Trip Report: Stage 4 - Guatemala

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report
Stage 4 - Guatemala
27 March - 20 April, 2008

*Pictures from this part of the trip can be found here.

Total Distance Cycled: 6571 kms (1178 kms in Guatemala)
Days on the Road: 143
Days Cycling: 81
Average Daily Riding Distance: 79.9 kms
Maximum Speed: 74 km/h (Peten, Guatemala)
Maximum Altitude: 5,636 meters (Citlatepetl, Mexico)
Flat Tires: 16
Average Daily Expense: $10.86 in Guatemala; $7.67 trip total
# of River/Lake crossings by boat: 9
# of Poisonous snake sightings: 11
# of those snakes alive: 4
Best Day: Lago de Atitlán to Antigua along quiet rural roads
Worst Day: Santa Cruz del Quiche to Nahualá, fighting an illness, heavy traffic and smog, the steepest hills, thick fog, and strong headwinds, landing after dark.


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The first glint of space between the trees made me peer across curiously. The dense forest we were riding through briefly gave way at the Mexican border post of Frontera Corozal. Excited and filled with anticipation, I rushed to the opening further down the road. The road deteriorated rapidly; a dirt track dipped across a dry watercourse, and then as I reached the end of the road, it came to life: the mighty Río Usumacinta.

Stretching over a quarter of a kilometer, it was how I imagined the Amazon to be, only not quite as wide. Across was Guatemala, and after over four months of cycling across Mexico, I was eagerly awaiting a new country and all of its peculiarities, currencies, lingos, mannerisms, and delicacies. My travel partner, Damián López, whom I had run into in San Cristobal de las Casas followed behind shortly. He paused abruptly as the river came to view and I smiled, '¡Listo! Vamanos, hermano!'

We had a similar route, a similar style, a similar philosophy, but vastly different reasons for riding. Yet, the next month through the Guatemalan highlands would unite us along our respective quests in ways we could never have predicted that day on the banks of the Río Usumacinta.

It didn´t take long for a local boatman to approach us and erase the stupendous looks on our faces. We were staring across the river, perhaps like the countless of people before us who saw the river as a formidable impasse. In the 1980´s, at the height of the bloody Guatemalan Civil War, many Guatemalan refugees fled across the river to relative safety in México. Only this time, Damián and I were crossing the other direction, escaping what was seemingly a safe and tranquil México to reach the supposedly more dangerous Guatemala. We struck a quick deal with the boatman, and within minutes, our hair was flying over eyes as the swift, deep currents of the river tossed us downstream and across to the tiny settlement of La Tecnica.

We were too cheap and uninterested to do the traditional crossing a few kilometers upstream to the larger (and perhaps safer) town of Bethel, and since we had absolutely no information on the road from La Tecnica to Bethel, we chose the mystery and adventure of an unknown crossing over the more preferred route. As we struggled to get our bikes above the sandy river bank on the other side to the closest road, we found out why we had not heard any reports from travelers about this route.

Our first welcome to Guatemala was a terrible dirt road! Rocky and rutty, it was as if ranchers had cut down the trees of the jungle and let large trucks roll over all the plants along the way, making a continuous clearing amidst the thick vegetation, and thus called it a road. Then, it degenerated into steep descents and even steeper climbs. For the first time in my trip, I found hills I could not pedal over, and had to walk up them . The heat and the dust, thereafter ever-present throughout most of Guatemala made their nasty welcome and seemed to laugh in my face every time I grunted up the next rise in the landscape.

We ended our first night, spent and exhausted in Bethel, after getting our passports stamped at a lonely outpost that passed for the immigration office. After striking a deal with a $2.50 hotel overlooking the imposing Rio Usumacinta, we collapsed on our beds and turned the fan at full speed, although that seemed to do nothing to the lingering heat.

This would be a pattern repeated nearly each day in Guatemala - rise early and start pedaling at first light to beat the tropical heat, take leisurely breaks throughout midday to wail away the hottest hours, and ride into the sunset as the temperatures eased, eventually checking in to a local hotel. Throughout my whole journey before Guatemala, I checked into a hotel (and thus paid for accomodations), perhaps just three or four times. However, in Guatemala, prudence and safety advised me to sleep in hotels each evening for several reasons.

