Guatemala City and the Highlands

We got up early on Monday morning in our sweaty wooden shack in Livingston to catch the 0730 boat to Puerto Barrios. The first job was to negotiate our way out of our mosquito net which we'd rigged up above our bed to combat the bugs here. We'd been bitten a few times since our arrival and had just read that coastal mozzies carry both malaria and dengue fever so we didn't want to take any chances. Also, we'd used the top of the toilet cistern yesterday to sit a mozzie coil in so that we didn't burn our shack down and Kerry happened to mention that that's a prime place to find a tarantula. With a distinct lack of arachnid activity thus far I've become a but complacent so it was a timely reminder and another reason to put the mozzie net up. I know of two tarantula based horror stories and I suddenly got the willies that our wooden room was the sort of place to add my own to this mini-litany. Given that I involuntarily break dance and suffer mild palpitations when near a wasp, I genuinely fear for my heart should I encounter a large spider at close quarters.

The boat along the coast was a great way to start a Monday. With thick jungle on one side and the Caribbean sea on the other it was about as far removed from a Monday morning back in the real world as one can imagine. It only took about 30 minutes and we were soon onto the dock at Puerto Barrios being besieged by taxi drivers, one of whom we paid a handsome sum to take us what turned out to be just a few yards to the bus station.

With little or no opportunity to forward plan we often turn up blind for legs of journeys. This was a case in point with the next bus to Guatemala City not being for nearly 2 hours. The upside to this was that we could have a leisurely breakfast while we waited and also that the service in question was a first class bus; reclining seats and all. It would at least be a comfortable 6 hour journey across the country.

The journey itself was largely uneventful. We passed some lovely scenery, noting how verdant it is here and we also climbed a few thousand feet too. Starting off at sea level we arrived in Guatemala City at about 1600 hours at 5000ft so It's not a route I therefore fancy cycling.

As we entered the city I think we were both a little apprehensive about what lay ahead. Our guide book suggested that it is a lawless hell where robberies and murders regularly occur and to step onto one of their local city buses is tantamount to signing your own death warrant. Several people we'd met of late had warned us about the place too so you can understand our trepidation as we disembarked from the bus and set about locating the Hotel Capri. (We had initially earmarked the Hotel Cortina Mk iv GL but that had been shut down for having sub-standard breaks).

The Capri was only a block and a half away but could we find it? You would think that the grid system would make it easy to navigate but in Guat City you have streets intersecting with avenues, all numbered 1-50 odd and most lacking their identification. What we needed to do was determine which street or avenue we were on to get our bearings but with this not possible we ended walking a complete loop, looking and feeling like sitting ducks for the locals to do with as they would.
Frustration and tension were running high: being lost in a city where you believe everybody wants to rob, kill or bugger you is not a pleasant experience but then a chap came to our aid and pointed us in the right direction.

Phew! We made it. We have arrived into Hell itself off our own bat, walked the streets with our cases and found an hotel. The hardest part was over. We feel so vulnerable and we stick out like sore thumbs when we're lost in that situation so it was a relief to get in the hotel foyer and ask if they had any vacancies.
"Si Si señor. 200 Quetzales per night" (about £16)
That'll do nicely we thought but if we've learnt anything these past few months it's to check the room before committing to a nights stay so Kerry went off to look on our behalf whilst I minded the bags.
Two minutes later she returned looking more than a little underwhelmed uttering words like "basic" and "unsure".
I went to take a look and assumed we'd taken a side door into a prison rather than were in an hotel room. I can do basic, I can even convince someone who is unsure that it'll do for a couple of nights sometimes but this was bloody horrible. I figured that if the city was half as bad as everyone was telling us we'd need some sort of sanctuary from it at the end of the day. A breeze block wall, tiny room and bed firmer than a park bench would simply not do.

Once more into the breach then and within 100 yards we encountered the Hotel Quetzali, a much more promising proposition. Whilst not going to win any design prizes and perhaps not somewhere you might take your lady love for a romantic tryst, the ground floor room was fine for our needs, if a little on the 'cosy' side. The important thing was that it afforded comfort and somewhere we wouldn't mind holing up if the city genuinely was as bad as had been reported.

