In which I refute Aldous Huxley, play the Virgin Mary and walk on flowers

A fair few weeks have passed since I rolled into Antigua, Guatemala one dark, misty night, but it has taken me that long to process all that went on there. After another epic 10 hour bus journey we squeezed our way into the busy, dark, wide streets of Antigua. As our big rucksacks were bustled by the throngs of people crowding the streets we realised just how silly we had been to pop to a legendary festival town on the busiest weekend of the year without hostel reservations. For a while it was beginning to look just like a biblical story, no room at the inn anywhere.... and just to add to the confusion as we went to cross a street in search of a manger our path was blocked by the eery apparition of a huge Jesus Statue being carried along in a procession of trumpets and swinging incense clouds.

Perhaps I better explain about Antigua. You see the small town is renowned in Central America for its Easter Celebrations. Every year the town fills with people, statues and processions fill the streets and the roads are adorned with beautiful carpets of dried flowers and coloured sawdust, destined to be trampled under pious feet. 

So within 10 minutes of arriving in the town all our expectations had been confirmed! Miraculously we managed to find a place to stay (one step up from a donkey’s pen) and we went out for a better look around.

The whole town had a feel of a Dan Brown novel (but better written). Everyone taking part in the procession wore long, purple robes and carried cross-topped staffs. Clouds of incense hung in the air long after the floating effigies had passed. Each Statue base was the size of a small car and involved lines of people either side lugging the weigh on their shoulders like coffin bearers.

We spent the next couple of days taking in the dramatic displays. On Good Friday things stepped up a notch and we were disconcerted to have just bought lunch at a busy little food market only to look up and see an effigy of Judas hanging from the trees. After 3pm, the time Jesus was crucified, everyone changed to black robes, making things even more eerie and giving the place a sense of mourning.

It was particularly interesting to watch the almost masochistic precision with which people took to making the carpets of flowers which lined the routes and were trodden to dust under the procession’s feet. Something interestingly cyclical and re-birth-like about that. But, for the short time they existed they painted the streets with glorious colours and patterns, offset nicely by the moving, constant sea of purple robes.

Easter Saturday Ben I am decided to head to Lake Atitilan, which Aldous Huxley described as the most beautiful lake in the world. Now Huxley was pretty smart and all but he clearly hadn’t been to the lake on Easter weekend. Instead of the pristine, natural beauty we were expecting we were welcomed with hoards and hoards of Guatemalan party makers. It was actually great to be away from the tourist crowds and we had a great time exploring. It turns out Lake Atitilan, on Easter weekend at least, is Central America’s answer to Blackpool! We made chip butties, took a bumpy boat ride out onto the rainy lake (my scenic seat meant I got very very wet and caused the other passengers no end of delight), watched the ring toss, fairground games and Ben got his wallet robbed. It was the whole deal! A very bizarre day out, not at all what Huxley had promised us but a strange new world at least!

On Easter Day itself I accompanied Ben to the cathedral for 5 minutes of mass before my atheism got in the way and I headed to the artisan chocolate shop and the comic book store for some decadence.

The next day we were up at 4.30am for a flight back to Costa Rica, and we got back just in time to catch the bus up to uni! Many coffees later and I was home at last after a fantastic Easter holiday!

Lessons learnt:

Whether in Guatemala or Mexico- always always always try the spicy sauce before slathering your food in it.

Dyed sawdust may not be a smart business career path but for one weekend in Guatemala you could make a fortune!

No matter how much you know it is not the point, big, pointy white hoods can’t help but scare the pants of me with reminders of the KKK!

In which I play the revolutionary cowboy, try not to steal souls and improve on a carrot

There are a few cities in the world that I feel I could settle in (these itchy feet don’t stop just anywhere!) San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas is one of those (others being London, Granada, Amsterdam and Cuzco in case you are interested/ fancy meeting me there). After just a few hours wandering San Cristobal that was it, I had fallen for the city.

San Cristobal is a beautiful, old-colonial city full of handsome building and cultural happenings. This was the focal point of the Zapatistas’ uprising in 1994, when Sub-Comandante Marcos announced to the bewildered tourists now surrounded by balaclava-clan Zapatista protesters that “We are sorry for the inconvenience, but this is a revolution.” Revolution and ironic good-manners. Oh yes you can see why the history seeping out of this place appealed to me!