First, the thick forest vegetation often made finding good stealth campsites almost impossible to find. Second, there were indigenous Mayan people EVERYWHERE! Even places where it seemed like the middle of nowhere, a man with a machete would seem to just stroll out of the woodwork and inquire what was going on. I speculate that the dispersed population density throughout the highlands for resource efficiency made the Mayans take advantage of every navigable path on a routine basis. Safe campsites are those that stay out of view and out of contact with people, and so if someone 'discovered' us, it would be startling for both of us, and most of the locals were wary of strangers. Third, there were a LOT of poisonous snakes and strange crawly spiders and bugs all over the jungle floor and canopy. Lastly, Guatemala has a reputation amongst all travelers - even the most hardcore ones - of being a dangerous country.

Moreover, because cheap accomodations ($2-3 a night or so) were plentiful, we opted to stay at hotels throughout most of Guatemala. These hotels, however, were not what most people in America are perhaps accustomed to. In each case, it was no more than an old musty bed, with or without sheets in a wooden or basic concrete block room and a communal bathroom. Most garages in the US are more comfortable than these hotels.

At any rate, after getting our immigration documents settled and bargaining for competetive exchange rates for the Quetzal, the Guatemalan currency, we set our sights on the elusive archaeological site of Tikal, inconveniently set in the northernmost department of the country. The long road to the ruins took us across rich pasturelands to Flores, a beautiful island community nestled comfortably in the Lago Peten Itza, whose clear blue waters glistened in the mid-day heat prompting us to abandon reason and jump in like schoolboys on their first day of summer vacation out of school.

As we neared Tikal, we began to get alarmed by the numerous roadsigns warning visitors of the wildlife in the Mayan Biosphere Reserve, the largest swath of protected rainforest in the entire Yucatan Peninsula. There were snakes, tarantulas, pumas, howler monkeys, crocodiles, and a dizzying array of dangerous critters listed on roadsigns. Pausing to take frequent photos of all the wildlife we saw, darkness started setting on rapidly, and soon we found ourselves in the heart of the jungle, still 16 kilometers short of the ruins, where we were eagerly looking forward to a real campsite (the only camping we would do in all of Guatemala). Damian mumbled some nervous words and the whole world seemed to come alive.
Fireflies dotted the dark road; howler monkeys growled with a ferocity that seemed like they wanted us out of their primeval forest; and every rustle in the trees would make us clench our teeth tighter. With nothing more than adrenaline and spirited pedaling, we reached Tikal at dark, set up our tents, and prepared dinner, grateful to be able to seal ourselves from the viseroys of the outside world with our tent flaps.

Dawn rose the next day as splendidly as a tide of good news, and as I was wiping off the sleep from my eyes, Damian greeted me with a warm brew of yerba mate. A traditional drink in his homeland Argentina, I gladly accepted; Mate always brought us closer together and helped ease difficult decisions .

This time, we were contemplating amongst ourselves how to avoid the draconian $24 entrance fee to the park. The Guatemalan government had decided just three months ago to increase the park fees threefold (it was about $7 previously), and we were not happy about spending three days' of travel budget for a park entrance fee. As one of the top tourist destinations in all of Central America, I suppose the government decided that the average tourist would have no trouble paying the large sum. As we would soon find out, however, the blatant corruption in the park administration was perhaps a more plausible reason for the draconian fees.

Unfortunately, no amount of sneaking through or pursuading the guards that the fee was unreasonable worked, and we reluctantly lightened our wallets. Eager for more money, they even offered us moonlight hikes (illegal, and clearly stated in the park rules pamphlet), sunrise hikes (also illegal), and a special permission to take photos with our bikes near the ruins (yup, this too, illegal). Bribery! Sheesh... it seemed like one could get away with anything with money. As one guard explained to us, "the two of you are not the usual kind of tourists we receive. Most have more... um... resources."

