The last time I posted, we had booked transport to take us from historic Antigua to the shores of Lake Atitlan. The transport was a ‘shared shuttle’, a minibus that picks you up and drops you door to door. It was a bit more expensive than public transport but was more comfortable and widely used by visitors to get around the popular areas in Guatamala. The downside was that we spent about an hour driving in the pouring rain around Antigua’s one-way system on rough cobbled stones to pick up passengers.

When we arrived in Panajachel, the largest of the lakeside towns, the driver shouted the name of our accomodation and we clambered out- he pointed to a blue padlocked gate and drove off. We wandered around looking for a way in but it was obviously derelict. Google was also telling us that we had arrived☹️ but when we followed the link in booking.com, it told us the accomodation was about a kilometre away. Not far..but not pleasant in the driving rain and sloshing through puddles but at least we weren’t dragging heavy bags. The most useful thing that I brought from home was a folding umbrella. There was an impressive (and worrying) spaghetti junction of electricity wires strung across the streets. Hostel Buenos Suenos, when we found it was ok, a bit scruffy but the bedroom was large and the location was central with lots of restaurants nearby to choose from. We ate in an Uruguayan restaunant where the chefs were local native women. Bowls of tufu/rice soup served with chips and garlic bread were delicious even if the tofu did taste suspiciously like chicken.

Our first views of the lake were disappointing, rain-logged grey and it looked like the grey sky had fallen into the grey lake. But the following morning, all had changed, the lake was spread before us in all its brooding glory ringed by mountains most of them wearing hats of cloud. ‘Taxi, Taxi,’ shouted the boatmen leading us to the docks where small boats departed for the various villages around the lake. We stepped into a small blue boat and sat in the bow, the only other passengers were a Mayaan couple. The boat set off across the lake, which was a little choppy, with such thumping, spine-crashing speed that all of us including the Mayans moved to the stern of the boat. My legs were wobbly when we disembarked at Santiago Atitlan where guides, women selling native crafts and tuk-tuks mobbed us. They were so tenacious that we ran up the street(as quickly as wobbly legs would allow) to get away and ducked into a cafe for some delicious Guatemalan coffee. Here, the owner and a few customers were glued to a live soccer match on the TV, Man City and Copenhagen and ignored us apart from serving us coffee

We wandered around the town where there was a colourful market going on, most of the women in traditional Mayan dress, beautiful woven textiles.with different colours and patterns identifying various tribes and families. We passed signs for weaving classes and the women were always busy weaving, knitting and embroidering. On a sunny October day, bloodshed seemed far away but this village has seen its share since the time of the Conquisadores when the natives were subjugated by the Spanish and literally worked to death, freedom brought a string of dictators, poverty and corruption. The village was a stonghold of left wing guerillas in the 1980s and hundreds of villagers were ‘dissappeared’. A missionary priest was murdered in the local Church, a large simple structure where the ceiling and the statues were brightly decorated. During the civil war, Santiago became the first village in the country to oust the army following the brutal massacre of 14 local men. There’s a Peace Park commemorating the massacre- a bit mossy and neglected now but we trudged a couple of kilometres out of town to see it. Then we ate in a local establishment where the policemen were also tucking-in, – rice, beans and scrambled eggs and drank a beer at half the usual price.

Looking at the mountains around the lake, one stood out – Volcan San Pedro, its in most of the photos, a dormant volcano with reputedly amazing views from the top. So we took another boat to San Pedro, a colouful village at the base of the mountain. This has a reputation as a party town and a backpackers mecca but it also had some stunning wall art (reminded us of the Waterford Walls). We stayed in the more traditional part of town up the hill at Casa Imelda. Imelda was a small talkative laughing Mayan woman whose son, daughter in law and three grandchildren lived with her. The room was spotless with a view of the lake and cost about €12 a night😀. Our clock went off before 6am, it was already bright with a gorgeous light on the lake but the Imelda household was still sleeping. We crept out onto a quiet street, just a few squat men in cowboys hats and machetes heading to the fields. Then a tuk tuk rounded the corner – there’s always a tuk tuk when you need one – and took us to the park entrance where we paid our fee of Q100 (about €13) and although we had heard reports that a guide was mandatory we set off without one on a path among avocado and coffee plantations(these grow incredibly well together). Up and up we went on winding paths until we were in cloud forest, among 400 year old trees. We came out of the forest and clambered on big blocks of rock. We had arrived at the top, 3200m……but the clouds were packed so tightly down below us that there was no view of the lake although there was patches of blue behind us. We hung around at the top, hoping for a break but after an hour we gave up and slithered down the path, which was slippery after all the rain. It was dissappointing after a three hour slog to the top and a two hour descent. I was beginning to feel unwell, tireder than I should have been and my stomach was going haywire😫

We had booked a ‘treat’ place to stay for five nights outside the village of San Marcos, our own 2 storey cabana with garden, kitchen, hammocks and balcony. It was about €48 a night (not too much but still significantly above our usual budget). The plan was to shop at the market and cook up our own meals, jump in the lake and maybe do some yoga. This area is very New Age with meditation, yoga, spiritual healing and all sorts of things. But unfortunately, for most of our stay, I neednt to be in close proximity to a loo and for a few days, I could barely get out of the hammock. But there could be worse places to rest and recuperate than Maya Moon, the name of our accomodation. It wasn’t really like being in Guatemala at all. It was run by a British couple, the bar people were American and it attracted lots of expats so english language ruled supreme. I existed for a few days on black tea and dry toast …like the Lough Derg pilgrimage rations. But swaying in a hammock watching the lake change colour and the mist roll over the mountains with the lapping of lake water and the sound of the boats moving back and forth was so soothing. The light on the water was ever-changing and mesmerising. . Most nights, thunder rumbled in the distance and lightening moved in sheets across the sky usually without rain. At night, there were clouds and moonlight and a necklace of lights joined villages and lit up single houses dotted up the mountainsides. All building is done by hand and building materials must be hauled up the mountainsides on the people’s backs so each light on the slope represented incredible human toil.

But we were sharing this paradise. Bright yellow butterflies fluttered over the plants, a hummingbird visited our balcony, a large lizard flicked his tongue in the bushes. Thats the good bit….. there were giant spiders crawling across the bedroom walls, slugs in the bathroom and one night, a scorpian walked across the bathroom mirror while I was brushing my teeth🙄which, I must admit, freaked me out a bit.

We walked from our cabins to the next village called Tzunzuna which translates from Mayan as the Hummingbird of the Water.…such an appealing poetic name for a little village that was quite dirty with rubbish strewn about and poor houses. But Guatemala is a country without even a postal service, so refuse collection is certainly not available. We climbed up through the village until we came to a worn sign The Old Goat, Irish Bar…..nothing was more unlikely. We opened a gate, walked past a sign that there were eggs for sale (in Spanish) …it looked like a farm but we kept going up some more stairs and at the top, the Irish flag was flying and the views were amazing. It was more a restaurant than a pub but the guy behind the bar told us that the owner was Irish but that he was on holidays in Columbia. The Irish get everywhere.

So now that I’m feeling better, we are getting ready to move north. Caoimhin also had a dose but much milder than mine. He claims that drinking rum is both a prevention and a cure so maybe I should develop a taste for rum?

Until next time, thanks for reading😎