has got a nice center, a large market and a park. In the evening somebody
plays a marimba there- just like in Oaxaca. I take my lodgings at
the Hotel Imperial. "Tenemos un caballo aqui ", I hear somebody
say, but rather as a matter of fact, without any excitement.
While I am buying corn for Platero at the market an old woman asks me: "De
donde vienes Chula? Te han visto de autobus."
Palestina, December 29th 1959
From Quezaltenango I ride through a wide and high-lying valley westwards,
in the direction towards the mexican border, in order to reach the San
Marcos district. The valley is cultivated intensively, I pass another
agricultural experimental station. It is cold in the morning, because I am
still at an altitude of about 2000 m, but it is a pleasant ride. Like in
the city, I see many Indios on my way, wearing their colourful costumes.
At Ostuncalco it goes uphill again, there are a lot of roadworks.
But the wheat in the fields is cut with sickles! At last Palestina
comes into sight and - it happened often enough before - there are two eating
places, but they have no accomodation! Meanwhile, however, I have gained
experience and know that something will come up. For the time being, I just
sit around and wait until a helpful person appears on the scene. I don't
need to wait long. I get my room and Platero is put into a stable. My evening
meal I have with the family and once again I have to eat tamales,
but today I enjoy them very much.
In this part of the country they cultivate 3 different species of corn. Besides the common yellow one also white corn and even a black variety. After harvesting the corn needs 14 days to dry.
San Marcos, December 30th 1959
In the morning I pay only 1 Quetzal for the accommodation including food.
So it was unfair of me to mistrust the friendly welcome. (Teopisca is
not everywhere …) Platero is fitted out in addition with a new
girth-strap.
Riding on I can see San Antonio and San Marcos down in the
valley. I follow a riding path downhill, pass through the village of San
Pedro, and then at last I have reached my destination for today - San
Marcos. Surprisingly I encounter a rather insignificant small town, the
steep streets plastered with cobble-stones. But - on the other hand - the
guesthouse Imperial even has a stable! My landlady has a large family.
They don't ask many questions. I am not quite sure if the people aren't
interested in my doings or if, out politeness, they don't want to appear
too nosy.
San Marcos is lying on the edge of the tierra fria, which begins at
about an altitude of 1800 m. Tomorrow I shall ride down to the tierra
templada.
San Rafael Pie de la Cuesta, December 31th 1959
I ride through Palo Gordo, past a wooden church. It is very quiet,
the only sound being Platero's clattering on the cobble-stone pavement. All
of a sudden the only thing I see is the sky and deep down the lowland plain.
If there hadn't been clouds, I would have been able to look as far as the
Pacific. I begin the descent. Abruptly the vegetation changes, because on
the other side of the mountain range something like a tropical rainforest
begins. It is more dense than the highland woods, showing creepers, lianas,
ferns, moss on dead or toppled over trees, and numerous flowers, among them
orchids. I also see a lot more birds here. The more I ride downhill, the
more I become immersed in the clouds (or could it be fog?) and the more I
feel the humidity.
(It is fog! This fog is a result of the rising of hot air from the coastal
plain onto the steep mountain slopes. The bird of paradise still lives in
this so-called 'fogforest'! )
I need more than 4 hours for the descent. Past bushes of flowering christmas stars I ride at last into the plantations of banana- and coffee trees. The sun shines again! I am in the village of San Rafael Pie de la Cuesta, (Photo 3) which is lying at an altitude of about 1000 m.
I take lodgings at the guesthouse Wug. Many Chinese are living in the village.
They are mostly succesful and determined merchants, who have the coffee
purchasing and transport firmly under control.
For the evening meal I get tamales with meat - they are really delicous!
Today is New Year's Eve, but I am too tired to stay up until midnight.
The family invites me to remain another day and I accept the offer with pleasure.
The next morning they take me to visit the finca Limas. Later on we go to
the market, where we are surprised by a sudden downpour. On the way back
we meet "el muchacho Jorge y el Señor de la Luorca" The latter
informs me, that my brother's friend works at another finca - Las
Luces.
