Purple

Two old men ride slowly into town.  They are covered in dust after the long mountain trail.  The street is abandoned.  On both sides, they see broken walls and fallen columns, remnants of formerly monumental edifices.  The loose cobblestones crumble under their tires, and the sound echoes against the bare walls. Although they see no one, they can feel eyes watching them from the shadows.  Night is looming, and with it,  danger.  At the central square, they dismount.  They hear the rumble of distant thunder, They look up.  Stars are visible in the darkening sky; It is not a storm.  The sound grows nearer and louder. The sonorous throb of large drums reverberates within their body, and is now accompanied by slow-cadence music.  A large group of men, wearing hooded dark robes, enter the square. They step in unison carrying a long and heavy wooden float. On the float, effigies of mythological figures in various postures of torture or death. Dozens of men shoulder the float, yet the strain is visible on their young faces. The two riders observe in silence. Torches are lit to illuminate the procession. Behind the float march several men playing funeral music on tubas and other wind instruments. The large drums are towed on trolleys and mark the solem beat.  These are followed by more hooded men dispensing smoking incense from swinging censers.  Out of the smoke, emerges another float.  This one smaller, carried by dimunitive pre-teen girls.  The girls are overpowered by the weight on their shoulders.  A few of them stumble to the ground, and are briskly pulled up by the adult attendants surrounding them.

OK, OK. Enough of this post-apocalyptic movie.

Kobi and I arrived in Antigua, Guatemala, unaware that it was the night before Passion Sunday.  The ruins are the remnants of an eighteenth century earthquake which almost destroyed the city.  The procession is an old tradition, and attracts many visitors.  (We were lucky to find a room.)  The little girls were not being tortured.  Their mothers were there, discreetly sharing the load.

On Sunday morning, more luck.  A flight delay, allowed me to stay in town for the main event.  The sidewalks bloomed with Mayan women wearing colorful woven outfits.  Along the procession route, locals applied the finishing touches to decorative carpets formed by flowers and colored sand.  These will be obliterated as the procession passes over them.  At last, The large float entered the city.  It was carried by two hundred men, wearing purple, the color of Lent.  On it, effigies of Jesus enacted scenes of the crucifiction.  A squad of Roman soldiers marched in front, and the bass drums and tubas followed.  Virgin Mary on a smaller platform came next, carried by veiled women in black dress. Since the procession started earlier at a nearby village, and would wind its way through the city until evening, thousands of curcuruchas (carriers), all in purple, stood in readiness to carry the load for one block. Each carrier wore a badge, designating his turn as well as his position under the float. (That's how I know their number)

The spectators were still choking the city streets when I had to squeeze my way out, barely making it to the airport taxi.

In Search of a Serpent

We walked, single file, along the narrow jungle path. The lowland jungles of Guatemala are teeming with life, and the night was filled with unfamiliar, sometimes eerie, sounds. We were here to catch reptiles, and Ofer, in the lead, was intently listening for the subtle rustling of snakes slithering in the foliage. Suddenly, a loud roar echoed through the darkness. Ofer stopped moving.

'Sounds like a jaguar,' I thought, 'Lonely Planet says they are out here.'

We shone our flashlights into the thick vegetation, hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive predator. Another roar, this time directly above, dispelled my hopes. High in the tree canopy ahead, was a howler monkey proclaiming his territory. We continued moving deeper into the forest. With the aid of Ofer's giant flashlight, we encountered other interesting creatures, some of them he could even name. A pair of crocodile eyes shone back at us from the shores of a small lagoon. Ofer directed me to keep my flashlight on while he circled the lagoon. I understood his plan, and I didn't like it. Last night at Finca Ixobal, I witnessed how he swiftly shed his clothes, jumped into the murky water and came out with a large frog (or toad) in his hand. Fortunately, this time the crocodile swam away before Ofer had his chance. We concluded the night's walk without sighting any other reptile; not even a frog.

"No frogs, no snakes." Ofer summarized, in a sentence that would become our mantra on this expedition.

We settled into our tent.

"Don't be discouraged," Ofer consoled me, "it will take several days for our senses to get accustomed to the new environment and enable us to see and catch something."

I fell asleep despite the loud and annoying racket of the howler monkeys in the surrounding trees.

The next morning as we walked to the Mayan ruins of Tikal we encountered many other birds and mammals that seemed unafraid in our presence. Like all tourists we were impressed by the size and height of the stone structures erected by this civilization. Unlike other tourists, when Ofer reached the top of the 50 meter temple, he approached the sheer edge, and kicked into a handstand. I thought he abandoned that practice thirty years ago.

In the afternoon we moved our camp to the shore of Lake Petén Itza. The result of the night hike was the same as the previous night.

"No frogs, no snakes."