Having washed and brushed up we needed to venture out to eat though we were conscious that the light would soon begin to fade. Golden rule #528 of Guatemala City: don't be out after dark or you will be robbed and beaten to within an inch of your sorry existence.
Careful not to walk a convoluted route so that we might have trouble finding our way back we went in search of food, noting that if we wanted to clog our arteries with fried chicken and chips we would have been in clover but fresh veg? Unlikely.
We decided on an open fronted joint where the clientele and staff looked least murderous but on perusing the menu saw that it was a Chinese run place, opening the door to luke warm food of a questionable nutritional value. We had little option though so ordered and were surprised and delighted to receive a massive plate of fresh veg along with some knuckley and bony chicken. Despite the unexpected gastronomic result we couldn't wait to get out of the place. Outside was a row of street stalls selling various products, one of which was selling CDs and was blaring music at full volume to advertise his wares. Inside the restaurant they were attempting to counter this by playing their own music at full volume. How everyone else had zoned out from the dreadful cacophony I have no idea. If I am ever interrogated then my captors need only play two separate songs at full volume through poor quality speakers and I would succumb within seconds.

Unfortunately noise would be a feature of our stay in Guat City. When we got back to our room and shut the door we realised we were in extreme close proximity to the hotel restaurant where a chap was crooning his way through some numbers. He wasn't a great singer and his choice of songs left a little to be desired so it was a relief when he wrapped his set up at 2100 when the restaurant closed.
We didn't sleep too badly but were woken up next morning at 0545 by the noise of the city as it began another day of chaotic life.
Public transport in the city is comprised of a fleet of ancient buses, ex North American school buses, in various states of disrepair. If there were any form of emissions testing here then every single bus would be deemed unroadworthy. The clag they belch out has to be seen to be believed and the noise they make is tremendous too. Add that the drivers are 'horn happy' and that the noise they make is similar to the Queen Mary and you get the picture.
In addition to all this there are people employed to drum up trade for bus services and their method of doing so is to shout the destination of their route about 10 times in 2 seconds flat. As departure time approaches the urge to get more bums on seats approaches hysteria for to depart with space on board just doesn't seem to be an option. It's hardly surprising then that we lay awake listening to this for a while before deciding we'd never drop off again.

As always, seeing a place after a night's sleep put a new perspective on it and we felt quite relaxed out and about next morning. We were just about the only westerners we saw and we received a fair bit of attention and a few stares from the locals but none of it felt menacing.
Our first port of call was the railway museum where we learned that had we
made this trip in the mid 1990s we could have crossed the country by train but, as in much of the Americas it seems, the cost of maintaining a railway has been deemed too high and they've all bitten the dust. Shame because it would be so lovely to have the odd train journey to break up these mammoth bus rides we're enduring.
The fee to enter the museum was 16p and there was a machine gun toting guard at the door to ensure no renegade rail enthusiasts snuck in without paying, nor that an organised crime syndicate made off with the days takings of £9.12.
We then went on a self-guided walking tour of the old part of the city and whilst it was fascinating to just be here and to watch life here there wasn't an awful lot to see or do. The most notable place was the plaza which was flanked by a couple of beautiful old buildings including a cathedral and the governors palace, but also two 1970s square boxes. Over the years there have been devastating earthquakes here so these are presumably the result of one of those.

In the plaza we were approached by a group of teenage schoolchildren who found it utterly hilarious to try out their English on us. Every time any of them said anything in English they fell about laughing which of course made us laugh.
After that jollity we went into the central market, a place with a thousand stalls all selling essentially the same thing before completing our tour and winding back at the hotel in time to get ready for dinner.
The crooner was on again at the hotel so we were forced to listen to renditions of "Under the Boardwalk" and the like in Spanish before we turned in but our sleep was disrupted in the early hours by somebody in the hotel looking for his mate, Pablo.
"Pablo...........Pablo...........PABLO..........Pablito...............PABLO"
I don't know if he was drunk, we weren't going to open our door to find out, but it took a while to nod off again.
Then at 0545 the day started again with revving engines, honking horns and the maniacal exhortations of the bus boys.
Oh for the tranquility of the Isla Mujeres!

On Wednesday we headed for Chichicastenango, a highland town famed for its indigenous market and the fact that it's inhabitants are still largely pagan.
We took a taxi to what we expected would be a bus station but was in fact just a road from where all second class or "Chicken buses" leave from.
Chicken buses are ex American school buses, often given a glitzy paint job and a pumping sound system and are driven by young men with a death wish for themselves and their passengers. The name 'chicken bus' is on account of the high chance that chickens will be transported with you inside the bus.
We were pretty much first on our bus which was fortunate because a few minutes later it was so rammed that it was a claustrophobia sufferers worst nightmare. We set off and began to climb out of Guat City up a hill that would be worthy of inclusion in the Tour de France and it was during this ascent that we had our first exposure to the power our bus was packing and the insanity of the man whose hands our lives were in.

