I'm starting this post from Shambala Cafe in San Marcos la Laguna, Guatemala. My corner of the cafe smells like dog shit (most of San Marcos la Laguna smells like dog shit) and internet is dead (as it usually is). I'm embracing the perpetual dearth of wifi (not the dog shit), as the lack of wifi keeps me from browsing the web when I should be writing. Or painting. Or doing anything more productive than checking nose ring studs on Etsy (which is just about everything).
Tammo, Bodo, and I hiked another volcano yesterday. A volcano much closer, much smaller (but still a 1300 meter elevation climb), and much better maintained than Acatenango.
We hiked San Pedro. Our friendly, dormant, neighbor volcano across the lake.
Bodo met Tammo and me in front of the Submarine at 6:30 yesterday morning. We zipped up our home and happily tumbled down the trail into town, air still slightly chilly, but the clear sky promising a warm day.
"A volcano a week, Tammo," I commented as we glimpsed San Pedro looming in the distance."That's pretty badass."
I need to make it down to town in the mornings more often. This is gorgeous...
Everything is so quiet. No random bombs going off. No obnoxious church music blaring loud enough to wake the drunks who've passed out on the side of the road. No barking dogs...
Tranquility such as this is a rare phenomenon in San Marcos.
We boarded the first lancha for San Pedro (the village at the base of San Pedro. It's complicated), and hightailed it to the one cafe open and serving breakfast. Where we lingered until nine, then flagged down a tuk-tuk to take us to the trail head.
"Al volcan?" I tested out my Spanish on tuk-tuk number 82.
"Si, si," the driver responded enthusiastically.
"Quanto cuesta?" I made sure to agree on a price before entering the pint-sized vehicle.
"Diez por persona," the driver amiably replied.
"Perfecto, gracias," I nodded to Tammo and Bodo, and we clamored into the tuk-tuk's three person backseat.
"Mi llamo David," our driver smiled at us. "Como te llamas?"
"Mi llamo Aimee," I returned David's grin in the rear view mirror.
And for the remainder of the trip to the trail head, David tried to get us to accept his friend as a guide up the volcano, which we firmly and politely declined. And then our tuk-tuk driver gave us his number so we could call him when we finished the hike.
And while I definitely couldn't respond with anything close to respectable/acceptable Spanish, I understood just about everything.
Which feels really nice.
David dropped us off at the entrance station and Tammo took his number.
"Muchos gracis, David! Hasta luego," I waved our driver goodbye.
Tammo, Bodo, and I paid our Q100 fee per person and entered the park. A guide named Jose led us for the first thirty minutes (to make sure we didn't stray into any coffee or cornfields), and then waved us on towards the peak.
This isn't exactly easy, I thought to myself as we climbed up, up, up. But compared to Acatenango, this is cake. Pure, unadulterated cake.
Probably because I don't have a sinus infection this time around.
...
Yeah, that's probably all it is. My face is no longer bursting with pain. And mucus. Being able to breathe helps in the hiking of volcanoes.
So I traipsed up the stairs, Tammo and Bodo trailing behind me (I could say it's because I'm a faster hiker, but that would be a lie. An outright lie. Tammo and Bodo let me lead because I'm the "most easy-going" hiker).
At the second break area, we discovered a tire swing.
I haven't had so much fun on a swing since I was five.
We began our trek up San Pedro (the volcano. Not the town. Or the plant medicine. Just to be clear) at 9:20 and reached the peak at 12:40.
"Two hours and twenty minutes!" I high-fived my hiking buddies at the top. "That's fantastic."
We celebrated with a bit of acro. On a precariously situated rock (because I have to be more adventurous than Tammo this year).
We enjoyed the view for half an hour, reaping the full benefits of our hike (and wishing we'd brought some chocolate with us). Then we began the journey back to the trail head and tuk-tuk number 82.
I decided I didn't want to walk down. My body felt so energized and good and adventurous (I have to beat Tammo, remember?), that I decided to run down. With Tammo and Bodo in my dusty wake (and this time, maybe it wasn't because I was the most "easy-going" hiker), I hopped, jogged, tumbled down San Pedro.
And it felt divine.
I had knee surgery less than two years ago. And now I'm running helter-skelter down a volcano. Without any pain.
If I hadn't been so focused on the path in front of me, I might have cried a bit. Might have cried some exquisitely happy, grateful tears.
I'm so lucky to be here. To be here doing this.
Tuk-tuk number 82 was waiting for us ecstatic hikers in the parking lot, so we loaded in and zipped back to San Pedro (the village, not the volcano. Or the plant medicine. To be clear). Where we shamelessly indulged in nutella, oreo, banana smoothies.
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| What we didn't put in our smoothies. |
We wandered around San Pedro for the rest of the afternoon, accomplishing little errands (I scheduled a haircut for next Thursday. Girl is going back to her faux-hawk. Mmmhmm), and relishing the precious moments spent away from Hippiedom.
But we shared the boat back to San Marcos with a rambunctious group of absolutely wasted Australians. And remembered how much we prefer spending time with people tripping on mushrooms/high on weed. As we overheard drunken stories of a broken coccyx and observed several blathered Australians spilling their beer all over the lancha floor.
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