Whoever said Guatemala was warm clearly never spent time in Xela. Holy bananas, it's frigid, I thought as I exhaled hot breath onto my tingling fingers.
A heavy mist shrouds the rooftops and surrounding mountains. I'm switching between writing and cradling a cup of steaming coffee, trying to keep my hands warm.
I've swapped the sounds of birds and the small waterfall beside my tent for the sounds of the city. As Xela slowly rouses itself, the streets begin to buzz with life. Cars and motorcycles honk intermittently, shop doors creak open, men and women sweep the narrow sidewalks in front of their doors.
I contentedly smell my coffee and settle into absorbing the sensations of morning. Pigeons flutter around the church behind me, and I'm transported back to the morning I spent walking circles around the Boudhanath Stupa in Kathmandu.
I left the Yoga Forest on Tuesday morning, after helping Bre (like the cheese) make a salad for thirty-six (give or take) salad loving hippies. I packed Fat Ellie, grabbed Teal Cecile, and practically skipped down to Circles Cafe.
Woohoo! Off to Mexico. My life here is becoming so damn good, but still. It'll be nice to take a break. To have an adventure. To spend time with Nacho.
I ordered a cappuccino, grimacing as I handed Farina a hundred Q note, knowing that change is forever elusive in Central America.
Blurgh. I always feel so guilty when I don't have change. It almost makes me not want to buy things. The expression of utter despair on the barista's face when I hand over a hundred Q.
Farina and I are friends. And she tolerated my hundred Q notes with grace. And delivered my cappuccino to my table, where I sat painting a hummingbird and trying to ignore the fellow in front of me.
"Hey, love and light to you," the ginger British hippie murmered into his phone. "I just wanted to leave you a little message, asking how you're processing the energies that surfaced during our last meeting. Also, discussion about payment... I was wondering when the next installment would be? It doesn't have to be a lot. Love and light. And do let me know if you'd like another appointment. Love and light."
...
barf.
You're who JP Sears makes fun of.
The travel agent, an amiable, rotund chap named Esteban, had asked me to drop by his office around 2:30, so that he could call the tour company and confirm that everything was set for my ride to Xela.
He didn't recognize me.
I booked with him yesterday, for the love of cheese. Does my face blend in THAT well?
I showed him my reservation. The one he'd printed for me the afternoon before. And I could see a glimmer of recognition in his cheerful eyes.
"Oh, Aimee!" he exclaimed, pronouncing all the vowels in my name.
Side note: Spanish. Is not a good language in which to have a name like "Aimee." In Spanish, all vowels are pronounced. So whenever I write down my name for travel agents, they squint in confusion at the sight of so many vowels, then say something akin to, "AH-EE-M-AY-AY".
Esteban rushed into his office, picked up the phone, didn't dial anything, and then told me, "It's okay. They have room for you," and put the phone back down.
Umm.... Okay.
I boarded the boat (la lancha) for Panajachel, and disembarked 45 minutes later. Heaving Fat Ellie onto my shoulders, I marched up the hill and stood beside a couple of travel agencies on Embarcadero. For my peace of mind, I trundled over to other travelers and asked where they were off to. It always feels reassuring when other stranded travelers are heading in your general direction.
No one was heading in my general direction.
Finally, I spotted a shuttle with my travel company's name written on the back window, so I approached a fellow leaning on the van (I don't know who the drivers are. No one wears uniforms here. But I assumed people don't lean across other people's vans). The van leaner was not, in fact, the driver, but he was helpful enough to direct me to the driver. A short, plump Guatemalan who took one look at my ticket, wearily rubbed his forehead and reached for his phone to call Esteban.
Oh, Esteban. What have you done?
"Hablas Español?" the driver asked me.
"No," I shamefully shook my head.
"Ach..." the driver wiped his well-worn forehead again, then added hopefully, "un poco?"
"No," I dashed his hopes.
"Este... autobus... This bus... Antigua. Tu. You. Xela. Tu cambias el autobus... you change bus... in cuarenta... twenty minutes."
"Bien, gracias," I said, guessing that he'd really meant to say forty minutes, not twenty.
Esteban. Why didn't you tell me I had to change buses? Come on, Esteban. Poop. I wish I knew enough Spanish to ask if I'm being dropped off in the middle of nowhere to wait for another shuttle in the dark, or if someone will be waiting for me, or...
Poop.