My criticisms of the Tikal park administration aside, the experience itself justified the arbitrary fee.
Tikal was the largest and perhaps, most important centers of the ancient Maya civilization. Its jungle setting still shrouds more than half of the site, and archaeologists have not excavated or reconstructed a large portion of the ruins. Walking amongst the ruins, one can see trees and thick vegetation consuming large mounds which hint at ancient pyramids. Of the most prominent buildings excavated and reconstructed are six enormous Mesoamerican stepped pyramids and numerous carved stelae.

My mind racing the whole time, walking up the pyramids and strolling through the ancient thoroughfares brought me back to countless archaeology courses where I would routinely nod off at the highly technical descriptions of the sites. Somehow the sensual intake of Tikal and its surroundings made those lessons easier to grasp, and I enjoyed bouncing off numerous discussions with Damian and some other travelers we had met. The small guide to Mayan culture I brought with me made perfect sense, but I was also glad that the more time I spent thinking about what we know about Mayan culture, the more questions seemed to arise, of which I had absolutely no idea how to answer.

Reluctantly returning to our campsites at the end of the day, Damian and I spent that evening after dinner silently gazing at the vast canopy of stars that peeked in between the dense treetops of the Mayan forest. Questions, I concluded, often felt better than answers.

Retracing our steps from the jungles around Tikal, we made our way southwards once again, our next destination being Cóban, the high mountain town famous for its coffee. The ride into Cóban also meant confronting the infamous Guatemalan highlands head on. There is a local legend around these parts of the country. Apparently, when the first road engineers arrived with the intent of putting up a navigable road network, they were stunned at the sheer enormity of the landscape. Instead of resorting to science and reason and switchbacks, they just turned to their trusty load-bearing burros (donkeys). They let 'em loose and watched the burros rump up the hillside with ease. Following right behind, they constructed the road along the path of the donkeys.


And thus, Guatemalan roads were born.


Struggling up grades of up to 20% (mind you, a 7% uphill grade is usually considered a difficult hill), we quickly exhausted our limited store of curse words to describe the Guatemalan road engineers. The road to Cóban was frustratingly steep, and involved many climbs and descents, thus breaking a trip record for us of climbing over 2,200 meters in one day! As soon as we reached the high mountain town, we checked into the first ramshackle hotel we found and brewed a cup of coffee to calm our rattled nerves. The next day was no better. This time, the road deteriorated further and we found ourselves cycling the worst road we had ever encountered! It was a freshly cut dirt road from the sandstone mountainside. As trucks passed by, they kicked up a plume of dust and black smoke that choked my lungs. The road being under construction, we had to negotiate large boulders, lifting our bikes and gear over our shoulders to clear the obstacles, and rush along sections where construction crews and Caterpillars were demolishing the local mountainside.
Riding alongside these infrequently traveled roads, however, also gave us the unique opportunity to interact on a different level with the scores of indigenous Maya people. At each settlement, we would try and learn some basic phrases of the local language. 'Usa watch! Ech chi na na ga!' we´d casually say to the local men and women strolling along the trails. Unfortunately, this proved to be remarkably difficult. It seemed that each valley had a different language, at times completely unrelated and foreign to the other. For most of these people, Spanish was their second language, and I greatly appreciated their more careful speech and warm smiles.
The clothing of the indigena also changed with each group. While they all had unique patterns, the predominant themes were brightly colored skirts and blouses for the women with an astonishingly intricate weave. As one Mayan lady explained to me, most of the women only own one set of the traditional clothing, taking great care to preserve it for a lifetime!

Following the dirt road out of Cóban, we spent the next five days traversing a multitude of high mountains and river valleys through the towns of Chicaman, Uspantan, Sacapulas, Santa Cruz del Quiche, Chichicastenango, and Nahualá, eventually reaching Quetzaltenango (or as it is more fondly referred to in the indigenous tongue, 'Xela'). Two days before reaching Xela, I caught a nasty illness, perhaps more from the accumulated fatigue than from anything else. I tried to fight it off with cups of tea and the good old 'just ride' method, but as I arrived in Xela, I had noticeably lost a good deal of weight and was coughing intermittently.


