The Road
A jagged scar zig-zagged across the screen of our GoogleMaps app, with the impossible order to “continue straight” at the top of the screen.
One glance at the maps display nearly cost us our car. I looked up in time to dodge the meteor strike of a pothole placed dead center in the 180 degree curve and careened around it, praying for no oncoming traffic, as we hurtled down the Olympic bobsled track-cum-road.
Half the adventure in visiting Lake Atitlán is in getting there.
Lake Atitlán sits in a caldera surrounded by active volcanos and steep mountain ridges. Those driving there can expect one good glimpse of it as the road crests the ridge before beginning its borderline free-fall of a descent. After this initial and wildly impressive glimpse, all four eyes, the driver’s and the passenger’s, must stay focused on the road.
There are no straight lines on this road. The map looks like an architect had a seizure while drafting the plan. There is no evidence to suggest that potholes have ever been, nor ever will be, repaired. The less threatening potholes are simply deep, sharp pits capable of merely shearing a car’s tires off. The worst ones are incursions of negative space where the Void now occupies what was once road. They represent a sharp departure from our world into the Beyond. Naturally, this road is two-way.
Campsite With a View
Reeking of brakes and with the sun low on the horizon, the road deposited us in the small town of San Marcos. We rolled through lengthening shadows to arrive at our campsite, just a few minutes walk from town.
Pasaj Cap was one of the most beautiful campsites that we have yet visited on our trip. An adventurous frenchman named Pierre welcomed us onto his property as though he already knew us.Your friends are waiting for you down below, he said, sweeping his arm in the direction of our parking spot. And indeed they were. A steep entryway led us to a flat field overlooking Lake Atitlán, with unobstructed views to the volcanos of Tolimán, Atitlán, San Pedro and the ever active and appropriately named Fuego. Our friends Sonia and Paul were already settled in, lounging in their camp shares, wine in hand. We watched the distant Volcán de Fuego erupt each night, its regular outbursts like a lighter in a dark and empty theater.
Mornings were slow affairs, spent drinking coffee on the dock just down the hill from camp and jumping into Lake Atitlán’s clear and refreshing water. The water drew all of us to it. It was our communal living room. We threw our surfboards into it and paddled out to cliffs, which we climbed only to throw ourselves off of. We absorbed sunlight while Ralf tried his hardest (but in vain) to bring us over to communism. We sipped coffee and stared at volcanos in silence.
San Marcos
The town of San Marcos possesses the rustic charm of something old and recently unearthed. The town wraps the traveler into it’s narrow, largely unpaved and tree-shaded alleys as they wind circuitously from secluded docks along the lake’s edge, up through houses perched precipitously on the steep and overwatching mountainside. For just a moment, we felt that we had stumbled into something new and heretofore undefiled by western eyes.
Then we saw it: an all-inclusive yoga retreat center.
Far from being an undiscovered territory, San Marcos is a bit of a hot spot for the young and dreadlocked, traversing the world in search of a spiritual experience. The bright colors of the town’s inhabitants quickly resolved themselves into two separate populations: the Maya in their traditional garb on the one side and pale-skinned yoginis clad in flowing fabrics on the other.
Cafés sported signs in English advertising reiki massage, yoga lessons (including tantric yoga – interesting…), rare coffee beans and free wi-fi. Fortunately, San Marcosians are wise enough to diversify their market beyond the merely spiritual. Jon found a lakeside restaurant that served beer by the liter, so we stopped there to catch up on some writing and talk about nothing for a while.
An Honest Saleswoman
Eight of our little traveling tribe set out to explore the Cerro Tzankujil Nature Reserve, found at San Marcos’s southernmost point. We had read glowing reports of their butterfly conservatory and the many monkeys and birds that could be spotted amongst the reserve’s thick and diverse foliage.
A short walk from our campsite brought us face to face with the young woman manning the ticket counter at the reserve entrance.
Look, she said, everyone comes for the butterflies, but right now, there are no butterflies. It’s the wrong season.
Well, that’s ok, we said, we’ll still enjoy seeing all the birds and monkeys.
Most of the birds are gone right now and we haven’t seen any monkeys for a while.
Well…could we get discounted tickets to walk the trails, all the same?
No. Tickets are $16US per person.
Eight of our little traveling tribe set out to explore the food and drink options in San Marcos.
Panajachel
A 45-minute boat ride brought us to Panajachel (pronounced “pana-ha-chel”), the largest town bordering Lake Atitlán. We leapt from the boat and the town swept us into the hungry maw of its colorful and stall-studded main street. We consumed Panajachel’s goods while the town consumed our senses. Jordan and I found stocking stuffers for friends’ kids, money swapped owners in exchange for bright shirts and scarves and hearts skipped beats over the price of beer. A dollar for a beer! Cried Ralf, raking his fingers through his hair, that is outrageous!
After spending a couple bucks to dull our post-Mexico sticker shock, we wandered into Panajachel’s open market. Mayans bedecked in dazzling textiles hawked fruits, vegetables, eggs and the chickens they came from under the cover of patchwork tarps. Fried food ejected their delicious smells from aluminum hand carts. Inside, cheese ripened and raw meat hung from racks next to shelves stuffed with electronics.
Shopping is more tiring than it has any right to be and day’s end found us stumbling numbly back to the docks for passage back to San Marcos. We first went to the wrong docks, leading to a missed boat and more waiting. The journey home was dark and speechless and we threw ourselves into our bed exhausted, but ready to be reborn in Lake Atitlán the following morning.
The City on Wheels
We celebrated our final night at Pasaj Cap with a BBQ. We stocked up on Pierre’s wine and steak during the day and when night fell, we fired up the grill and feasted. Falling easily into my natural role, I manned the grill, studiously flipping sides of marinaded meat and spiced veggies while sipping red wine from a glass that was generously never empty.
After all the food was cooked and I had drunk only a little too much wine, I sat back next to Jordan and surveyed the scene. Friends chatted and laughed, Manny played a guitar thing (quite well!) and a few up-late kids ran amok in the darkness. It feels like our backyard summer BBQs in Brooklyn, I said. This feels like home. Jordan nodded in easy acquiescence and we clinked our (plastic) wine glasses and absorbed the warm beauty of our City on Wheels.