Our merry band of travellers had temporarily dived, simply due to the fact that taking two taxis to what turns out to be a ghost hostel, and without mobile phones it is sometimes necessary to give up searching and find a place to sleep before regrouping. All those hours spent watching Ray Mears are beginning to pay off you see: survival techniques of mobile phone-less worlds. So anyway, without eating animal dung or whittling any canoes Diego, Lindsay and I found a hostel and settled in for the night.

I spent my time in San Cristobal trying to suck up as much information about the Zapatistas and as much cultural fun as possible. I also managed to find a load of hang-outs that would have been my locals in the alternative universe where I lived in this city. One key find was a great tea-shop with a documentary film festival on. I spent my first night in the city sat in a tent on the building’s roof, sat in a camp-chair and, trying not to be distracted by the twinkling lights of the city and the random fireworks, to focus on the small projector screen. The film was called Maria Sabina and quietly and slowly told the story of an old woman in the Chiapas hills who was a spiritual healer, using magic mushrooms as her medicine. She would feed her patient mushrooms as well as herself, they would then hallucinate (and come out with some beautiful poetry) until one of them vomited, expelling the illness (or, call me a cynic, the mushrooms). It’s here if you are interested... http://wn.com/maria_sabina  It was a nicely made film and gave me an idea for a story which I will try and find time to write at some point.

Another night I crammed into a three-sofa screen room to watch another documentary on the Zapatista’s structural changes. So yes, I ended up watching some TV on holiday but it was educational, honest!

It wasn’t all TV though. There was food and drink too. On the great tip of my friend Kayla (you might remember her from such blogs as New Year in Panama), I dragged the others to a cool cafe called Cafe Revolution. Covered in politicial stencils and posters it was something of a tourist trap but made great Micheladas (beer with lime, spices, some tomato juice and salt and pepper- savoury-er beer!  The spice makes downing it too quickly hard at least).

The rest of the time in the city is a blur of bookshops, markets, horchata, mole, hot chocolate and plenty of tequila. We managed to find ourselves in a Blues bar one night, being sung to in English, which was pretty disorientating. We also hung out in a great Zapatista cafe complete with propaganda posters and book shop.

I also found my alternative-universe-regular-bar, a mescal bar. (Mezcal is a liquor made from cactus. I am not quite sure how it is different from tequila but after one or two you don’t seem to care.) This tiny bar was full of local hipsters with some of the best moustaches I have ever seen. The walls were dotted with shrines to lucha-libre-wrestler-saints, there was a toilet instead of a barstool, beer only came served in plastic yard-of-ale glasses and as well as peanuts you got deep-fried bugs as bar snacks. Sigh. Eighteen years of vegetarianism gone for a crispy cricket. But at least now I have a better answer to the “what’s the weirdest thing you have ever eaten” question other than a funny shaped carrot. (Yes our UPEACE exam questions really are tricky).

On our last day Lindsay and I jumped into the back of a Toyota truck and trundled our way up to the hills above the city to horse-ride up to local town Chamula. It was lovely riding up through the green forest,  past a Zapatista university and past families working on their farms. The waves and smiles from the local children just about distracted me from the wooden saddle slowly numbing my butt.

Barely able to walk we dismounted at Chamula and explored the bustling market square and its rows of piled fruits, beans and (moving piles of) hermit crabs. Our explorations were rhythmically punctuated with the sounds of explosions. They were setting off fireworks for San Pedro’s Saint’s Day but given it was mid-day we only heard the noises, and having secretly pretended I was a cowboy for the past hour it was hard not to run from cover from the gunshots! Anyway, it spooked me, if not the horses.

After making our way through the market we headed to the beautiful green and blue church. Inside it was the most amazing church I’ve been to. The floor was scattered with pine needles and leaning against the wall were fully grown pine trees. The walls were lined with shrines to saints, each illuminated by jars of candles crowded in front. On the floor there were lines and lines of thin, taper candles melted upright like penitent worshippers. People knelt on the needle-strewn floor, in their black, furry ponchos chanting and praying aloud. The whole effect was remarkable, if not a little on the fire-hazard side.

Back in the city we were treated to another spectacle when we went to a dance show- a bit like the West End Lion King but about a battle between Mayan tribes.  Beautiful costumes and gymnastics but as it was in an anchient dialect the only thing I could get was that they said Palenque a lot. But who doesn’t.

