I always feel so guilty in these situations. I feel like I'm exploiting local people to live in a beautiful place. Local people who probably couldn't afford this 15 Q coffee I'm drinking. Who definitely couldn't afford to stay in this hostel, and have to cater to foreigners to get by.
After my wander around Antigua, I returned to Three Monkeys Hostel and enjoyed my last carnivorous huzzah. An Argentinian dinner with grilled beef and sausage. And as my first real meal in about thirty hours, it was spectacular.
It was Friday night, and every other guest at the hostel was geared up to party. But fatigue from the last several hours started pulling at my eyelids and tugging my jaw into cavernous yawns, so I retired to my dorm. Where I swiftly slipped into blissful unconsciousness.
I awoke at six o'clock Saturday morning, rolled off my bunk and immediately became the hostel-mate everybody hates. The hostel-mate rummaging through her backpack at ungodly hours, cursing under her breath because she'd unwisely stuffed her travel towel deep into the bowels of her bag.
Grabbing my sarong instead, I hopped on over to the shower and felt a pang of homesickness as the lukewarm water trickled over me and pooled on the floor.
Hot showers. Decent water pressure. How I will miss you. How I already miss you.
My shuttle to Panajachel left at 8:00, and the hostel manager had assured me that the driver would come into the hostel to pick me up, so I patiently waited at the gate with Fat Ellie and Teal Cecile.
"Ehmee?" a middle-aged Guatemalan man flew into the hostel.
"Here!" I stood up and shouldered Fat Ellie. I'd left off the rain cover and had loosely tied my boots to some of her straps. Becomes sometimes I get a little self-conscious about just how enormous she looks with the rain cover (although I don't tell her this), and when I took this journey in April, 2015, the bags had been stowed inside the shuttle.
Once outside, I handed Fat Ellie to the driver, thinking he would stuff her into the shuttle. Instead, he popped her onto the roof. Just threw her up there. Like she was a bag of potatoes, and not my darling Fat Ellie.
"Umm..." I tried to communicate with the driver who spoke no English. "My boots," I pointed to my feet. "Not secure."
"Si, es seguro," the driver motioned impatiently for me to get into the van.
"No, no es seguro," I tried to stand my ground. To no avail. The driver just continued motioning me into the van.
"Asshole..." I muttered under my breath. "My boots are tied onto my backpack," I groaned to the other tourists inside the shuttle, trying to explain my surliness. "In a single knot. And he won't let me retie them."
And then we continued to drive through the narrow, cobbled streets of Antigua, picking up other passengers. I kept looking out the rear window, expecting to see my boots flying through the air and bouncing off the road behind. I glanced into windows of parked cars, using them as mirrors to see whether or not my boots were still "seguro".
I can't see them. Fuckballs. If I lose those boots, I'm screwed. Ain't no way I'm gonna find boots to fit my hobbit feet in Guatemala.
The women in the shuttle with me were attending Spanish classes, so they tried to communicate with the driver to stop and let me check my boots. But he refused. Saying over and over again, "es seguro."
Well. That's all I can do, I guess, I thought, sinking into my seat as the lovely woman behind me rubbed my shoulders reassuringly.
After we'd picked everyone up, the driver took off down the back roads of Antigua, trying to avoid weekend traffic on his way to Panajachel. Which probably just made the journey take even longer. And most definitely made the jostling exponentially worse.
"I've done this journey three times," the lady sitting behind me commented. "We've never come this way."
The rest of the drive was uneventful. Except, you know, for the driver nearly refusing to stop to let the passengers out to use the restroom (we had three boys in the van for whom a four hour journey was too much for their young bladders to handle). And when the lady behind me demanded that the driver stop, he pulled off on the side of the road and pointed to a field of grass.
"No, necesito un baño," the woman said firmly, standing her ground much better than I'd stood mine.
When we finally arrived in Panajachel, the van was rushed by a group of young men, calling out, "San Pedro?" "San Marcos?" "San Juan?"
"Si, San Marcos!" I tumbled out of the van, anxiously glancing at the top to see if my boots had survived the jarring journey.
They had. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then followed a young man to the dock for the taxi-boat bound for San Marcos. I'd assumed that the fellow worked for the taxi-boat company and was in charge of rounding up passengers, but I'd assumed incorrectly. He was just another chap after a tip.
"Tip for me?" he held out his hand at the dock.
Ugh, I thought as I handed him a ten Q note. No more accepting help. Just don't do it.
I boarded the boat, leaving Fat Ellie in the bow and sitting by a window in the stern.
Feels so weird to be back, my gaze sauntered around the familiar lake surrounded by the beautiful blue silhouettes of volcanoes. I wonder how much San Marcos will have changed in the two and a half years since I last visited.
I deliberately avoided the young boys at the dock, all of whom were eagerly grabbing backpacks and asking tourists, "Where you going?"