On the second of January I ride on and enjoy being in the shade, thanks to
the banana-trees along the way. My ride leads me through the stone-cobbled
El Tumbador and then on to the finca Nahuatancillo. (
Photo 4)
Finca Nahuatancillo, January 2nd/6th 1960
So that's the famous finca at last - really impressive the whole thing,
I must say. The residential premises lie on a hill, a first floor veranda
runs completely around the house. From this balcony a marvellous view unfolds
itself, in the distance the volcano Tacana (4064 m) in
Mexico can be seen. The hotel owner in Huehuetenango had given
me a letter for the family. I am received cordially and invited to stay for
a few days. The finca is one of the largest in Guatemala; the name
is known everywhere. More than 700 workers pick a coffee harvest of about
5000 Zt per annum.
(On December 7th 1956 the government under Colonel Castillo Armas ordered to expropriate the former German coffee fincas -without compensation -and to nationalize them. But I don't know, if Germans with aquired guatemalan citizenship were affected by this law.)
On January the 3rd I ride, without any luggage and hence very comfortably, to Las Luces, to welcome my brother's friend at last. He had already heard that an 'Ingebock' was on the way to him, but naturally it didn't mean anything to him. He lives with the administrator on the finca and works as a payroll clerk. The house here looks like the one in Nahuantancillo, only it isn't painted as nice as the former.
On January the 5th it rains heavily. This is already the second downpour since I have entered the coffee area. But the rain is wished for very much, because it means that the coffee-trees will blossom soon. The bushes, by the way, grow mixed with banana-trees on the fincas. The coffee-cherries take about 8 months to ripen, and they are picked at the end of the rainy season.
Today the administrator shows me the whole machinery and explains in full length the production proceedings of the coffee plant. He shows me the wash installation, the sorting machines, a wind blower and the large cemented patio for drying the coffee beans.When sold, 100 pounds of the green coffee yield about 25 $.
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Coatepeque, January 7/8th 1960
My journey continues. Because of the rain, that went down not so long ago,
it is humid. I ride through several coffee plantations to Nuevo
Progreso. Here I spend the night, because Coatepeque is too far
away to cover this stage in one day. Behind the village the road turns stony.
An Indio, who walks barefooted, keeps me company for a while. He has the
handsome profile of a Maya, even the characteristic nose. I find out, that
he cannot read.
Slowly I leave the mountainous area and reach the lowlands, the tierra
caliente, which reaches an altitude of about 800 m. Coatepeque
lies merely 485 m above sea level. The place is a trade center and there
are also a lot of coffee drying plants concentrated here. The city is surrounded
by pastures, but sugar-cane is cultivated too. The evenings are warm now,
and I don't need anything to cover myself with. But to make up for it, flies
and mosquitos are present, which don't exist on the highlands - or none of
this unpleasant pest has bitten me therel. Everywhere I can see announcements
which call attention to the salud animales, the animal health.
Retalhuleu, January 9/12th 1960
I take La Derecha to Retalhuleu, which is the direct way. The
first kilometers I enjoy riding, but then the road changes to red clay.
."Dios mio, que calor!" Once more I have hit upon one of these endless
roads. It's a drudgery for Platero. I am glad when Retalhuleu turns
up The city is a railroad stop for the trains coming from Tapachula
in Mexico. From here the line leads to Escuintla and then on
to Guatemala-City.
I take lodgings at the Hotel Modelo and I am lucky to meet a nice family there. The husband, an Argentinian, is a pilot and his work consists in dispersing insecticides by plane. His wife comes from England. Their little daughter's name is Susi. They have already lived here for quite a long time and have got many friends and acquaintances. Hence they can help me. Platero has got a sore by the chafing of his saddle girth (the heat may have done its part too) and he has to rest. The wound is treated and then my caballito is brought to a good pasture. In the meantime a saddler is making a new saddle-girth and a belly-girth as well.
On Sunday we drive with Don Rodolfo to Agua Amargas. Someplace, up in the mountains, a hot mineral spring gushes from rocks and the water accumulates in a natural basin. This 'swimming pool' is big enough to bathe in and so we more or less splash in it.
The next day the family has to drive to the capital, and naturally that's a good chance for me to get to know Guatemala-City. The ride by car takes three hours and tires me more than a whole day on the road with Platero. The city is not very big and also not as beautiful as the Mexican capital, but the climate is agreeable. But towards the evening it's getting a bit too chilly for my liking, because now I am already used to the heat of the tierra caliente. Unfortunately I don't have the time to see many buildings of interest. The National Palace looks very impressive, and it is built with the same green stones also used for the colonial buildings in Oaxaca.
