Roads

A lot of the roads that we have travelled on have been great.  They’re smooth, scenic, and safe.  A lot of them are not.

If you stop and think for a minute what roads are you can really see the benefit of them.  Without a road, you have to make your way across whatever surface is natural in that area.  Grass, logs, rocks, ditches, mud or whatever.  Roads give you speed.  They make the natural landscape more uniform so that your car can travel smoothly which means that you can go fast.  This seems kind of obvious, but I don’t think I ever really thought too much about roads and their benefits before this trip.  I think about roads a lot more now.  I like smooth roads that you can go fast on.  I like roads that you can trust.

You probably don’t think that you trust roads but you do.  You trust that they won’t suddenly end or that they won’t suddenly present you with an obstacle that might break something on your car or even crash it.  I don’t have as much trust in roads as I used to.  Now I drive cautiously along the road, looking along suspiciously at its expanse as it unfolds itself in front of me.  The road watches me too.  It takes measure of my concentration.  It searches for moments of inattention with devious hope of catching me unaware.  It waits for me to glance at the radio.  It presents a shiny object along its side, an attempt to distract me so that it can reveal a gaping sinkhole or a mountainous, suspension-shocking tope in front of me.  Roads are not to be trusted, my friends, and I hope you’ll remember that should you ever head this way. 

We’ve already lost a shock mount to topes in the past.  Recently, the road hid a steep tope in the shadow of a tree and I slowed, but not enough.  I heard the road chuckle just as I hit the tope, which launched the front of the Rattlevan skyward and back down with a clunk.  We didn’t think any damage was done until the next one.  I rolled over that one slowly, but we felt a nasty clang, pulling over to see a hanging torsion bar beneath the van.  The first tope knocked the bar loose and the second bent the mount.  That lurky road hit me with a double whammy. 

The fix for this one turned out to be mostly painless with the exception of the drunk guy.  I backed the van up into a side road and climbed underneath to remove the torsion bar.  The plan was to get it off so that we could limp along to a shop and get it fixed. 

As I was working on the rusty mounting bolts, a guy with a wheelbarrow kept walking by and pausing with his load by the van.  He was obviously trying to decide if I needed any help but decided each time he passed that, based on the determined clunking and wrenching sounds underneath, I didn’t. 

When I emerged victorious with the offending part, I saw him there waiting and I asked him if he knew of a shop nearby.  Relieved, he finally got to tell me that the shop was right there, not 40 feet from where I struggled underneath the van.  He worked there and each wheelbarrow load past me was going into the shop. 

Beth and I walked into the shop yard with the mangled torsion bar.  It was pretty clear what we needed, so a mechanic grabbed the bar, slung it into a vice and started beating it back into shape.  Meanwhile, a very small and very drunk man struggled up off the shop floor and proceeded to slur at us. 

He was, apparently, hilarious, but my drunk Spanish is no better than my sober Spanish so I could only make out some insults about the gray in my beard and how it meant that I was too old for my young wife.  Then something about how his wife was even younger than  mine (creepily younger actually) and then something further about shrimp and neck ties that didn’t make any sense at all, even for a drunk guy. 

He began to get tiresome, as short very drunk guys do, so we flagged him off, and he resigned himself to thumbing his nose at OSHA and “helping” his mechanic friend with the repair under the jacked-up truck.

The tiny drunk was annoying his mechanic buddy instead of us, which was good, although I don’t think the mechanic was enjoying it (and wouldn’t have called it helping, either).  Fortunately, it was only for a minute or two before the little guy dozed off.  This sped things up a lot and, in no time, the mechanic slid out, woke his boozy and diminutive friend, and charged us about six bucks for the repair.   

 

 

 

Topes are one of the most constant road hazards.  They come in all shapes and sizes and despite my mistrust of the road, the road actually doesn’t create them just to get me.  Some are placed there by a DOT-like body but many are actually created by the people or the townships that live nearby.  Although there are speed limits, there don’t seem to be any penalties for ignoring them, so people pretty much drive whatever speed they like. This is almost uniformly and exclusively limited by topes.  People driving too fast by the front of your shop? No problem, just get out some concrete, invite some friends over, and build yourself a tope.  No more fast drivers in front of your shop.   It works very well.  Even in places where there are no topes, drivers fear them lurking in the shadows and slow down anyway.  The only downside to the whole tope speed-control system is  the roughly $42 trillion in annual costs of fixing and replacing suspensions.   

Another significant road hazard in the mountainous terrain where we’ve been is landslides.  Guatemala is pretty geologically unstable and it doesn’t take a geologist to see that when you get a look at the roads.

This one looks pretty recent but you never know.  We saw some landslides that looked liked they were on someone’s to-do list for long enough to start growing trees.  One particular landslide was so huge, so hard to deal with, that the bypass around it became the new road.  We heard ahead of time that the landslide, years old, had taken out a very large section of road and that there was a bypass traversing private property that everyone used, for a small toll to the landowner.  The warning did not prepare us for what we saw. 