We positively roared up this hill, a twisting and steep ascent of around 5 miles in length, overtaking everything in sight and honking at them as we did so. If the ascent was slightly unnerving then the plateau was utterly terrifying. Free from the limitations imposed on his vehicle by travelling uphill, our driver floored it at the top and, according to an app on my phone, we hit 88mph. We rocketed through settlements and continued to overtake anything and everything in sight. There was no let up for corners either and the only reason we weren't all flung about inside was because we were packed in so tightly. On the rare occasions I dare open my eyes I saw the driver was often leaning his way into and out of corners as though he were Barry Sheene. I could only pray we wouldn't all end up with similarly pinned limbs as a result of his driving.

We thought things couldn't get any worse but we then hit a 'zona de tumulus', a couple of miles of road with speed humps. He did slow down to go over them but still was going far too fast and it was bone-jarring stuff. The final few miles into Chichicastenango saw us descend an incredibly steep and twisting road before climbing back up in a similar fashion. There were hairpin bends and, at a guess, 20% gradients to deal with and for all our drivers' madness up to this point he certainly knew how to get his tons of vehicle through this section. At the foot of the descent the conductor got out to throw water on the smoking brakes and then began the climb. It was a miracle we got up there to be honest, you wouldn't have thought it possible. It was also a miracle that our bags were still on the roof when we arrived at Chichi, I was sure they must have flung off at some point on our harrowing journey.

Chichi is a real throwback to a time before modernity took hold. The streets are cobbled, the inhabitants are mainly dressed in indigenous clothing and though the place is firmly on the tourist trail there is a definite feeling that you're actually way off the beaten track. Though ostensibly Christian, the locals retain many beliefs from the pre-conquest days and the two simple churches in the plaza face each other and sit atop steps in much the same way that the old Mayan temples at Tikal etc do.

The town is also the scene of the 3rd largest market in the whole of the Americas and this is why we were here. We spent Wednesday afternoon walking about the town and then sat and watched the traders arrive and begin to set up their stalls.
Traders often walk from miles around, carrying their produce or wares on their heads or on their backs, set their stalls up on a Wednesday and then sleep rough in the plaza ready for trading next day. We felt a little like gawking tourists (which is exactly what we were) sitting watching all this but it was fascinating. There's a big focus on show shining in Central America and here in Guatemala it's often little boys of 7-10 years of age who are touting for business. Having worn flip flops almost exclusively since day 1 I've been spared being asked much but today I was wearing shoes so was accosted every 2 minutes by someone. Two little brothers dressed in rags melted my resolve and I paid them for the shoe shine without them actually doing it. It's awful seeing little children so apparently poor and you half want to say to them "come on, I'll feed and clothe you and send you on your way" but how do you select Miguel over Hernan or Maria over Ana?
Then you just have to remind yourself that our perception of wealth (lots of clothes we never wear, white goods, Sky tv, 'stuff') means diddly squat here next to family and very few of them don't have that so they're probably 'richer' and happier than we are.

After another truly fabulous meal (we have eaten so well on this whole trip except for in the USA) we turned in but were woken at 0445 as the first traders began setting up. The market spreads out of the plaza and into the surrounding narrow streets, one of which our room was on, so we were right in the thick of things.
After brekkie and a quick chat with an Italian lady we'd seen in both Rio Dulce and Livingston last week we went and experienced the colour and vibrancy of the market up close.
There's a bit of a touristy side to it as the locals attempt to cream as much dinero from the visiting tour buses as possible but that doesn't detract from the overall experience. We did our bit for the Guatemalan economy by splashing out the equivalent of 80p on a wristband for Kerry (she's buying one in every country we visit) and the princely sum of about a 'Lady Godiva' for a lovely leather belt for me. I love a good bit of haggling in a market.

Once we'd done the rounds and resisted the temptation to buy a jade mask, a tablecloth and some chickens we feasted on fayre from one of the many food stalls and prepared to make for Antigua (no, not that one).

Antigua was the old colonial capital of Guatemala, founded in 1543 and the seat of power for 233 years until a succession of earthquakes left it largely ruined. It sits in the shadow of 3 volcanoes too so is one of those places where the next natural disaster is just waiting to happen.