Fortunately, our guardian angels came in the form of a wonderful Guatemalan family. Miriam Isabel Bartlett, the matriarch of a progressive-minded family, invited Damián and I to their home. The hospitality that Miriam and her daughter Marta Isabel showered onto us was unforgettable. For the first time in months, we felt like we were in the company of family, and she took care of us like a mother! Bountiful home-cooked meals, real laundry, a warm shower - these were the simple things in life that we felt immeasurably grateful for.
A strong and free-thinking woman, Miriam and I spent long hours discussing Latin American politics, social work, and development systems in Latin America and across the world. Her daughter, an equally spirited medical student at the university with a cosmopolitan world-view, shared with me her hopes and dreams of transforming the medical system in her country. All in all, the few days I spent in their company helped me recover from my illness, broadened my perspective immensely, and most importantly, left me with a warm feeling inside of having forged a lasting relationship.

After Damián and I both felt sufficiently ready to forge ahead, we set our sights for Lago de Atitlán, an enormous highland lake nestled perfectly between three imposing volcanos. As we penetrated the surrounding hillside, we were sacked in by fog and clouds so thick that we were unable to see just a few meters ahead. This proved to be exhiliratingly risky and dangerous, not to mention - fun - as we carved down the steep hillside, descending a million curves, eventually dropping below the cloud level to the lakeside town of San Pedro de la Laguna.

In San Pedro de la Laguna, once again, I ran into my friend Denise, with whom I had crossed paths several times throughout Chiapas. One look at the aqua-blue waters of the lake, the calm and tranquil village setting, and the daily breaths of clouds that embraced the nearby volcanos like passionate lovers convinced Damián and I to pause for a few days before continuing on.

As it followed, the next few days involved very few things other than lounging on one of the lakeside hammocks, diving off large boulders into the mystery of the lake, and exploring the narrow footpaths that carved serpentine tracks through the local villages.

San Pedro is an infamous international hang-out, drawing a fair collection of dread-locked, guitar strumming counter-culture that does its best to co-exist with the local indigena. The locals have responded remarkably. One day, as Denise and I were strolling casually along one of the crooked footpaths in the nearby village of San Marcos, an elderly indigenous lady approached us with a large basket over her head, presumably filled with delicious local pan (bread) or an enticing selection of fresh tropical fruits like the rest of the indigenous ladies. Instead, her inquiries were, 'hongos? hongos?'. She was selling psychedelic mushrooms!!!

The tragic thing is that, due to the recent influx of tourists, incidents of crime and drugs have also risen dramatically in the area. Conversations with the local villagers in San Pedro de la Laguna revealed to me their conflicting views; while some saw tourism as something of a plague that brought quick money and drugs, and threatened local customs and religiosity, others saw it as a promising path towards economic prosperity. As it remains, it is clear that Guatemala, just a few years now since its bloody civil war, is still recovering from a national image of violence and risk-fraught travel, and is thus trying to appeal to the international community as a prime tourist destination. The contrasts are startling and dramatic, much like the landscape.

On my last in Lago de Atitlán, I gazed across the still blue of the lake, contemplating the journey ahead. I was only a few days away from the border to El Salvador, and was trying to fight off the emotions that came along with saying farewell yet again to a place I had grown so fond of. The ground rumbled ominously under me, hinting at the frequent earthquakes and geo-activity in the area.
The next morning, I rose early to greet the dawn. The eastern heights glowed purple, and the lake shimmered to life. I packed my things and bid a sleepy-eyed Denise farewell. The road was calling and I had set my sights across the lake. Damián and I loaded our bikes onto a lancha, one of the daily local boats that chopped swiftly across the lake like a perpetual stone skipping over the water. Within an hour, we were stumbling down the rickety docks on the other side of the lake and snapping a million pictures as a feeble way to say goodbye.
Fresh and well-rested, we rode that day through rural roads and farmlands, doing our best to avoid the busy and polluted Panamerican Highway. As we winded slowly through the landscape, giant volcanos peered from the sky, and billowing clouds assaulted their ramparts. First, Volcan Tolíman, then Acatenango, then Fuego, then Agua - each guarded the terrain like sentinels, still seemingly asleep as humans migrated to its flanks to set up innumerable villages and hamlets.