The entire section of rocky hillside you see beyond the vegetation in the foreground is the aftermath of a massive landslide.  The road that you see winding across it is the bypass which is about 400 feet down hill from the former road.  Those are clouds that hang above it and our hearts hung a bit lower than them when we saw the whole thing.  It was scary.  We almost turned back right there.  It was so narrow that vast sections were one way at a time and trucks were cued up awaiting their turn to run the gauntlet.  It seemed as if someone came in, moments after the landslide and just bulldozed a new road, started collecting tolls and called it good.

The toll booth/shack was unoccupied so we crept towards the road.  After we stopped whining and crying and counting the hours that the long way would take, we went for it.  It wasn’t as scary as we thought, actually, and only a few sections seemed like they would give way beneath us.  We found that the steep drop-offs beside the road didn’t seem very bad if you avoided looking at them too much.  Before long, we were off the mess and back to the usual, normally sketchy road. 

Some sections of road that were once speedways and are now holes have been marked so you don’t fall in.  Sometimes this seems to have been done by a road crew and sometimes it’s just a couple of rocks piled up in front of the hazard by helpful citizens. 

I like the warning markings for the particular hazard in this pic. “forward…, forward…, okay, now start veering left to avoid the giant, gaping hole....”

If you look carefully at the pic on the right, you can see that the whole section of roadway is shifted about a foot.  It appeared to be a small fault line that shifted the road down and over.  This was pretty common in one area.  Some of the shifting seemed to be explained by mini slides that took whole sections of earth with them, intact.  Some seemed like classic earthquake fault lines. 

Some of the roads are so steep that the van can barely make it up.  One was so steep that we had to bail out and give up completely on the destination.  The poor rattlevan just didn’t have the power (or a low enough gear) to make it up the hill.  Those same hills on the way down can be pretty nerve wracking and are often so sustained that we have to stop and let the brakes cool several times.  Most of the vehicles that travel these roads are tough Toyota pickup trucks.  Just like ours but unfettered by houses on their backs. 

One road in particular shook me and made me rethink the whole plan of traveling on back roads.  After hours of slowly creeping through pot holes we arrived at a terrifying section of muddy holes.  Fear struck me.  The van has very little clearance and I knew that the holes ahead of me likely would be too much for it even if they were only as deep as I could see, but several of the massive holes were filled with mud, hiding their true depths.  We had trucks behind us and a queue of trucks on the other side of the section. Turning around on the narrow road would have been almost impossible even if we decided to.  We had hours of travel behind us for the day and there was no other way around this without a day and a half of travel.  

It was my turn.  I hesitated long enough for the huge fire truck across the pond to start honking. I’m pretty sure that I translated the honking sounds correctly to “man up gringo, we don’t have all day.”  The only consolation was that we would have plenty of help getting us out if we got stuck. 

We went for it.  We splashed into the first mud hole and the next and banged the bottom and then banged the bumper so hard that it broke completely free.  We made it limping to the other side, where I tied the bumper on the van with rope while a line of trucks looked on and took their turns in the mud.  I really, really want to get more clearance on the van and I really, really hope I never see a section of “road” like that again.    

Jesus Lives in San Pedro

San Pedro de la Laguna lies across Lake Atitlan from Panajachel, where we camped on the lakeshore for about a week.  I made the boat trip to San Pedro twice. Once, I went alone, to hike up to the top of the San Pedro volcano.  (Chuck and Lena sat it out because both had bum knees . . . or so they claimed.)  The view from up there didn't suck.

A few days later, Chuck and I again boated across the lake to spend a day in San Pedro, a large part of which is like a gringo wonderland, a place where narrow alleys are lined by fancy little cafes and restaurants, where Spanish schools run the show and bored twenty-somethings complain loudly about drama within the expat set.  

Gringolicious

But there's another side to San Pedro, a significant one, representing the ongoing clash between the traditional culture of the town -- fun fact: there are three separate languages, in addition to Spanish, spoken in the different villages around the lake -- and the more recent Pentecostal Christian contingent.  

And the Christians of San Pedro have a message (or, ahem, several messages) for you, made possible by the very same marketing methods and painting skill also employed by phone companies and political parties: 

Remember, God Loves You

Phone ad + Jesus

Smile, Jesus Loves You.  (This picture kills me.)

It was really astounding.  Not a wall was left un-Jesus-ed.  And in contrast, in Panajachel the following day, we witnessed the annual movement of the town's idol down the streets.  The guys carrying the idol went at a run, taking the thing around to various homes and businesses.  They were accompanied by drumming, fireworks, and shouting.  At one point, I saw an old woman running barefoot after the idol, shrieking with laughter.  The whole thing looked like a blast.