Well, there's nothing I can do. So I'll just try not to worry, I thought as I hit replay on my one and only Lumineers album. Instead of concentrating on all the things that could go wrong (none of which I could do anything about), I just tried to be aware of what was going on around me. I watched the Tigger stuffed animal swing from the driver's window. A woman at a tienda brushing her hair behind her ears. A small girl squatting in a doorway, playing with sticks.
Not only is worrying totally useless, it makes me miss everything. I don't notice anything except my own panic when I worry. Which is silly. My own panic is boring. Why would I want to focus on that when I could focus on all this?
Nacho had told me to meet him at Hotel Kasa Kamelot after my ride into Xela, so I'd downloaded a map of the city, had written down the address and phone number, and was feeling very prepared indeed. So picture my surprise when we stopped in Los Encuentros to change buses, and my towering Spanish friend clamored into the seat beside me.
"Nacho," I said after I'd recovered from my surprise, "you're crazy."
He smiled. This wasn't new information for Nacho. Nacho knows that he's crazy.
"I think I'll trust you, but never believe you again," I added, giving him a hug.
We were dropped off in front of Hotel Kasa Kamelot and made our way to our room. A giant beast of a room on the bottom floor (NO STAIRS. WOOHOO!) with six massive beds. I chose one, Nacho chose another, and his belongings chose the rest.
"I need this," Nacho explained when I laughed at the explosion of traveler crap. "I've lived for so long in small spaces.... I need this."
And I understood. It's how I feel about making my bed. When I have a bed that's mine, I never make it. It's a sign that it's my bed, my space, my choice to leave the sheets in a twisted heap. It's why when I have my own kitchen, I never wash (well, rarely wash. I'm not that gross) my coffee cup. It's my cup, my kitchen, my choice to leave that one cup a little dirty.
So I understood why Nacho needed his bags to make the room look like it had just been struck by a natural disaster. Or seven.
After three weeks of living off-grid in the jungle, the joys of being on-grid and out of the jungle hit me fast and hard.
"I HAVE A LIGHT IN MY ROOM!" I crowed. "I DON'T HAVE TO CHECK FOR SCORPIONS!" I rejoiced. "THERE'S A TOILET THAT ISN'T A MILE HIKE UP A FUCKING MOUNTAIN!" I happy danced.
Oh my goodness... if I'm like this after just three weeks in the jungle... imagine three months...
Nacho smiled at me. Then he told the hotel receptionist something in Spanish, and the receptionist burst into laughter.
"What did you say?" I demanded indignantly.
"I told him that you have just come from the jungle. And to not be surprised if you start swinging on trees."
Okay. That's fair.
After watching the sunrise, Nacho and I strolled over to a nearby bakery and bought bread for breakfast.
We caught the chicken bus to the village near Fuentas Georginas, one of Guatemala's famous hot springs. And I felt so grateful to be traveling with someone like Nacho. Because Nacho A) speaks Spanish, and B) loves to speak with everyone. ALL THE TIME. And it's very easy to find where you want to go and how to get there when you speak the language and love people.
The bus left us in Zunil, and we caught a taxi the rest of the way to the springs.
Fuentas Georginas was breathtaking. And abandoned, but for a few Guatemalans. I rushed into the filthy changing room, donned my bikini, and shivered my way towards the hot water.
Fuck, I berated myself as I glanced around the natural pools. I've been up at the Forest for so long that I forgot I was in Guatemala. Where modesty is a big deal.
I was the only person wearing a bikini. Most women wore shirts. The occasional scandalous Guatemalan wore a one piece swimsuit.
I felt the gazes from men and women alike, scrutinizing me, wondering what the hell I was doing in so little clothing.
Well. Lesson learned. When bathing in Guatemala, wear a shirt.
We caught a tuk-tuk down to Zunil, and Nacho practically froze to death. Because he had forgotten to bring anything other than his swim suit and tee-shirt.
"Sometimes I don't think I'm thirty-eight," Nacho drew his damp towel over his long body to shield himself from the wind.
"I just think you're crazy," I said very sympathetically, nice and warm in my puffy jacket and boots.
Zunil was having a festival that evening, so we caught a bit of a parade before boarding our chicken bus back to Xela.
I'm so glad I get to have this little adventure. It's good for me. I'd gotten so damn tired of moving that I never wanted to leave San Marcos. Moving had become exhausting... and... and had lost its joy. But this... this is fun. It's easy. It's an easy, beautiful adventure. And makes me want more.
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