The spectacular scenery soon gave way to the majestic colonial architecture of Antigua, the colonial capital of the Spanish empire in antiquity. Battered over the years by ferocious earthquakes and volcano eruptions, the capital was moved to its present site in Guatemala City, thus preserving the colonial charm and mountain-air of Antigua. The old cathedral, in particular, was a spectacular sight, and a faded reminder of Guatemala´s colonial glory.

That night, as Damián and I were strolling down the cobblestone streets flirting with the local women, we heard about a live-performance at a local bar by a few of the remaining ensemble members of the Buena Vista Social Club, the legendary Cuban jazz band! We couldn´t believe it - in an instant, despite the day´s long and tiring ride, we found our way through the city streets to the performance. And it was all free!!!!

As we arrived, we caught a whiff of the smoke filled room and the smell of sweet rum, and in the hazy background was Ignacio, now a living legend, thundering the room with his percussions. We had drawn the company of two girls to our table, with whom we were largely uninterested in, given the spectacular ambience of the music. The next two hours was an experience of a lifetime, concluded by celebratory high-fives between Damián and I as we stumbled back to our bikes with giant smiles plastered to our faces.

The next morning, we departed before dawn to hike up the slopes of the nearby Volcan Pacaya, reputed to be the most active volcano in the country. The forest cleared quickly and soon we found ourselves on a molten moonscape with the towering cone of the volcano above us. The rumors were true: steam and smoke bellowed from the perfect cone of the volcano in an alarming frequency. Our guide, Pablo, pointed to a lava field below and started making progress to the splotches of molten red lava. As foolhardy adventurers, we followed without question!
'Nowhere else in the world,' he reported, 'can you walk on a lava field like you can here in Guatemala.' Pablo was proud that Guatemala harbored none of the safety procedures or park regulations that other countries would have enforced. The walk into the lava field was thrilling, and we got within touching distance of freshly surfaced lava, but it was slightly disconcerting to know that accidents did happen and that even a minor eruption while we were in the fields would spell bad news. The most common incident, however, was nothing more serious than burnt footwear.

From Antigua, we took a long and blistering descent into the Pacific lowlands. We hardly pedaled as the road led us along a smooth downhill and we saw the horizon shimmer once again, hinting at the intense heat waiting for us in the lowlands. Nearing darkfall, I found my way greedily through the sanctuary of Monterrico to the ocean and jumped into the waters of the Pacific, after over a month and a half since the last time I had done so in Oaxaca.

Our last night in Guatemala was spent scratching our ankles profusely and slapping our feet because of the plague of insects and bugs that seemed to infest the lowlands. No amount of prayer or goodwill seemed to chase the bugs, so we retired early, eager to face the next day and cross into the 4th country of the trip: El Salvador.

Stay tuned for the next update, which will cover the distances of El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama, as well as the time I spent with my beloved twin sister, Karla. More roaring volcanos, more colonial towns, more embittered poverty, more revolution, and more friendships forged.


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Acknowledgements:

• the random strangers on motorbikes out of Bethel: for gifting us with ice-cold water in the unrelenting mid-day heat.
• Nike, Kati, and Bo: for the excellent company in Tikal.
• Josue: for your kindness and hospitality in Chicaman.
• Kathrin and Phillipe: for raising our spirits and for the wonderful encounter atop Alaska Pass.
• Miriam y Marta Isabel y familia: for your immeasurable hospitality and kindness in Quetzaltengango. Thank you for opening your doors and your arms to us when we needed it the most!
• Carlos de Aldeas Infantiles: for helping us get through safely to Alaska Pass.
• Buena Vista Social Club: for the unforgettable musical performance you put on in Antigua!
• Siri and Hilde: for all the laughs and memories atop Volcan Pacaya!
• Topps and the crew at Hostal Los Amigos: for all the free drinks and the free food to satiate road-weary travelers!
• Maritza: for the bountiful licuados during our last day in Guatemala.
• Señora Julia: for going the extra kilometer by mailing my postcards and for making the best and cheapest licuados in the world!
• Denise Ellensohn: para siguiendo a su rumbo en la vida y para su increible amistad.
• Damian Lopez: para su hermanidad y buena onda por el camino.