by Sally McKinney
The rap, rap, rap of a salsa beat draws me to a wide window where I survey Zona Viva ten stories down. On one corner below my hotel room, a stocky woman in bright clothing sells dolls from a basket. Red, yellow, and green public buses muscle their way past jammed traffic, and a block of flashing neon entices people into restaurants, bars, and clubs. .
Weary from a long day of travel, I darken the room and sprawl on the bed. Only after I booked this tour did I learn about Guatemala’s security risks. "Violent crime is a serious concern," said an online source, "due to endemic poverty, an abundance of weapons, a legacy of societal violence and dysfunctional law enforcement and judicial systems."
If I felt less tired, I’d walk through traffic to join the music lovers. Yet, I feel unsafe amid urban sprawl where "pick-pocketing and petty theft are common in tourist areas. . . ." Staring at the ceiling, I wonder: whatever is a nice woman like me doing in a place like this?
Next day aboard the bus for a week-long tour, it helps to make friends. Soon I’m so involved in small talk, I don’t even see the security guards following in an unmarked car.
Behind Antigua’s grid of tree-lined streets rise the gray shapes of Volcan Agua and Volcan Fuego. We walk past ochre, lavender, terra cotta and rose facades that adorn Antigua’s low-rise buildings. Policia Municipal de Turismo (PMT) has a presence here, and the scene looks calm. In Parque Central old people, singles, and couples with children relax, and a fountain spurts the water of life.
During a stroll to Iglesia de San Francisco, I feel uneasy when I fall behind. A man starts to trail me, and I feel threatened. Eventually, I stop, turn, and realize he wants to sell me a bracelet!
After lunch on the Ruta del Cafe tour--I feel secure within the van’s protective shell. Local women walk along the stream of traffic, carrying kindling on their heads. On the coffee plantation, I learn that investors wait five years before a coffee plant produces. As coffee drinker--who’s also a global citizen--I care about the economic issues. When coffee drinkers pay the higher Fair Trade price, the guide explains, plantation workers earn enough to live.
The upscale Casa Santo Domingo resort is well-staffed with security guards; one holds an umbrella as I walk beneath a loggia. Rough openings in the dining room walls frame candlelit tables. During the walk to breakfast, I follow the sound of screechy cawing to find a caretaker transporting scarlet macaws to their daytime courtyard perches.
The narrow road to Chichicastenango twists around low mountains where pine forests thrive. One advisory warned about armed bandits who rob and rape. The region does have a frontier feeling. Recalling that PNC (Policia Nacional Civil (PNC) patrols these routes, I rein in my wild imagination. Red chili peppers hang from roadside booths; ripe apples and pears fill cardboard boxes. The village called Paflores resembles a Hollywood film set. Rustic wooden store fronts display leather carryalls and cowboy boots. Maybe there are some "bad guys" around, but they stay out of sight.
In Chichicastenango, standing at the entrance of Maya Inn, I can see red-roofed houses spill down the hills to gather in city center.On Sunday morning, workers ride in the open backs of pick-up trucks. The majority of Chichi’s population are ethnic Mayan. Short, muscular men stagger downhill under heavy loads, carrying ungainly boards and upended tables.
As the guide suggested, I’m not carrying valuables in either purse or day pack. A small stash of daily cash stays hidden beneath my clothes. We walk single file through jostling crowds to reach the central market. The sun isn’t hot, yet I feel wet with fresh sweat. People are selling handicrafts from blankets. Chickens scratch and stray children squeal. Women sell fresh eggs, onions, and tomatoes while babies nap in their back-wrap slings.
For more images of Guatemala -- especially Antigua, Chichicastenango and Lago de Atitlan, please email
sallymckinney@hotmail.com
with your specific request.
After the guide leads me to an Internet cafe, I assure him I can find my way to lunch on my own. From a busy sidewalk in city center, one distant yellow hilltop building looks vaguely familiar. The sun grows hot and I gulp all my water as I trudge toward the distant building.
As I look around the neighborhood, there’s nothing at all familiar! Alone among strangers, I have clearly lost the way. A passerby soon registers my puzzled look; he leaves to find an official from ASISTUR, an organization that provides tourist information, coordinates security, and could even give legal assistance or first aid. The ASISTUR official suggests in English that I hire a cyclo. Knowing I can pay with rials hidden beneath my clothing, I climb into a red, motorized metal bubble for a wild ride to join my new friends--who greet me with hugs! No longer a lost child, I celebrate at lunch with cerveza fria and a good pepien (chicken in mildly spicy brown sauce).
Back amid the crowds, I’m uneasy while we walk the streets to a service for Maximon, a spirit who provides wealth and worldly success to people who give him gifts. Outside a dark doorway, I learn there is space for only one more person. Nervous as a child, I stumble into a boxy, smoke-filled room packed with strangers. Glowing candles and burning incense mask the scent of decaying flowers. A dark man points toward a space between people on a wooden bench. The carved, wooden figure wears painted black clothing, and has a mouth stuffed with cigarettes! A cantor murmurs "mama ma mama ma," and I pray silently for a safe journey around Guatemala--and then back home.
After a ride over mountains, Lago de Atitlan appears ahead like a vast, impressionist mural. Cloud-capped volcanoes pierce the cerulean sky while stiff-brushed textured forests extend to lakeside red roofs. There have been armed robberies on nearby roads, so we explore the lake by motor launch. Our boat bounces swiftly over the calm water on the way to Santiago del Atitlan, and we climb onto a rickety pier. In the colorful central market, people from lakeside villages are buying what they need. Rather than lose valuables to pickpockets, I hide the camera inside a jacket, embrace my day pack, and push forward through the crowds.
On the jet flight into the Peten, I see only endless forest broken by a scraggly dirt road. The safety rating of the Peten district has become "relatively high-risk" because smugglers transport drugs and foreigners across a 36,000-square- mile area. On the shore of Lago Peten Itza, women from thatched-roof cottages scrub clothes at water’s edge. The ugly chain link fence enclosing the upscale Camino Real Tikal reminds me of the travel advisories. Even so, I soon relax with the great service, traditional food and decor.
At crowed Tikal park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, there have been armed attacks on tourists. It seems wise to stay with the group. We cross mowed, grassy fields to reach the Temple of the Masks and the Temple of the Jaguar. The ancient Maya sought the favor of the gods and held ceremonies here. After climbing worn temple steps to reach the top, we survey even more scattered ruins rising from the expanse of green forest.
Yaxha, also within the Peten district, became a Guatemala national park in 2003. The park has glittery lakes scattered about a messy green forest, and archeological sites that haven’t yet been studied. As I walk the path, a furry creature with orange mask and white spots peeks out from a leafy trunk. Early explorers might have seen this same, memorable view: the branches of a ramon tree framing a majestic temple. They might also have encountered a cloud of mosquitoes. The insects bite through my long-sleeved cotton shirt, already soaked with sweat. None of Yaxha’s visitors look threatening, so I straggle carelessly behind. Suddenly, I realize I’m walking in step with a security guard armed with a pistol in a holster. Yet, he’s such a puny guy that I wonder whether I'll somehow have to protect him!
Back in Guatemala City, at a restaurant called Kacao, bright, striped huipiles and sputtering candles grace the table. I order tamarind chicken--a good choice--cooled by a dark Dos Equis.
Earlier I’d learned that less than one tenth of one percent of the North American tourists who visit Guatemala are involved in serious crimes. So, what’s a nice woman like me doing in a place like this? Celebrating my newfound security among friends!
