Random Jaunts Around The Americas

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The great continents of North and South America are linked by an isthmus which also separates the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. This volatile area both politically and geologically is where the Mayan Indian ruled in pre-Colombian times. Now between Southern Mexico and Northern Colombia lie seven nations; Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. My adventures in the latter had wetted my appetite for the region, and I now embarked on a five country odyssey of discovery.



The beginning was a little convoluted, flights from Birmingham to Newark, (Wonderful views of the Arctic/Canadian icy wastes, the snow covered forests of New England, and the Manhattan skyline from the Hudson River approach) change for Houston where I am convinced we flew along the great Mississippi, then on through Mexico to Guatemala City, where I had booked a hotel in its neighbour, Antigua. It is no wonder I was confused and susceptible to a simple case of mistaken identity



Guatemala



Antigua is an old colonial town, nestled in a valley beside Guatemala City. It was the capital prior to erupting volcanoes, mudslides and earthquakes forcing a change of location.



I was quickly out of the baggage hall and through passport and customs, and there was a sign from my hotel, La Posada del Hermano Pedro (Brother Peter’s Inn) being displayed by a driver. “Ok, si?” and Roland shrugged his acceptance and off we went. There was another name on the sign, Pulitzer, which I simply took as being the name of the taxi firm, as opposed to the literary prize.



It is dead of night, I am hoping to be at the hotel in time for a beer, I have already been travelling for 24 hours and I am aware the taxi is climbing a circuitous route up to a mountain pass to take me to the next valley. As we crest the ridge and begin our winding descent, Roland’s mobile rings. At first he answers and speaks whilst still driving. I am aware the subject matter is a little more serious when he pulls over, looks at me and asks me my name, “Como se llama?”



“Señor Leo.” I reply. “Es un problema?” I ask and he relays this information. There is a little more heated conversation and he puts the phone down, shrugs, mutters “No problema” and drives on.



In the morning, over breakfast I am introduced to Moira Pulitzer, a delightful young lady from Illinois who nonchalantly assures me that having to organise her own taxi from the airport (once she realised the hotel had left her high and dry, and following an embarrassing telephone conversation with the hotel) hadn’t been a problem. I breakfasted sheepishly.



Prior to breakfast I had reconnoitred the town’s main square, the Parque Central. Soon after dawn in the cooling shade of its ancient trees there were rows of people practising Tai Chi, commuters stopping off for a steaming mocha, and tourists like me, loitering by the old fountain, marvelling at the surrounding Spanish colonial architecture: old baroque with modern ice cream colours. Some of these churches date back to the early 16^th century and have been ruined and rebuilt several times. There were six major earthquakes within 50 years of this city being founded. Perhaps someone was telling them something, the Indians certainly thought so.



Later I climbed to a mirador, the Cerro de la Cruz, a Christian shrine which had wonderful views of not only the town, but especially the three volcanoes which preside over the town, the volatile guardians which have forcibly shaped so much of Antigua’s history. I lunched on a bocadillo in a comero, a local eatery, and lost my sunglasses, a reminder that in Central America anything that is put down belongs to all.



That evening, at 9pm, when my own body clock was at a sleep-deprived 2am, and over several beers in Mary’s Bar (raucous and frequented mostly by Aussies) I chatted with Louiza, a tall blonde Spaniard ornithologist of Dutch descent. She told me about San Hermano Pedro (Saint Brother Peter) who is always depicted with a bell in which sits the infant Jesus. “It is where Babybel got their idea for baby cheeses” she joked. I received a further example of her dry humour when I asked how I could distinguish between the turkey buzzards and the black American vultures which constantly circle, “By the colour of their eyes!” she grinned. She was then very helpful with her generalisations of Central American peoples. “The Guatemalans are true Mayans, with their small stocky stature and flat faces. They eat small tortillas and refried beans. They hate the Mexicans and the Costa Ricans. Everybody hates the C.R.’s because they are so laid back and in bed with the Americans. The Hondurans cannot abide the Salvadoreans who hate them right back. They cannot even play a football match. In Panama and Costa Rica they eat bread, not tortillas, and in Nicaragua they eat gallo pinto, a mixture of rice and beans. In Belize they hate the Hondurans, just like everyone else.” She continued like this for a while to remind me that this now predominantly peaceful region of the world has suffered vicious dictators, uprisings, wars and revolutions for centuries, with many atrocities committed, often in the name of those little round red blocks of cheese.



Before I left her, Louiza had one more nugget of enlightenment to share with me. “Hey, you know how the Machistos (she spat the word, she was quite drunk now), use powdered rhino horn, or shark fin, or eat turtle eggs as an aphrodisiac. We can stop this stupid trade. Just say only small men who are inadequate buy them. They will soon disappear.” She crooked her little finger, laughed and took another swill of beer.



Lake Atitlan, in the highlands of Guatemala and the deepest in Central America, is also purportedly the most beautiful in the world, eclipsing Lake Como, according to Aldous Huxley who admired its setting surrounded by verdant volcanoes. Sadly, it is a dead lake. Whilst its fish stocks should be sustaining the 13 Mayan villages which occupy its shores, they must rely on agriculture alone. In the 1950’s someone thought it would be a good idea to stock the lake with sport fish to promote tourism. Unfortunately, the black bass ate all of the indigenous fish, then were wiped out by the farming run off: pesticides and fertilizers and the like. Proof, if proof were needed, that you cannot interfere with fragile ecosystems. All ecosystems need to be self-sustaining, something best left to Mother Nature alone.



I had arrived in Panajachel (known as Pana) and was taken by speedboat across to the main village of Santiago Atitlan where I reluctantly tackled a steep hill to a private house in order to meet the minor deity, Maximon. He is a limbless (due to infidelity) cigar smoking, alcohol swilling effigy who is moved from house to house by a brotherhood devoted to the idol’s wellbeing. Maximon is a fusion of Mayan culture, Christianity and conquistador legend, typical of the conflated religious position of much of Latin America. There is currently a form of backlash against the traditional fire and brimstone preaching of Roman Catholicism, and filling the resultant void are not only gods like Maximon, but also the ominous North American Evangelist preachers who promise a much easier passage to Paradise.



Antigua suffered greatly during the Guatemalan Civil War, fuelled in the second half of the twentieth century by the USA’s paranoia over communism succeeding in its “own back yard”. Indigenous peoples were seen as leftist opponents to the Government and there were many hundreds of disappearances and other atrocities. Another example of messing with fragile ecosystems. When will they learn?

My day relaxing on the shores of Lake Atitlan ended early as I continued to catch up on lost sleep. It was followed by a dawn to dusk drive via the colourful market town of Chichicastenango, to Honduras and the town of Copan which houses the ruins of a whole Mayan community.

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