On my third day in Retalhuleu I take the bus to Champerico, a distance of about 35 km. Before riding again towards the altos I feel I just have to see the Pacific! Alas - the trip is a disappointment, because Champerico, to tell you the truth, looks an awful mess. Besides, I can splash only a bit in the shallow water, because the breakers are so strong, that I am afraid to dive through them. The sand of the bathing beach is completely black! In this area I can see many poor white people; tuberculoses is wide-spread. A señora, a fellow bus passenger, tells me that Escuintla (130 km away from Retalhuleu) is said to have the world highest percentage of cases of tuberculoses.
Mazatenango, January 13th 1960
Merely 26 km to reach Mazatenango. It's a pleasant ride, because Platero
makes headway, he 'recovered' on the pasture. Like Coatepeque,
Mazatenango is a trading place, especially for coffee, cotton, bananas
and peanuts, but only cotton is cultivated here in the tierra caliente.
Chicacao, January 14th 1960
From Mazatenango on I ride another stretch of the coastal route until
San Antonio de Suchitepéquez. In this area sugar-cane is cultivated
intensively. A paved road branches off at San Antonio in the direction
of Chicacao, and this place is my starting point for riding up again
to the tierra fria and to Lago Atitlán. At a
leisurely pace I follow this really excellent road, which turns, however,
unexpectedly, into a stony, dusty path. The path leads over a hill, circles
half around and then I encounter, quite surprisingly, a broad, fast flowing
river. The remains of a bridge, torn away by high water during the rainy
season, are still to be seen. Taken aback, I remain motionless amidst the
peaceful countryside and wait once more for somebody to help me. In
Guatemala someone is always on his way, and after a while a
muchacho appears. "Hay 5 años que se cae el
puente." But what are 5 years in Latin America? ... Nada,
not worth speaking of ...
I am lucky, because the muchacho knows a ford. He is willing to bring
me to the opposite riverbank. At first Platero refuses to step into the
torrential current, but then he grants permission to be led. I have to keep
my legs up, because the water reaches Platero's belly. Large rocks are looming
in the river, but we cross safely to the other bank and I can continue on
my planned travel route.
Following the road on the other side of the river, I savour a heavenly silence;
there isn't any traffic at all. There aren't even the usual carts, for only
riders and pedestrians are able to cross the river, thanks to the rocks.
I spend the night in Chicacao. The next day I will ride on to the
lake.
Santiago de Atitlán, January 15th
1960
Update
October 2005
I am riding forth, at first through coffee plantations, being nicely in the
shade. Then a long ascent to the lake follows, which lies at an altitude
of about 1500 m, which means that I have to cross the even higher foothills
of the surrounding volcanos first. Once again I am literally 'up in the clouds'.
riding through a foggy mist. But all of a sudden the mist splits open and
I look down upon Lago Atitlán - blue
and sparkling under the sun. I descend to the pueblo of Santiago de
Atitlán. The village, crowded with American tourists, is quite
picturesque, with thatched roof huts surrounded by stone walls. The pants
of the Indios here are made out of old sugar bags, but they are beautifully
embroidered with 'birds of paradise' motifs. They cover just the knees. The
skirts of the Indias are red and they wear white embroidered blouses and
the customary red shawl. But Santiago is also the first place, where
I am 'ambushed' by begging children, encouraged by their mothers. Besides,
it is very dry here. Platero doesn't have anything to feed on. The Indios
live mostly from fishing, and that is a very tiresome work in Santiago
de Atitlán.. The village lies at a shallow bay of the lake. So
the men are building small dams in the water, and any fish, caught within,
is' 'fished out'. (Photo 5)
San Lucas de Tolimán, January 16th
1960
It's only a short way from Santiago de Atitlán to San Lucas
- about 10 km. So I take my time and ride slowly around the Cerro
de Oro. That's a plain, covered with woods, which lies at the foot of
the volcano Tolimán and between the two bays of Santiago
and San Lucas. A tiny volcano, which rises in front of the two big
ones - the conical Atitlán and the more levelled Tolimán
- goes by the same name. San Lucas lies in a narrow valley, extending
to the lakeside. The place has a nice 'beach', so I seize the opportunity
and use the lake as a horse-pond for Platero. I lead him into the water and
give him a real good 'rubbing off'. This work done, I go swimming myself.
The water is clear, but not very warm. All my doings under the sights of
the giggling Indias (Photo 6), who have come
to the lake to fetch their drinking water. Probably thinking: funny things
these gringas are doing ...