Jyotir (the manager at the Yoga Forest) had promised to send an escort to meet me at Circles Cafe at two o'clock. It was nearly twelve thirty by the time I lowered Fat Ellie to the ground and leaned her against a bamboo pillar at Circles.
Two hours to Skype, write, collect myself. Super.
Circles is a hippie cafe. It would have to be to survive in San Marcos, which is a veritable hippie haven. So while I sipped my coffee, I was subjected to cringe-worthy conversations.
"You know, if your intuition tells you not to vaccinate your child, don't do it."
"Vaccines are killing so many people. Giving kids bovine growth hormones. Meant to infertilize us all. Evil. This stuff is downright evil.
This is why hardcore hippies make me crazy. A) infertilize isn't a word. B) Letting your fucking intuition (as opposed to you know, SCIENCE) decide whether or not to vaccinate a baby in a country rife with typhoid. Is just... unethical. So unethical.
"Back in the 80s, I had a few friends with perfectly normal kids. Then they vaccinated them. Autism. Tsk."
So. Autism is worse than dying from a preventable disease. Sure. That makes lots of sense.
At three o'clock, I decided that the escort was a bit late, even taking into consideration Guatemalan time. So the owner of Circles kindly phoned the Forest to let them know that an Aimee was waiting to be picked up.
"Well, at least they're honest," she said after she'd hung up. "They forgot you."
Oh. Good.
The escort, a young Guatemalan man, arrived about twenty minutes later.
"Yoga Forest?" he asked me.
"Yup!" I stuffed my laptop back into my daybag and reluctantly shouldered Fat Ellie.
"Como te llamas?"
"Aimee. Y tu?"
"Francesco. Ayudo?" Francesco motioned to my daybag. Which contains my laptop, camera, notebooks, and is thus nearly as heavy as Fat Ellie.
"Gracias," I gratefully handed over the bag. Which was greeted with a rather shocked expression from Francesco.
I laughed. An apologetic laugh.
"Lo siento."
The Yoga Forest has changed quite a bit since my visit in 2015. I enjoy some changes and resent others, as happens with everything. I enjoy the transition away from charcoal and to normal hand soap. I resent the transition from coffee and tea to only tea.
"Coffee isn't good for yoga. It stimulates the mind and in yoga, we want to calm the mind," the manager explained to me.
Yeah, well, all coffee does to me is stimulate my happy.
The view from my abode is a bit different, but still beautiful. Since it's the busy season, all the cabañas have been given to paying guests, and volunteers sleep in circus tents. Which totally makes sense. I'll just need to get used to having no electricity and the presence of a few more gigantic spiders scurrying around at night.
The tasty vegetarian food is the same. Even the cooks are the same.
The view from the composting toilet is the same. Still the best view I've ever had whilst doing my business. It's actually probably a good thing the composting toilet smells so nasty, otherwise I'd just want to hang out. You know, bring my kindle. Maybe my ukulele. Have myself a party.
There are five other volunteers here, most of them yoga teachers. All delightful, helpful, communicative, and fun. Most from Canada.
Although... I always feel slightly out of place in these situations. I love yoga because it creates a safe space for people to heal hurts, physically and emotionally. I love yoga for how it helps the practitioner develop body awareness and connection to self. I love acro yoga for how it teachers practitioners to connect with others, to trust and to play. And I love yoga practitioners for how cheerful they can be. How friendly and funny and batshit crazy.
I don't like yogic philosophy for how it can lead to distrust in western medicine. Like vaccines and antibiotics.
"I have a parasite," one of the guests moaned, gingerly rubbing her deflated belly.
"You could get some antibiotics," I offered. "You can just buy them over the counter here. Any pharmacy in San Pedro or Panajachel should have them."
"No, this is my third day of fasting. I'm starving the parasite. I feel pretty good today. Just...hungry."
...
"Well, I'm glad that's working for you."
I don't like yogic philosophy for how often I, as an omnivore, have to defend the way I eat. Although, I should be able to defend my behavior. Without getting defensive. That only makes sense. So. That's entirely my problem. An area wherein I need to grow.
"I eat meat when I'm at home or traveling."
"That's not very yogic," another teacher good-naturedly smiled at me.
"When I'm at home and making money, I try to buy dairy and eggs from local farmers. And I eat game that was hunted in a sustainable way. When I'm traveling, I eat what's given to me and I'm thankful for it. And that's all I can do right now."
I don't like yogic philosophy for some of the same reasons I don't like religious philosophy. In religion, folks say, "I'll pray for you," and do nothing. In yoga, folks say, "I'll send you positive energy," and do nothing. And everything is energy. Absolutely everything.
"I like the color of your keyboard cover," a student said to me. "It has really beautiful energy."
"... thanks."
Yup. There's a big part of me that fits here perfectly. The gorgeous nature, how it's all so sustainable, the mindfulness element, the community living.
And there's big part of me that's constantly rolling my third eye. If I have one of those guys.
aimee! i'm with you in spirit, rolling my eyes at all those hippies! much love xx -erin
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