Our journey here from Chichi was another horror, the same as the outward bus ride only all downhill this time allowing for even greater velocity. We had to change buses at Chimaltenango and on the way into Antigua we met a young Yank who had spent his summer recess from Uni teaching English in the town.

We had some bother finding a room but eventually happened across the Posada de San Vicente, a lovely little place with beautiful internal courtyard, a snip at £20 per night. With its cobbled streets and broken pavements Antigua doesn't afford much comfort for he with a broken case. My 'fix' sees my handle rammed down in such a way that enables me to still wheel it but it's now about 2 inches lower that is comfortable. Fathers will know this feeling from when your kids are on trikes or pushers of some description, they're always just too low and, unless I can come to terms with spending some hard-earned wonga on a new case, I'm stuck like this for months to come.

Antigua is so full of travellers, tourists and gringos that you can almost get by speaking English. It's the tourism showcase of the country and there's enough to keep even the most discerning visitor occupied for a few days.
We devised our own walking tour which took in all the notable buildings in the town including La Merced, a beautiful old church, the main plaza and several ruins of churches from the last great earthquake of 1773 which precipitated the move of the capital to Guatemala City 3 years later. It's fascinating to see these ruined churches and some of them look very unstable. The next hint of an earth tremor will surely bring some of them down.

As the day wound down we toyed with the idea of taking a tour to a nearby volcano, spending the night near the crater and returning next morning. What put us off was that the agent offering the tour only spoke Spanish so we were unable to determine the exact detail of such things as how much food and water to take, what nationality our fellow campers would be and also that it was quite expensive. Instead we paid to go next morning at the crack of dawn and return that lunchtime and so the alarm was set for 0530 when we went to bed that night.

At 0555 we were standing outside in the rain waiting for our 0600 pick-up. Kerry is sometimes a little pessimistic at times such as this, expecting the van not to turn up or for some disaster to befall us. My job at such times is of soother and reassurer but by 0615 I was beginning to have my own doubts. 0620 came and went, 0630 and then 0640 by which time we were cursing the agent that flogged us our tickets and were planning unspeakable retribution on her the minute she opened up.
We were just about to return to the room and accept we'd been forgotten when a smoke belching charabanc gingerly turned into our road and pulled up before us. It looked a bit like a cast off from a brethren of new-age travellers or something that a tramp may think twice about before accepting a lift in but in we got and selected the last two seats, the two that weren't being leaked on through the roof.
After picking up two more people we drove about 400 yards before our guide announced we would be stopping for coffee. When we emerged from the shop we were ushered towards a more modern vehicle, not the charabanc, which would have been better had it not been so cramped as to be panic inducing. We were wedged right at the back with our heads brushing the roof and there was a distinct lack of air back there. As we set off I noted that it was 0720, a full 1 hr 20 minutes later than I expected we'd be leaving town but we'd only gone about 2 miles when the new vehicle began to chug and slow down and then completely conk out on a steep hill. After some rattling down the phone we were invited to leave our close confinement and stand by the side of the road whilst the driver got to the bottom of the problem. This turned out to be that it's diesel engine had been filled up with petrol that morning!

Twenty minutes elapsed before the charabanc chugged around the corner and we all piled back in that and finally set off for the volcano, now nearly 2 hours late.
An hour later we were finally there and began a 3.5km walk up a rough and steep path towards the crater. I bought a couple of sticks off local kids who have them back off you to sell again tomorrow and they were a godsend. It was hard going but once we got a little higher and onto the scree from the last eruption in 2010 it became a moonscape and totally absorbing.

That afternoon back in town, after giving half our lunch to the little tackers flogging the sticks on the volcano, we had some spectacular rain after which we went out and painted the town red by way of saying adios to Guatemala. After another delicious meal and a mojito or two we ended up in a backpackers hostel chewing the fat with some other travellers, notably a young teacher from Birmingham who was spending her summer hols by travelling in a Guatemala/Mexico/Belize type circle and a moronic Canadian who thought we'd be impressed by his tales.  We weren't. What is undeniable is that most other people we encounter are a good 10-20 years younger than us so it's difficult to find true common ground, or sometimes for those hip young groovesters to want to even enter discourse with two crusty old farts such as us.
Ah well, c'est la vie, as they don't say around here. Maybe we'll happen across some other 'senior gappers' yet.