The costumes of the Tzutuhil Indios here feature predominantly blue
tones. (17 small villages, either close to the water-edge or high up on
the mountain slopes, are located around the lake. These Indios belong mainly
to the Tzutuhil or Cakchiquel tribes. The inhabitants of each village distinguish
themselves by a special dress. 12 of these villages are named after the
apostles.) In San Lucas I discover another 'impressive' poster.
| Si Usted es buen Guatemalteco: No va a Mexico ! No va comprar articulos Mexicanos ! No va ver peliculas Mexicanas ! No va leer periodicos Mexicanos ! Ainsi no respondan a los insultos que hacen los Mexicanos a notre pais y notre bandera. |
Panajachel, 17/18th January 1960
I am riding further around the lake. High up on the steep slope of the eastern
lakeside I take a picture of the Cerro de Oro and enjoy the overwhelming
panorama over and over again - like my other 'travelling companion' Max Vollmberg
in 1932 (Standing at the wooden cross of the mestizo village Godinez,
I got a marvellous view upon Lake Atitlàn, a vast craterlake, which
lies 5000 feet above sea level. It is said to be 1200 feet deep. On the opposite
bank the steel-coloured cone of the volcano San Pedro grows abruptly and
defiantly out of the darkgreen water. Its streams of lava which poured once
into the lake, turned into igneous rocks ... )
At Godinez the road branches out. A risky path leads down to the village of San Antonio Palapo, which lies deep-down at the lakeside. On the right hand a route goes to Patzun, to the left, following the steep coastal road, lies my way to Panajachel. That's supposed to be a Tzutuhil word and it means 'mountain nose'. Today this village, however, is a fashionable bathing resort with numerous, mostly very expensive hotels. The road down to Panajachel runs close to the rocks, on the opposite roadside is a precipice. I arrive at a lookout. From this mirador the lake presents itself at its best, with the two volcanos towering decoratively in the background. I can't resist and 'arrange' Platero for a picture in such a way that he is standing 'directly' in front (Photo 7) of the two - Tolimán and Atitlán. The caballito, with its 'baggage', keeps quiet patiently. The sea-bag, thanks to the new belly-girth of Retalhuleu, is tied much better now. The remaining objects, as there is the sleepingbag, the leatherbag with my documents and money and the net with provisions, are fastened at the pommel.
Panajachel lies 1580 m above sea level. I can get a room at the Maya-Azteca Hotel. This one is not so expensive, so I decide to stay another day and have some rest. The next morning I do my laundry first, and whilst the linen is drying in the sun, I go swimming in the lake. "Mira la gringa!" OK - I am used to it by now.
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Patzun, January 19th 1960
I ride back to Godinez. (Stephens: The village consisted
of but three or four huts, entirely desolate; there was not a person in sight.)
A last look upon the lake. Behind the village the descent begins, until
I reach the valley of a river in which the road runs forth for a while.
(Stephens: ...reached the bottom of the ravine. A stream runs through
it and for some distance our road lay in the stream.) Then it goes uphill
again into the montains. I ride through a magnificent pineforest, the road
mounting constantly. High above me I see the road which winds itself up to
an elevated plain. Patzun doesn't lie on this plain, but nevertheless
at an altitude of 2200 m. It is a small city, built during the Spanish
colonisation, and it has a beautiful old church. The doors of the church
portal are carved in wood and decorated with silver. My pension is not very
expensive. I compare the tierra fria and the tierra caliente
considering the friendliness of the people and also what generally is
asked for when it comes to accommodation and food. The comparison turns out
in favour of the altos. (tierra fria)
Chimaltenango, January 20th 1960
My destination for today is Chimaltenango. This city is said to lie
exactly on the continental divide of Atlantic and Pacific.
Que frio en la mañana! Behind Patzun I pass a sawmill
and then, like Stephens "Leaving Patzun on the left, our road lay on the
high, level table of land." I ride uphill and come upon the plain.
On top of it a horrible wind is welcoming me. But Platero likes the cold
and he trots ahead lively. I do the 30 km to Chimaltenango in 6 hours!
In this city just as in Patzun, I come across the missionary-work
of some kind of Protestants. Though they are dressed very correctly, these
people somehow look ridiculous - they are Mormons, 'La Iglesia
Jesus Cristo de los Santos de Ultima Dias'. .
