The sound of tuk-tuks honking and grumbling is eternal. The booming fireworks are intermittent. The respite I have from the flies and mosquitoes is non-exisitant.
The last few days have been terribly confusing. I've felt out of place and lost and forgotten. The shuttle company supposed to take me from Antigua to Panajachel made a mistake with my booking and forgot about me entirely. I woke up early that morning (after spending the night practicing yoga with my host) and scampered into town at six-thirty to have a coffee and a quick Skype with Boy before I boarded my bus at eight o'clock.
I was supposed to meet the bus in front of Cafe Condesa. I arrived at 7:45 and waited. And waited. At 8:05, I walked into the cafe and presented my ticket to the barista and asked if she'd phone the company.
"no, no. Tarde."
Okay... it makes sense that they'd be late. This is Guatemala and it is only five after.
At 8:15, I entered the cafe again.
"Please. Por favor," I pointed to the number of the company.
"No, no. Tarde."
It is Guatemala. Still.
At 8:30, I began to consider that the bus had forgotten about me altogether. I wandered back into the cafe and bothered the flustered baristas again. A young girl finally took pity on me and called the bus company.
They had indeed forgotten about me altogether. However, they were able to book me a seat on the next bus they had leaving Antigua -- at 12:15.
Now with almost four hours to kill (whilst wearing Ellie, my monstrous backpack), I decided to wander back to the Jesus Cafe for a hot chocolate.
There are worse things in life. I'd just hoped to get to Panajachel earlier so that I'd have a chance to explore a bit.
I wandered back to Central Park around 11:30 and ate a bag of mangos whilst chatting with a veritable herd of Americans volunteering with the Peace Corps. During the half hour I sat, a bird who'd eaten too much street food shat on me an impressive total of four times.
Not my day.
I went back to Cafe Condesa to wait for my bus at 12:00.
12:15 passed.
Not again. Please, not again.
12:20 passed.
Oof. Don't panic. They'll be here.
12:25.
This IS Guatemala. Ten minutes late doesn't mean they've forgotten you. However, this is Guatemala... they've probably forgotten me.
So I went back to my new Peace Corps friends and asked them to make the phone call for me.
The bus arrived at 12:40. I was so grateful to have not been forgotten that the 25 minutes of tardiness hardly bothered me at all.
However, the serpentine road and hellish traffic bothered my stomach something fierce. I spent the entire three hours belching and pretending it wasn't me.
"Where are you going in Panajachel?" the shuttle driver asked.
"Mayan Traditions," I handed him a paper with the address my couchsurfing host had given me.
"Oh, are you going to work for Erin?" the colorfully dressed woman to my left asked.
"No, I'm couchsurfing with her. How do you know Erin?"
"She's my neighbor. My house is actually connected to hers. She's a lovely girl and has a beautiful home. You'll have a nice stay there."
"Wow, how serendipitous. The bus I was supposed to catch this morning forgot about me, and now I get to ride up to Panajachel next to the neighbor of my host."
The universe is weird like that. FYI.
I arrived in Panajachel at around four o'clock and my jaw immediately dropped into my chest. Not due to the glory of Lake Atitlan, but --
"What's the purpose of the man-skirt?" I asked in complete bewilderment.
"I have no idea."
"Did they just not want to be left out?"
"Maybe it's for extra protection?"
The whole of the shuttle's passengers gazed at the Guatemalan men in wonder, confused and dazzled by the spotted skirts worn over the top of traditional, colorful trousers.
The shuttle driver dropped me off on the main road near Mayan Traditions. As Erin was scheduled to work until five, one of her coworkers took me on a quick tour of the garden.
Where I may or may not have tasted every edible herb known to mankind.
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| View of Lake Atitlan from Mayan Traditions |
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| The ubiquitous (and adorable. And annoying) tuk-tuk |
and we took her dog (named "Sweet Potato) on a walk down to the beach.
Pupusa = thick corn tortilla filled with cheese and chicharron. Served with fermented cabbage and red chilies in vinegar.
I want this all the time. Not only because they're melty and crunchy and delicious, but because I get to say "pupusa."
Pupusa.
Pupusa.
....
Pupusa.
Erin and I stayed up late that night and had rare (for me) and needed (for me) girl time. We talked about our respective boys (she encouraged me to keep mine) and her life in Guatemala. We shared a brief yoga session the next morning and I then stumbled off to the dock, accompanied by the egotistical biker from Colombia.
I believe I will visit Erin every Sunday.
She will be my pupusa buddy.
Pupusa.
Pupusa.
...
PUPUSA.
Forty-five minutes later, I arrived at the dock in San Marcos.
Tip to all travelers to Atitlan -- ask foreigners who've made their home around the lake what the proper price is for a boat ride to your destination. And then make sure to have exact change. Else you will be ripped off, guaranteed.
The walk to The Yoga Forest was long and steep. But it started off through alleys like this:
Which is definitely a wee bit magical.
Once I left San Marcos (which didn't take very long), I followed the brightly painted flowers into the forest.
And felt like I was in a fairytale.
Huffing and heaving, I made it up the steep stone stairs and plopped Ellie down in the dining room area. Where about a dozen people seemed to be having some sort of permaculture presentation.
One person acknowledged me, said he hadn't been expecting me, and then left me alone. Sitting in the corner and awkwardly watching a presentation with a group of people who all seemed to know each other.
Oh dear... Did Hayley tell them that she'd asked me to arrive today?
No one seemed to know much about my premature arrival, but I was still offered a bed in a lovely cabin with a yoga teacher from New York and a vivacious traveler from London.
I attended the yoga class taught by a guest at the Yoga Forest (all the teachers had gone off to a yoga retreat in a neighboring village) and then pined after pupusas during our vegetarian dinner. The meal was lovely... it's just... bacon.
I was in the process of devouring my last chunk of cauliflower when a blonde Scandinavian girl rushed into the dining room, wild eyed and short of breath.
"All my things are gone. They took everything. My laptop, my phone, my money, my passport -- it's all gone. You should all go to your rooms and make sure you have everything."
I literally jumped off of my bench and rushed through the dark jungle back to my cabin.
Just about everything I own is in there. Jesus Christ, what would I do if someone stole all my things? My passport... my laptop... my camera... my money... how would I get home? How would I get help? I don't... whoa. I don't even want to think about that.
I breathed a massive sigh of relief upon entering the cabin and seeing Ellie just as I left her. One of my three roommates had skipped dinner and opted to read in the cabin instead.
God bless him.
I didn't leave the cabin again that night. I curled up in bed and read a Bill Bryson book Erin had lent me.
I've kept my valuables close all day. It's so disconcerting to be in such a peaceful place and feel so afraid.
Today is my last free day this week. I start teaching yoga and meditation tomorrow morning and will be bound to The Yoga Forest until next Sunday. Thus, two of my roomies and I went on an excursion to the village of San Pedro.
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| I enjoy the placement of the one-way sign |
And as my Skype date with boy is due to start two minutes ago (he's always late), I'll end this post here.
Next time I write, I will probably be significantly more flexible, sore and gassy. From all the yoga, the stairs and the prodigious amount of beans in a vegetarian diet.
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