This scenario repeated itself for several days. In the mornings we visited places of interest (to me), where Ofer amazed tourists with handstands on tall ancient structures, and at night we went into the jungle, coming out empty handed. Reluctantly, Ofer consulted his "Amphibians & Reptiles of Northern Guatemala" guide, and confirmed that during the dry season, the frogs are gone, and the snakes are mostly dormant. Our frustration scientifically confirmed, we decided to continue our nightly searches while travelling towards the highlands and visiting other famous natural attractions.

On the last day of our expedition, as we were driving down into a deep canyon, Ofer slammed on the brakes, left the stalled car in the middle of the dirt road, and jumped out of the car yelling "A snake!" The creature disappeared out of sight into the thick grass. Ofer searched for a while, and after concluding that it was gone, took the opportunity to relieve himself. As he was doing so, his trained ear and eyes caught a movement in the grass. Without hesitating, he pounced forward and came back with his pants wet, holding a furiously struggling snake by its tail. I instinctively moved away. I saw a green triangular head, and the words Green Mamba, rang alarm bells in my head.

"Is it poisonous?" I asked.

"I am ninety-five percent sure it is not," Ofer answered while staying focused on the snake's attempts to double up and bite his hand, "and Green Mambas live only in Africa."

Not satisfied with these odds, I kept my distance. Slowly the snake relaxed and allowed Ofer to place it in a plastic bag, and retrieve his guide book. We had a Bronze-Backed Parrot Snake. It is one of the few diurnal species in Guatemala. I also relaxed, and admired the serpent's long, colorful body.

At the bottom of the canyon was Semuc Champey. We could not find a more wonderful place to celebrate Ofer's success. After a refreshing dip in the blue pools, and a couple of beers in the laid-back jungle hostel, we photographed our green companion and released it back to the jungle.

In total, we spent a week in the jungle, and caught one snake.

"It was worth it," Ofer concluded, "I never caught this kind before."

Hummustenango

An Israeli flag on a Guatemalan road, should have given me a hint of things to come. It didn't. I was just proud to learn that Solel Bo'ne is responsible for this excellent segment of the Trans-America Highway. We left the highway on winding road leading down to Lake Atitlan. Several famous travelers declared it to be the prettiest lake in the world. I have a few more lakes to visit before I can confirm their proclamation, but looking at the lake from above, I could easily accept it.

When we arrived at San Pedro La Laguna, I was surprised to find a Guatemalan town that could fit well on the Mekong. The sidewalks were lined with hand-written signs in Hebrew, and aromatic bars provided pillows and large-screen TVs. We followed a group of young Israelis into a shorefront restaurant called Hummus-Ya. We chose a table over the water, and admired the blue lake surrounded by high volcanoes. Hummus-Ya would become our favorite spot during our stay on Lake Atitlan. Maria, the Israeli owner/chef is married to the young French bartender, and employs an Italian cook. She plays only Reggae music and occasionally reads Tarrot cards. After a couple of days, I dared to ask her about the Tahini, which I could not obtain in Mexico. I was impressed to learn that she produces her own Tahini by grinding sesame seeds in a corn grinding station. Her falafel was excellent. Adi noted that my version of Hummus has a bit more lemon. After four days of Hummus and falafel, Adi renamed the place Hummustenango.

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.

Guatemala Salad

The city of Quetzaltenango (Place of Quetzal) is a surreal initiation to Guatemala. The public architecture is Neo-Classical, or in other words, a copy of Roman buildings. Yet the women walking besides the somber columns of the Temple to Minerva wear vibrantly colorful dresses, not Togas. It is the phosphorescent colors that caught my eye and provided the initial impression of Guatemala. No fashionable pastels here. I believed that the indigenous Traje of Guatemala can be found only on postcards or in remote mountain villages, yet here, in the second largest city, it is the everyday wear of most women. Without repeating the words "Glowing colors" it would be hard to describe the intricate designs of the hand woven skirt, the cloth belt or the embroidered Huipil (blouse), so I won't try. Except for the headdress, the traditional dress is worn by women and girls starting at a very early age. The headdress is reserved for the adults. It is a long cloth ribbon which is wrapped several times around their hair, and then adorned with tussles or pompons. Adding to the city's mixture is the proudly advertised Evangelical presence. It is painted in giant letters on all walls. We had breakfast in Café Shalom, fixed the cell phone in Israel Electronics, and took care of Nemo in Car Wash Elohim.

The cultural clash continued in Momostenango (Place of Peace) a highland town not far the city. Next to the Immanuel Church we visited Don Rigoberto who took upon himself to maintain and promote the Mayan heritage. Using corn grains placed on a home spun wool blanket he explained the basics of the intricate Mayan calendar. Not far from Don Rigoberto's house, we met the powerful San Simon. A chain smoking, rum drinking effigy of a drug lord, San Simon is a not a Catholic saint, but a hybrid of a Mayan deity, Judas, and Alvarado, the vicious conqueror of Guatemala. I purchased and lighted a pine nut (San Simon likes the smell), and asked him to cure my high-altitude headache. He did.

Guatemala is going to be fun.


For more photos, click below to see my Picasa Web Album

http://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Guatemala#