Don't Suffer Until You're Suffering -- Panajachel, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from our Airbnb in Chichicastenango, Guatemala. It's seven o'nine, and it's been dark outside for at least half an hour. Since Guatemala doesn't engage in any daylight savings shenanigans and it's near the equator, mornings start off with brilliant sunshine and cacophonous birdsong at around four thirty, and nights sets in at around six.

Which is why I usually fall asleep around eight. And only crazy people like Pancho can stay up until two in the morning. 

John opens a beer. The husband and wife of our Airbnb family chat in Spanish in the kitchen, and I eavesdrop on fragments of their conversation. Because I can. One of the home's two cats meows loudly, fluffy tail suspended loftily and demanding attention by leaping onto the kitchen counter. Cathy and John sit on the couch behind me, trying to get in touch with their family via Guatemala's perishing internet. Their oldest daughter recently underwent surgery, and it's been hard on them being away from home. As you would expect, when a loved one is in the hospital and you're not around to administer snorgles/make lots and lots of tea.

What horrible timing. I'm glad everything worked out okay and that their daughter seems to be doing well. But gosh, it sucks that they couldn't be home for it. 

This is one of the quirkiest, homiest Airbnb's in which I've stayed. And I've stayed in a fair amount of Airbnbs, at this point in life.

Everything is cows. EVERYTHING. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. Definitely not. I don't think that I could possibly do justice to this place and its vast array of bovine decor. There's a cow pot holder, cow key chains, cow stuffed animals, cow teapots, cow napkin holders, cow wine holders, cow cups shaped as udders, and everything else you can imagine as a cow, there is.

And probably some things you can't imagine, too.

You see? 

A veritable shit ton of bovine.

"Por qué tienes tantas vacas?" (why do you have so many cows?) I'd asked our host when we arrived this afternoon, hot and sweaty from our shuttle.

"Porque mi madre ama las vacas," (because my mother loves cows) our host had replied with a smile.

"Mi madre ama los pollos," (my mother loves chickens) I'd smiled back.

"Mi madre ama los pollos tambien!" (my mother loves chickens too!)

She clearly loves her cows more, though... holy bananas.

We arrived in Panajachel at around four pm on Thursday, after the usual, dismal shuttle ride. The hour of backed up traffic in Chimaltenango was the worst -- filled with toxic exhaust, honking, sweat, and boredom. I felt my throat begin to tingle and hurt, and wondered if yet another sinus infection was brewing.

Aimee. You're not really suffering yet. You're just imagining how much it will hurt if you get another stupid infection. Which is bad enough. Right now all you've got is a slightly obnoxious throat tickling.

Do yourself a favor. 

Don't suffer until you're actually suffering. 

Deal? 

The shuttle driver dropped us off on Calle Santander, Panajachel's gringo alley. It had started to rain, so Cathy and John (John hates getting wet) found shelter under an overhang, and I ventured into the drizzle to flag down a tuk-tuk.

"Necesito ir a mis amigos primera," (I need to go to my friends first), I told the tuk-tuk driver, "y despues, necesitamos ir a la Fundabiem, cerca del Mercado Municipal. Cuánto cuesta?" (and after, we need to go to the Fundabiem, next to the municipal market. How much is it?)

"Diez cada uno," (ten each) the driver muddled through my mangled Spanish to answer.

"Perfecto, muchas gracias," I climbed into the backseat of the tuk-tuk.

Cathy and John's first time in a tuk-tuk. I wonder what they'll think. 

With much effort and quite a bit of squeezing, we managed to load ourselves and our luggage into the tuk-tuk's tiny backseat. After about five minutes of whizzing through Panajachel's bustling streets, we pulled up in front of Fundabiem, where our host was waiting for us.

"Hola, Aimee?" she called to me from an alley across the street.

"Si! Como estás?"

"Muy bien, y tu?"

"Muy bien, gracias."

"Hablas español?"

"Un poco, si hablas muy lentamente."

"Bueno," our host grabbed my tattered daybag and teal Cecile and began to walk down a narrow alley towards her airbnb. I followed behind with Fat Ellie, and Cathy and John lugged their rolling bags, clickity-clack-clackety, down the brick/dog shit laden path.

The home was beautiful. Our host had set out chocolates beside our beds, there was an eco filter with clean water, plenty of towels, fruit, coffee, and loads of other little touches to help make her home feel more like our home for the next three days.