(In a remote north-western part of the department Chimaltenango another Indio stronghold - Mixco Viejo - has been excavated. Miguel Angel Asturia, Guatemala's only winner of a Nobel Prize, wrote a beautiful poem: Los indios bajan de Mixco)
Antigua, January 21th/24th 1960
In Chimaltenango I leave the Panamerican Highway with the intention
of riding first southwards to Antigua and after that towards the lake
Amatitlán. In doing so I'd ingeniously avoid
Guatemala-City, which it wouldn't be a pleasure to pass through with
Platero what with all the motor traffic.
(Guatemala-City (Nueva Guatemala de la Asuncion) is, strictly speaking, the fourth capital of Guatemala. The first, called Ixmiche and founded by Pedro de Alvarado, was abandoned soon. His second capital, identically named and founded in November I527 at the foot of the two volcanos Agua and Fuego, was destroyed by an eruption of a volcano. The ruins of the cathedral were the only thing which remained of 'Ciudad Vieja' The third capital, that is to say Antigua, founded I543 in the Panchoy valley, was also flooded three times and then destroyed in 1773 by an enormous earthquake - but in this case, with the city being greater by now, a lot more ruins remained.)
The climate is agreeable here. Christmas stars and roses and innumerable other flowers blossom at the same time of year. I live in the house of Victoria. She is always dressed in black and most of the time looks rather grave. I know her from my time in Canada, when she was working in the Guatemalan consulate in Montreal for some time. Victoria is glad to see me and shows me around the city. Antigua looks as if the time has stood still. It is layed out after the colonial pattern, with small streets, crossing each other rectangularly. Colonial houses, which have a patio and have iron bars before windows, still exist. But alas, a lot of it isn't authentic, only restored …
Besides the former University of San Carlos, now looking a dazzling white, I visit the pictorial ruins of the Jesuit church 'La Recoleccion', the church 'Nuestra Señora de la Merced', built in the 'churrigueresco' (baroque) style, and the cloister 'Las Capuchinas'.
Palin, January 25th 1960
I ride uphill towards Santa Maria. This place lies high on the flank
of the volcano Agua. Then up on the height a final view back and I
can see the whole city of Antigua, which is spreading in a narrow,
wooded valley. On the opposite side of the valley, more or less to the south-west
of the city, I notice, are the volcanos Acatenango and Fuego.
They are quite close together. Some Indios come to meet me. On their way
to the market they are running downhill. In the fields besides my path grows
a lot of corn. Behind Santa Maria the road still mounts for a while,
but then I am 'over the mountain' (or rather volcano) and I ride downhill
to Palin. All the time I had this impressive Agua (3752 m)
(Photo 8) as a kind of travel companion! I pass a National
Finca. Nobody lives in the dwelling house. I am told that the former owner
was a German. Now everything looks as if gone to seed. Palin lies
on the highway from Escuintla to Guatemala-City and 1100 m
above sea level. The village has also a railway station. An enormous ceiba
grows on the main square.
Amatitlàn, January 26th 1960
For the stage Palin - Amatitlán I need only about two
hours. So I have enough time to go swimming in lake Amatitlán
too. But unfortunately the water is very cold, even for my liking, and
in addition to that an awful wind is blowing. The lake is beautiful, but
it doesn't come anywhere near the outstanding beauty of Lago
Atitlán, with its steep coasts and volcanos. The lakesides
are level and marred by numerous summer cottages and stalls.
Amatitlán, however, is an archaeological 'bonanza'
(Like the holy cenote of Chichen Itza in Yucatan it must have been the
destination of pilgrims from nearby and far-off countries. So this lake is
today one of the greatest sites of archaeological objects found underwater)
In the city of Amatitlán I only like the church El Niño de Atocha, built in I635, whereas the park El Filon looks desolate. For my laundry I have to use the dirty river Sahartaya.
Barillas, January 27th 1960
I am riding on the road which leads alongside the southern lakeside of Lake
Amatitlán. But my map is inaccurate and so I come across a
way which - right through coffee plantations - is ascending towards the volcano
Pacaya (2580 m). I pass a monument which shows only a date - the 3rd
of July 1957 - and four names. I speculate on what may have happened on that
day, but I am not able to solve the puzzle. At last, at the end of the road,
I wind up in Barillas, a small place high above the lake. Electricity
hasn't yet arrived here, but the people make up for it by being much more
friendly and easy-going than in other places. A certain Pedrito presents
me with a pumpkin for Platero.
Barberena, January 28th 1960
Even now, from a place as far away as Barillas, I can still see the
Agua. I ride back until I reach the southern lakeside road again,
which, however, descends still. Behind La Concha the road is covered
with asphalt. This area is dry, but there are still coffee fincas. Barberena
is a dreary place, but it is just teeming with people. A swarm of children
receives me and accompanies me to a pension. I am going to stay here overnight.
