Laguna Chicabal

I found it easy to like Guatemalans. A casual eye contact leads to an animated exchange of "Buenos Dias", and if the greeting occurs while the parties are stationary, it is followed by an amiable conversation. It was hard for me to reconcile the mellow people who I met, with the guide-book warning of robberies and rapes on popular trails. Uncharacteristically, the Bible recommends hiring a guide for these hikes. The travel agency informed me that the trip to the Chicabal Volcano leaves at six am, and that the early departure is necessary to avoid the clouds that obscure the volcanoes later in the morning. We faced a dilemma. At an altitude of 2,300 meters, and despite the clear skies, Quetzaltenango is painfully cold in the morning. Adi and I decided to go on our own.

By eight am, after a hearty breakfast in Café Shalom, it was warm enough to start our trip. At the trailhead, Nemo looked up the steep dirt road and declared "I can do it". I let it maneuver us gingerly up the rutted path, and saved forty minutes of walking time. Hiking from the ranger station, the ascent warmed us up. We reached the rim just ahead of the clouds, and witnessed the hourly eruption of the neighboring volcano. On the other edge of the rim we got our first glimpse inside the crater. The view was breathtaking. Dense tropical vegetation lined the inner slopes, converging on a round emerald lake whose shore was decorated by several white beaches. Except for the birds, the forest was quiet. We admired the view in soft voices trying to maintain the peaceful atmosphere. Suddenly, a puff of mist appeared in the center of the lake, and before I could convince myself that it was really there, it vanished. I could understand why the Mayans believe that spirits inhabit this place.

A few hundred steps lead down to the shore. A light wind ruffled the surface, making it shimmer under the bright sun. I resisted the urge to plunge into the crystal clear water partly because I was not sure it was "spiritually correct", but mainly because of the cold air. On the path surrounding the lake we passed Mayan altars where the villagers left offerings of flowers and fruit. Suddenly, the silence was broken by human sounds. To my relief, those were the happy sounds of children. An indigenous family, a father and three kids, arrived along the path. The girls were pretty in their colorful costumes; the father carried a large machete. In the short conversation that followed, I inquired about the weapon.

He tried to put me at ease, "Do not worry, the machete is for cutting firewood, not against thieves. These days, the thieves do not come here."

We met the family again on the next beach. They were not performing a religious ceremony, but simply enjoying a family picnic in this wonderful surrounding. The children looked so happy, and so innocent. We sat nearby and philosophized over the merits of the simple life. Does it really lead to a happier life? Eventually we fell silent and observed the clouds as they worked their way over the rim and then slowly down towards the lake. Soon we were enveloped in mist. The rest of the walk took on a mystical quality. All sounds were muffled in the fog. The trees appeared as we approached, and disappeared behind us. Dead trunks in the water looked like imaginary creatures. The lake indeed became a sacred place.

Driving back, we passed a different family. Adults as well as small children walked hunched under the weight of huge bundles of firewood that extended well over their heads. This sight was a stark reminder that the simple life may be happy, but is definitely not easy.