I didn't sleep much that first night. I was too happy to be in such a nice home and didn't want to sleep through my time there. So I blissfully camped out in the comfortable chair downstairs and studied Spanish, blogged, and did all those silly, time wasting-things on the web that I used to judge myself for...

... but now I'm just grateful for the rare moments wherein I have the Wi-Fi and the time for those silly, time-wasting things. 

Cathy made us a gorgeous breakfast (as she always does) of eggs, local sausages, avocados, toast, and a large amount of watermelon.

"Make sure you keep me in line with the fruit!" Cathy had begged us when we'd gone into the market the day before. "I don't want to leave so much in the fridge this time..."

So of course, the first thing Cathy did was buy a fucking watermelon.

"Cathy, I, uh... about the fruit?" I made a half-assed effort at being the needed fruit accountability buddy.

After breakfast, we headed down to the dock and caught the first lancha bound for San Juan la Laguna. I'd made reservations for lunch at Cafe El Artesano (because of course) and Cathy wanted to do a bit of her shopping in San Juan. So I led my friends up a massive hill (that's a lie. They caught a tuk-tuk and I scampered after them to the top of the hill), and then showed them to the first women's collective.

"Hola, buenas dias!" I greeted the Guatemalan woman running the shop.

"Buenas dias, bienvenido!" she responded, jumping to her feet and enthusiastically attempting to show us all of her wares.

"How much is this?" Cathy asked, picking up a handmade shirt.

"Cuanto cuesta?" I translated.

"No se..." (I don't know) the Guatemalan woman tried to read the price tag.

"Three hundred," Cathy leaned over and read the amount.

"Cuantos años tienes?" the Guatemalan asked incredulously.

"She wants to know how old you are," I turned to Cathy.

"Sixty-five."

"Sesenta-cinco."

"O! Solo tengo sesenta-tres años, y mis ojos ya estàn mal," the woman continued to gaze at Cathy in wonder.

"She says that she's only sixty-three and her eyes are already bad."

"But I have my own problems," Cathy tugged up the legs of her pants, displaying the long scars going up both knees.

"Tengo este problema tambien!" the little lady exclaimed, pulling up her skirt to show scars mirroring those of my friend's.

"Oh!" Cathy smiled and engulfed the Guatemalan in a warm hug.

"Es una bendicíon!" (it's a blessing) tears began to form in the crinkles of the woman's big, black eyes.

Cathy bought a couple of garments from the little Mayan lady, and then we moseyed on over to our next cooperative. Where John found a man-bench on which to sit and a street dog to fend off.

When Cathy had finished all her shopping, we popped into a cafe for a quick drink before heading to Cafe El Artesano for lunch.

And then. Cafe El Artesano. We ordered a cheese plate, a meat plate, and some skewered vegetables.

Cathy and John had very different reactions to Herbert Dietrich's explanation of the cheeses.

We didn't go out to dinner that night. No one ever goes out to dinner after a lunch at Cafe El Artesano. People go into comas after lunch at Cafe El Artesano. Which is pretty much what we did.

We kept the next day nice and simple. After another breakfast by Cathy, we walked for a bit, and then caught a tuk-tuk (because I went and got us good and lost. Like I do) to Hotel Atitlan. Where we started off with cocktails --

-- and then spent a couple of hours exploring the botanical gardens.

It was wonderful to see Cathy so happy. So in her element.

I also experienced a moment of floral induced bliss, lost in the smells, the colors, the --

-- and then I was charged at by a giant, honking goose. Which somewhat ruined the moment.

Guatemala looks good on me.

That evening, we redesigned our trip. To include less time driving along Guatemala's ruinous roads, and more time just hanging out. So we cut out Rio Dulce and the Copan Ruinas so that we could enjoy our experience in Flores a bit more. Which left all of us feeling significantly more at ease.

"When I sent you that itinerary, I thought I was only sending you a list of suggestions. And that you would pick the ones that suited you best. When you wrote back, "We have two weeks, I think we can do all of them," I was scared. I didn't know how I would keep up with you two," I told Cathy and John over dinner.

"See, Cathy thought you had sent her your preferred itinerary," John replied.

"No, it was just a bunch of suggestions."

...

"Well, at least we're on the same page now," Cathy smiled over her bizarre goblet of sangria.