Before we left San Pedro to head back to the rattlevan, Chuck finally picked a side in the political fight.

And then we boated home again.

But not on this thing.

Next up, maybe: The Gringos Shock Local People by Doing a Thing They Call "Backpacking," and/or a post by Chuck about driving in Guatemala.

Xela (Quetzaltenango)

Ah, Xela, you minx, with your fulfilled promises of expat perfection, of restaurants, and coffeeshops, and Guatemalan hipsters.  Of yoga, even, but also of lively outdoor markets.  Of shopping malls and yet volcanoes, and of friendly cops.  Xela was the first place we've been that I could see myself living permanently (if I could get my Spanish under control).

But before Xela, we had a few days of truly unglamorous travel.  Sometimes, you just need to get from point A to point B, and sometimes, due to the difficulty of finding a propane vendor able to fill your tank, you don't even know where point B is.  We spent nights in Uspantán -- a sketchy little place, at least on Christmas day when the only people around seemed to be staggeringly drunk -- and Huehuetenango sleeping boringly in hotel parking lots for the sake of security.  In Huehue, we walked across the street and had dinner in a bizarre little restaurant tucked behind an enormous casino.  The restaurant was as cheesy as cheese could be, decorated for the holidays with, among other things, a set of Christmas lights that intermittently (and loudly) played Jingle Bells.  The high-pitched tune of the string of lights competed with what we believe was something like "A Very Michael Bolton Christmas" and the sound from a spaghetti western playing on TV.  For atmosphere, the manager had hung a picture of a waterfall over the door, but he didn't know which one it was and admitted the photograph had come with the frame.  We were the only patrons, and so there we sat, eating truly unremarkable food watching the blinking lights of the Christmas decorations as well as the casino across the parking lot.  Glamorous!

And then, finally, we arrived in Xela.  Got our propane on the outskirts of town, got stuck in a tiny cobbled street with a line of 12 or 15 cars honking behind us, and eventually parked in front of a park and, more importantly, the police station.  

Xela is stunning, so we spent that first afternoon just walking around the main park, and the little streets departing from it.

The central park is lush surrounded by beautiful old buildings, including the facade of a church that dates to the sixteenth century.  

Eatin' mandarin oranges from a baggie.

We also spent some time wandering around the excellent cemetery, where we saw two funeral processions: a huge one, with all attendees wearing traditional Mayan garb, and a much smaller procession with Western-styled mourners.  

So thrilled to have his picture taken.

After looking at the above-ground mausoleums, we passed through a gate and up some stairs at the far side of the cemetery, into the poor burial section.  Gone were the cobbled walkways, replaced by worn dirt footpaths.  Also gone were the mausoleums, replaced by bare graves, sometimes marked only by a rock.  Other graves had homemade, handwritten gravestones.  But the graves were still well-decorated, even if the flower pots had been re-purposed from old Orange Crush bottles.  

The rich dead.

The poorer dead.

We stayed a couple of nights in Xela, exploring the town, relaxing, eating things like Indian food, climbing volcano Santa Maria.

For sleeping, we parked right in front of the police station, in front of an open doorway in which stood two or three policemen with shotguns.  When we asked if they thought it would be safe to camp on the street, they looked surprised and said, "Of course it will be.  We're right here, all night.  We'll keep an eye on you."  And so, assured -- and further assured by goodwill we certainly earned when Chuck jumpstarted one of the policeman's personal trucks, parked next to us -- we slept peacefully.

Peacefully, that is, until one night, we awoke to a crash, like an earthquake, but louder.  Sleepy, we couldn't figure out what had happened.  Our first thought was that we had been hit by a car, but we didn't hear any engine noise.  We peeked out.  The cobbled street was totally empty, eerily so.  I may or may not have pictured a gang of killers waiting outside the car to get us.  A few moments later, one of our shotgunned police guards wandered over.  He appeared to be examining our back bumper.  Chuck, braver than I, went out to ask if the cop had seen what happened. (Lena and I may or may not have remained cowering in the van.)  Apparently, someone did hit the van, but, as the cop told Chuck, looking at our bumper -- a bumper already tied on with two types of rope --and probably suppressing a smile, we likely weren't any worse for wear.

Next up, maybe: A Tour of the Rattlevan, or Something About Lake Atitlan.

How the Gringos Ruined Christmas

The sign on the highway leading away from Coban, weather-beaten, promised an eco-lodge of some sort. We were in the market for a place to camp, so we pulled off the paved road and bumped down the dirt road for a kilometer or two past little shacks, chickens, a pig or two tied haphazardly by the side of the road. The road got increasingly worse. But just as we were about to turn around, we glimpsed a giant house on a hill. Peeking into the driveway, we saw a sign for “Parqueo,” or parking. It seemed promising, so we pulled in.