Cuilapa, January 29th 1960
Even if it's only a short way, a mere 10 km, from Barberena to
Cuilapa, I decide to call it a day and not to proceed any further,
because the latter is the last major city before the border to El
Salvador. Cuilapa is the capital of the province Santa Rosa.
Considering that it lies 900 m above sea level it is quite warm here. When
I say 'capital', it is a bit of an over-statement. Cities are - strictly
speaking - only Guatemala-City and Quezaltenango, maybe
we can add Antigua too. All the other 'cities' which I have seen are
more or less enlarged villages. Cuilapa, for example, has only stony
and dusty streets. I haven't seen a street covered with asphalt - not even
one that was paved!
The currency of Guatemala stands at par with the dollar, but the country is very poor, a lot more than Mexico, which, after all, is industrialized in some parts, whilst in Guatemala nothing of this kind is to be seen.
Jocotillo, January 30/31th 1960
Behind Cuilapa I cross a new bridge, which leads over the Rio
Esclavos, crossed also by Stephens: (…a wild and noble river,
the bridge across which is the greatest structure in Central America, a memorial
of the Spanish dominion.) Stephens bridge had given way to another one.
Built only as late as 1952 it had been thought of as being too narrow - hence
the new bridge. The Panamerican Highway is not yet covered with asphalt.
Behind Molino I turn off the highway, in order to take a shortcut
to the border. I have a pleasant ride to Oratorio, but the village
itself looks dreary and deserted. (There hasn't changed much, since
Stephens rode along here : "We passed through the straggling settlements
of Oratorio and Léon, mostly single huts. The road lay in a magnificent
ravine, with a fine bottom land and noble mountain sides."). On my
way I come to meet many mules, which carry either a rider or a load.
Such short 'wayside' words of welcome are about the same in Guatemala
as in Mexico:
"Sola, solita? " - "Si."
"No le da miedo?" - "No."
"Usted tiene valor!" -
"Hm."
I ride downhill to reach Jocotillo which - on my map - is put down
as a village. Another rider accompanies me. So I come to know that
'Jocotillo' stands for several fincas, and that only the mayor lives
in the place itself. Hence no guesthouses can be found there.
Señor Marcuccis invites me to spend the night at his rancho.
(Photo 9) He has a large family. They are Italian
immigrants. Three children are away at a boarding school, but the three youngest
are still at home. A dairy herd is kept on the rancho and cheese is produced
too. Everybody is very friendly and the meals are good, I only miss vegetables,
but maybe it's too dry here for growing them. I am asked to stay for another
day and that I do indeed. I take a nice rest, swinging back and forth in
a hammock, while Platero enjoys grazing on a pasture. I am also told to visit
the Marcuccis family on another rancho, to which they are going to move to
this very month. But who knows, when I will visit Guatemala again. On leaving
I receive a present - an embroidered blouse, typical for the country.
Valle Nuevo, February 14th 1960
In the area near Jalpatagua I ride over a desolate elevated plain.
("The face of the country was entirely changed; it was broken and
stony."(Stephens ). As far as the border the countryside is dry beyond
any imagination. The trees are without leaves, there aren't any wells. Drinking
water has to be dragged over great distances from the Rio Paz.
Valle Nuevo is a dry (how could it be otherwise) and dirty border place. No possibility to find a guesthouse here! But the people are polite and so a 'house' is offered to me. The casita consist of a one-room-hut with a earthen 'groundfloor', but at least there is a bedstead. Although I sleep in my sleeping bag, I get bitten during the night by numerous 'beasts'. I don't know what they were, either flees or bedbugs. The owners of my casita live in another hut. That one is quite dirty, pigs and chicken use the hut freely ...
The Rio Paz originates from numerous springs, which arise partly in the mountainous north of the province Jutiapa in Guatemala and partly in El Salvador. Northerly of Valle Nuevo and as far as the Pacific it forms the border between the two countries. ("The river itself was beautiful. It was called the River of Peace, but was now the dividing line of deadly war, the boundary between Guatemala and El Salvador. "(Stephens)
(Calculating the km I covered in Guatemala - a bit difficult for this country and therefore not so exact - I arrive at about 714 km. That - considering the 28 places I stayed overnight - amounts to a daily average of 25,5 km.)
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