I'm starting this post from Shambala Cafe. The same foreboding "AUUUUUMMMMM" music, interspersed with bells, plays in the background. I listen to an indie/folk compilation on youtube, trying my best to drown out the extreme hippie with the moderate hippie.
But the "Auuummmm" permeates everything. As do the snippets of conversation about sound healing, numerology, the Mayan calendar, and astrology.
This just isn't the place for me. And that's okay. I've learned a lot about myself here, and now it's time to move on.
Tammo, my tentmate/badass climber/German politician, helps keep me sane. When I need a conversation about things more down to earth and relevant to now, I know I can talk with him.
Which is comforting. Without Tammo, I'd feel so damn isolated.
We shared an afternoon on the dock the other night. Drinking beer and watching a delicate, pink sunset over the surprisingly tranquil waters of Atitlan.
An unsurprising un-tranquil Guatemalan youngster, who introduced himself as "Axel," interrupted us to tell us he was hungry. That his mother couldn't feed him.
"Tango hambre..." he rubbed his belly. "Tango mucho hambre."
When it finally became clear that we weren't going to give him a Q, Axel relented to just asking Tammo if he could take some photographs.
And because Tammo is a better person than I am, he carefully supervised Axel for about ten minutes, as the candid Guatemalan snapped a couple pictures with my friend's analog camera.
Tammo and I returned to San Pedro the next day. Tammo needed a haircut and I needed to leave San Marcos.
And Sunday. Sunday was a glorious day. A needed day. Sunday was the best day in weeks.
I woke up without congestion in my face. My infected nose had healed over. I felt okay.
And my stomach, I observed my cantankerous belly for a few moments. My stomach feels... fine. No rumblings. No portentous gurglings.
I feel GOOD right now, I thought, immediately rapping the wooden floor of my circus tent with my superstitious knuckles.
Tammo and I packed our bags with baguette, a stick of butter, and a plastic container full of honeycomb. Our roundtrip ticket to Chichi and many quetzales were stored safely in my wallet.
TENTMATES BE GOING TO CHICHI!
I happily hurtled down the mountain towards San Marcos, for once sort of keeping pace with my long-legged German friend.
We arrived at the dock of Del Lago at 6:20, just in time to watch the sun peek out from behind the dry, smoking mountains and cast the first glimmering rays of gold on the rippling lake.
Tammo and I ate our divine breakfast of baguette, honeycomb and butter, while watching the hillside above San Pedro burn.
It seems like there's never a day without fire, I thought as I unabashedly smeared giant wads of butter onto my overtaxed baguette. This is what jungle looks like near the end of the dry season. A giant tinder box. I hope everyone's okay.
We finished our breakfast (sadly) and then briskly walked to the basketball court, where we were to catch our shuttle to the Chichi Market.
"The road is blocked," our driver told us in Spanish. "You need to take a tuk-tuk to San Pablo, then take the shuttle to Chichi."
"Bueno," Tammo and I nodded, then climbed into a tiny tuk-tuk with two other people and two large suitcases.
We arrived in Chichi at around ten o'clock, and were told to meet our shuttle back in the same place at 1:50.
That gives us almost four hours to wander. Which will be more than enough, I'm sure.
Tammo and I looked at each other in excitement. The colors, smells, and sounds of the market (plus the coffee I'd refused to share with Tammo) were already making me jittery.
Stimulation! Stimulation other than dogs barking at any hour of the day and night! Stimulation other than obnoxiously loud church music being played at any hour of the day and night! WAHOO! How I'VE MISSED YOU.
I left Tammo in a cafe to get his coffee (as I wouldn't share mine), and happily plunged into the chaos of Chichi's main market street.
Other tourists looked uncomfortable or overwhelmed.
I grinned, ear to ear, as a small kid pushed at my butt to get me to move faster, as an old man carrying a load of chicken wire almost clobbered my head.
I returned to Tammo's cafe, out of breath and jubilant. Where my friend was calmly sipping his coffee and smoking a cigarette, Guatemalan newspaper waiting for him on the table.
"It's SO BUSY OUT THERE!" I sat down to drink my fake orange juice. "So much fun to navigate," I declared, imagining the rest of our afternoon swimming through the sea of people.
Tammo and I abandoned the peace of his cafe, both venturing out into the pandemonium of Central America's largest textile market.
"Mmm..." the tantalizing scent of fried food wafted under my nose. "Can we go in there?" I motioned towards a narrow alley which led into the food portion of the market.
"Wherever you want," my tentmate responded amiably. My tentmate rarely responds with anything but amiability.
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| This kid. Haha. |
We spent the next few hours ducking in and out of alleys, popping in and out of shops, hopping over buckets of miel (so many people selling honey), and dodging low-hanging textiles.
I was a very practical hobo and bought a notebook, a case for my paintbrushes, some honey, and a bottle of contact lens solution (see? Practical). Tammo was a very practical German and bought a cover for his couch, some souvenirs for friends, and a pork pie hat.
We drank cocktails at a restaurant/bar with a view of the market, scarfed down a quick lunch of fried pollo y papas, then made our way back to the shuttle.
"I needed that," I commented to Tammo as we waited for the rest of the group to arrive. "A day of easy, fun, colorful adventure."
Back in San Marcos, we bought some coconuts and sat on the old pier, watching lanchas arriving from San Pedro, heading to Pana. Watching lanchas arriving from Pana, heading to San Pedro.
We walked back to The Forest a couple hours later, happy, tired, deeply satisfied, just as the sky grew dark.
Thank god for days like today, I thought as I piled my plate high with the Forest's vegan dinner, overhearing intense conversations about astrology and the significance of the 25th of March as the end of the Mayan calendar.
Aaaaaaaand, here we go again.
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