Still unsure, we crept up the wide stone staircase toward the house. A smiling woman called out a greeting and opened the front door. “Is this, like, a hotel?” I asked her. “Yes, welcome!” She replied in almost accent-less English. (Later we learned she is studying to be a legal interpreter.) She introduced us to her father, an architect who had designed and built the house (and apparently created all the artwork hanging inside it) and, later, to the warm, laughing lady of the house and another of her daughters. 

The house was a marvel. We took the top floor and its views, splurging for a night out of the rattlevan. And we were so thrilled with the house, its hardwood floors, its tiled kitchen, its lofted ceilings, its fireplace, the warmth and modernity of it all compared to the rustic places we’d been more recently, that we sort of forgot until later that it was Christmas Eve (not normally a big deal for us). And that we were staying in someone’s house, essentially uninvited.

By the time we realized the somewhat bizarre timing of our stay, we had seen the family drive away in a jeep. I worried about interrupting a family holiday but, from our attic abode, Chuck assured me that he hadn’t even seen Christmas decorations or anything. “I think they’re really more like hippies,” he said. “Not religious.” And I basically agreed. I’m notoriously unobservant, but I thought even I would have noticed any obvious Christmas paraphernalia. 

We settled in, opening some wine and enjoying the view and ourselves. But then I went downstairs on to grab something from the van. And as I tiptoed onto the darkened main floor, what did I see? Christmas tree. Presents wrapped under it. And worse, much worse: Since we had arrived, someone had laid out the makings of a party. Place settings. Cookies. Black beans with dippers. Glasses, and coffee mugs in rows. There were party favors, and games laid out. It looked like they were expecting about 12. 

Horror. Here are these nice people, about to have their family over for Christmas, to open gifts like normal people, and these damn hobos drive up in a muddy decrepit van and move into the attic. Stupid heathen gringos. And they were so polite, and so welcoming, and then this party . . . It was almost unbearably awkward. I wanted to get in the van and just leave. Instead, I ran back upstairs and shared the embarrassing news.  We hunkered down.

Not too much later, we heard the car come back. “Oh god,” Chuck whispered. “What if they think they have to invite us to their family gathering?” We looked at each other in dismay. “Let’s pretend to be asleep,” I suggested, only half-joking. Instead, were merely stayed upstairs. The party was swinging, late into the night. At some point, someone called up the stairs to us, but we were in the shower and could barely hear what was said. Eventually, we fell asleep, and the party ended.

By the next morning, we thought we had successfully avoided crashing a private family holiday. But it was Christmas day, after all, and the gifts still hadn’t been opened, so we determined to leave immediately after breakfast (included in the price of the hostel). We made ourselves coffee, and when our hostess/interpreter came down to offer breakfast, we accepted, thinking we’d grab a bite and be on our way before further Christmas festivities occurred. But then others arrived, by car, and the table was set once again for 10. Chuck and I exchanged looks. We had missed our chance! Now we were crashing the family Christmas breakfast! The horror!

I copied this picture from the internet.

Of course, it turned out to be fine -- more than fine, actually an enormously fun breakfast, full of conversation and laughter and jokes, of wonderful traditional tamales, and better hot chocolate. We got advice on further travels.  The baby was cute, our hosts could not have been more welcoming, and it turned out to be low-key, relaxed celebration. And in the end, we still managed to get ourselves out of their hair before they started opening presents.  

Making Lena do hard stuff

The hike we took Lena on today had a bunch of bridges with, shall we say, questionable engineering.  They were mostly fine really, but Lena didn't think so.  Actually she didn't mind them at first, but she slipped through and Bambi-ed one time, spooking herself.  Each bridge after that was scarier (and funnier).

It's entertaining to make Lena do hard stuff.  I feel bad for laughing at her struggles but it really is good for her to be challenged (yes Mom, it is).  Besides, the concentration on her face when she passes at 20 seconds is priceless.

Partido Patriota

Way beyond just letting a politician put a cardboard sign in your front yard.

Plus, that fist!  

The blender and stove parts store

We needed a part for Beth's blender and I had planned a field fix that would have been less than ideal. Then I stumbled upon this shop in Xela. In Central America and most other "uncivilized"  places, instead of throwing things away when you break them, you fix them. That means that there are stores with parts for most things. This particular tienda had propane parts of all sorts and enough blender parts to build one from scratch. Not just parts for the high-end blenders either. Parts for our cheapo were here too. Getting this part in the US would have been much more difficult than strolling into a shop on your way to get coffee and internet.

Check out this fine selection of propane accessories! You can pretty much build or repair any kind of cooker, heater, burner, or fire art project that you want at this shop.

You can get all these parts online, of course, but nothing beats shopping for a replacement part with the old broken one in your hand.  Or being able to fudge various parts together to do that thing that you're not supposed to do and isn't in the book.