In the small church of San Juan Baptist, washed in white with a colorful arch and a pinewood door, near the village square, there hasn`t been a mass since the last Spanish missioner abandoned the church in the Sec XVIII. Since then that the church is governed by local "curanderos", or shamans.
Hundred lit candles on the floor, clouds of incense, devoted worshipers sit around in circles on the pine needle covered floor. Curanderos chant traditional Mayan prays while Cristian saints dressed in sacred vests inside glass compartments watch-still all this powerful atmosphere. San Baptist is revered above Christ and his effigy has a higher place above the altar. Devoted worshipers drink coca-cola (or any other dark drink-supposedly it purifies the soul) and give offers to the Gods, food, fruit, and even sometimes alcohol and cigarettes. Shamans purify their souls with animal bones and eggs. On special occasions the odd chicken may be sacrificed.
Coffee and milk was the simple description used by a local when I questioned him about this unique religious practices. The fusion of two delicious ingredients that resulted in the creation of a new and unique flavour. In fact, as I travelled the following days further south in the Guatemalan highlands, I would discover that those religious practices where not unique to San Juan Chamula. In Small villages in the Guatemalan highlands coffee and milk was also drunk in similar versions.
The "Montezuma revenge", hold me back for a few days in San Cristobal de las Casas. Montezuma was an Aztec god and its revenge a common expression to describe that stomach disarrangement that soon or later attacks the traveller to the region: diarrhea!
On the 6th day, mostly recovered, I cycled south again.
Two days later, after a overnight stop in Comità de Dominguez, I arrived in La Mesilla, on the Guatemalan border. La Mesilla sits on a slope on the south side of a massive valley.
I had lost over 1000 meters in elevation due to a "gap" on the sierra Madre Sur. From La Mesilla to Huehuetenango was 80 km of a non-interrupted but soft climb (3% to 4% grade) back to the highlands. The road followed San Juan river most of the way, at the bottom of a narrow valley with green forested mountains rising high on both sides. Kichè and Mam Mayan woman with colourful garments sat by the side of the road weaving traditional chamaras, wool cloths.
Its in this fertile and high land that lives the majority of the Guatemalan population, and more then half of them Mayan descenders.
The drop in the temperatures and the beautiful landscape offered a very pleasant cycling day. The pavement was relatively new but the traffic accentuated and chaotic. Bus stop without warning to the wave of someones harm and in the most unexpected places, trucks overtake in blind corners and motorcyclists speed through any open space, showing an obvious difference of driving patterns from the neighboring country to the north.
In Europe to slow down or even stop beyond a cyclist - if a vehicle approaches on the opposite direction - its a relatively common courtesy. And if the cyclist pull to the side, it would be part of that same courtesy to lift your harm as a signal of respect to the cyclist. In Guatemala if you don't pull over, you probably will be run over, and if you do, you still be blasted with the horn of the driver, like if he was saying that you pulled over because that's your place in the universe as a cyclist. That is particular true with bus drivers. The Guatemalan bus fleet- known by travellers as chicken buses - are mostly old American classics school buses brightly painted and decorated with religious ornaments and baptised with suggestive names such:" el volador",the flyer, "el rapido", the fast one, or "aguilla de la calle", eagle of the roads.
Loud Latin music and 4 and 5 people sited in seats designed for 2, just help to the festive atmosphere,and travelling in one of those "chicken-buses" is almost equal to a good Guatemalan social event.
To the eyes of a cyclist - that having a good mirror is as important as having breaks - those kamikazes of the Guatemalan roads seem to drive under the influence of amphetamines and adopted the CCRW syndrome: to the sound of my horn, move out!! Because I Crash, Collide, Rear ended and whack with my bus . Rule number one: to get out not only of the road but also of the field of view of the driver. Any other rule is pure suicide.
I spent the night in the chaotic city of Huehuetenango and the following day I continued my ciclo-meandering through the pan American highway. The CA1 as its known in Guatemala, climbs up to 2700 meters before it starts its descend to an enormous high mountain valley. At the bottom of the valley protected at southwest by Vulcan Santa maria and at northwest by the majestic Vulcan Tajumulco, sits the town of Quetzaltenango. Maize fields could be seen everywhere, the all important vegetable of the Guatemalan culture believed to be the link between the cosmic forces, the gods and mankind.
The climb to the highest point in central America wasn´t an easy one, even for my legs used to the hardship of cycling. I left my "burra" (she-ass, the nickname of my bike) in the room I rented in Quetzaltenango and embarked on several journeys in "chicken-buses" until the starting point of the two day trek. We started at 3000 meters and on a long day´s walk ascended to 4000 meters where the tree line met the beginning of the rocky cone of the Vulcan, and set up camp. Next morning we made it to the top for sunrise. The views from the highest point in all of Central America where just amazing.
The descend was softer on the lungs but harder on the legs. But the physical effort was rewarded by the beautiful views of the valleys below and the peaks of the Vulcan chain in the distance, and also for the fact that the 40 dollars that I paid to Quetzaltreckkers for the organization of the trek went all to "escuela de la calle", a non-profit organization that gives education and shelter to children without a roof.
The children in Guatemala have a very different existence of the children of the developed world. Since very young they are introduced to the labor world and its not uncommon (if not common) to see a 7 or 8 years old boy carrying on his back a load of firewood half of his size, or a 6 or 7 years old girl washing cloths in a stream on the side of the road,or a 10 year old girl taking control of her family´s groceries store while carrying her younger brother on her back suspended by a colorful cloth that keeps him comfortably attached to her back.
A traditional way for the local indigenous people to carry their children and be able to work at the same time.
Yolanda, a Kiché indigena and keeper of the guesthouse I stayed in quetzaltenango - the second largest city in Guatemala and relatively modern - is mother of 3 and pregnant of a fourth one at 26. She considers herself as a modern-Indian. she comes from a large family of 13 and is the youngest and only female. She recalls how her parents living in a simple hut high in the surrounding mountains, and destined to everyone of the 13 children, every night around the fire place, the tasks to be fulfilled the following day. Contraception was not accepted by men, and to study - at least for the girls- was simply unthinkable. It was with the complicity of her mother that she secretly learnt how to write and read in a school one hour walk each way from the simple dirt floor hut where they lived.
It was time to move on. Next day I joined the heavy traffic of CA1 on my way to lake Atitlan.
A "tumulo" (literally meaning a tomb), the name of - some times enormous - speed bumps that dot the Guatemalan roads and that are a nightmare for cyclists, made me came to an hault. In such strategic place, a young girl was selling fruit already cut and packed in plastic bags. She was 7 years old and that was her enterprise. I made my contribution to her business and hit the pan-American again.
Days later i was cycling around the breathtaking beauty of lago Atitlan, justifiably promoted by the Guatemalan tourism department as one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. The downhill from Sololá to Panajanchel was just amazing. The road drops 500 meters to the edge of the lake, a gigantic volcanic crater that collapsed millions of years ago and was encircled by green hills and Vulcan peaks. The lake at its bottom was the way of transportation for the mainly indigenous population that inhabited the area. I chose San Pedro as a place to relax a few days from the hardship of the roads, and it was hard to leave again.
Jeff, a Canadian cyclist I met months earlier in the desert of Baja California, was on his way to the highlands. Maybe I should wait for him to decide on the next move to do: Honduras versus el Salvador...or both?
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Lago Atitlan. Guatemala.
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