Ok my brain has run out of superlatives so I’ll stop going on about San Cristobal for now but I’d advise you to come and visit me there in the alternative universe (p.s. you might want to find someone else to stay with though cos Gael Garcia Bernal lives with me in that universe and it could get a bit crowded.)

Lessons learnt:

In Chamula you can’t take pictures of people as they believe it steals their soul (same as the Innuit, interesting that despite distance and separation the same beliefs crop up!) So I resisted, despite the philosophical conundrum: if they don’t see me take the photo is that still disrespectful to their beliefs? My head hurt too much from the fireworks so I never puzzled it out.

Four hour horse-rides on wooden saddles aren’t great preparation for another epic bus journey. Probably should have been able to work that out.

Mexican street food is amazing! Corn on the cob covered in lime and hot sauce and empanadas make sore stomachs worth it!

In which I almost sneak into Mexico, give up the fight and decide to stick on the human side of Bruce Wayne

After the physical exertions of the Mayan ruins we were ready to pass out on the journey to Mexico. Not that it was without some exertions of its own. Our eight hour journey was made up of a bumpy bus ride to the Guatemalan border where we got our exit stamps. Loaded up with our bags we were shepherded on a rickety long boat for a 45 minute journey down the Usumacinta River. The peaceful journey down the wide, green river, lined with local families bathing and washing their clothes on the banks, was only punctuated by the nagging suspicion that, having not reached the Mexican border post, we were, in fact, sneaking illegally into the country. Good things don’t seem to happen to illegal immigrants in Mexico. Gulp. Fortunately a short walk after the boat brought us to the post and the necessary stamp. Finally I had made it (legally) to Mexico!

Not five minutes after negotiating our way through the border control our bus was stopped to collect a voluntary donation for up-keeps on the local village. Now all those months of reading about Mexican officials’ corruption had got me on guard and seemed to be playing out. We asked if this was an official tax or if it was voluntary. We were told it was not mandatory so being the cheapskate students we were decided not to pay... only to be told they weren’t going to let the bus move until we did. Five minutes in Mexico and I was in a hold-up situation, perfect. Bravely (or grouchily) we stood our ground for 10 minutes before getting bored and handing over a couple of dollars so we could just move on!

Several hours of buses later we arrived in a steamy, hot town called Palenque. We had a trek finding a hostel and headed out to refresh with quesadillas, horchata and a steady stream of amazingly colourful mariachi music videos on the cafe’s TV. No one makes a low budget, horrifyingly cringeworthy music video like Mexican mariachis. Fact.

Now this was one of my standard travels so there was no time for common things like relaxing or sitting still. We pushed on for an action packed day taking in all of Palenque’s treats. We started at the Palenque ruins- smaller and slightly newer than the Tikal ones but very impressive all the same. Surrounded by steamy forests and blossoming trees they had a strange Oriental feel, added to by the pagodaish roofs on some of the buildings. (Pagodaish is a word.)

Having build up a sweat dragging ourselves up more temple steps we were happy to move on the beautiful, tall Misol Ha waterfall. We chilled out under the fall for a while before Ben and I ventured our way into a pitch black cave. Led by a guide with a flashlight we carefully traversed our way through the shin-high water and thin rock passages until the cave opened up into a dark, little cavern. A scan with our guide’s torch revealed the low-ceilinged cave was full of water with a small waterfall at the back. Looming quietly in the blackness the dark pool was irresistible and seconds later I found myself slipping into the freezing, black water, my only guidance coming from the  strobbing flash of people taking photos. It was pretty darn scary in there and it was all I could do to banish possible horror-movie scenarios from my mind.

Having made it out of the cave without being eaten by zombie-cave-sharks we gathered the group and made our way on to a series of impossibly aquamarine rapids and waterfalls called (unoriginally) Agua Azul. There we bathed again and ate guacamole, empanadas and BBQ.

Bathed and full we got back on the bus for yet another epic bus-ride on to the colonial town of San Cristobal where we would lose each other and all fall in love with the city.

Lessons learnt:

Despite my love of Batman, it turns out dark caves are not my favourite hang out.

Screaming one’s head off in a dark, echoey cave does little to suppress your fears.... or indeed those of the people around you.

Fighting corruption is important. But $2 fines after hours on a bus can make one sell out principles for movement!