The ‘by the water’ theme kicks in a few hours west of Antigua at beautiful Lake Atitlan in the Central Highlands. Atitlan is a deep 100 sq km volcanic crater full of water, surrounded by other active and inactive volcanoes. The setting is low key and spectacular. The towns and villages around the lake are connected by small high speed collectivo boats (buses). Avoiding the clubby festive spirit of many of the towns, we’ve booked for one week into a self catering bungalow up a hill behind the least inhabited village we could find; Santa Cruz. Dubbed Armand’s place, (the offsite manager is my namesake) the gardener is a very friendly middle aged guy called Lucas. He meets us at the jetty and carries our two heavy bags – one on his head – up the dirt track to a spacious, colourful, mural festooned concrete bungalow.with a west facing terrace and an attractive garden with a partial view of the lake. There’s a big kitchen diner with an electric juicer, a revelation for me. I’ve used these things for soups but never for fruit smoothies. We stock up on bananas, melons, citrus fruits, mangoes and apples. A whizz of these with the optional addition of honey and vodka is bliss. Jo is blissed out by the washing machine.
We drag a single bed, covered by a multicoloured Guatemalan throw onto the spacious veranda for a makeshift lounger. There’s a hammock. Further up the hill in Santa Cruz village, on Wednesdays and Saturdays is a farmer’s market. Lucas proudly shows me his profusely stocked herb garden. We can swim off one of the jetties down at the lake. The weather is a wonderful 27°C with occasional cloud cover. The Airbnb details stated ‘no wifi’, so we were expecting to do without. But the Wi-Fi is excellent. We could stay here all winter.
We climb the steep hill on Wednesday morning and buy lots of eggs, fruit and veg and half a chicken from the colourful Mayan village market
The following day, I find a couple of bamboo sticks suitable for warding off stray dogs and we walk six miles through the hills along the shoreline to the popular village of San Marcos. This beautiful, uncomplicated and safe walk can cost $100 with a barefoot guide from San Marcos (I’ve seen him, shoeless and eco cool). There’s some gentle climbing involved which leaves me very short of breath. I recover pretty quickly but this doesn’t feel great. Some explanations are; the altitude of 1,500 metres, my recent gastrobug and the possible lingering effects of pneumonia last summer. We plan to climb volcano Acatenango which is 4,000 metres above sea level but I don’t feel that I’m ready for that. Jo says more training is required.
The coastal path route is, for long stretches, an idyllic ramble through a landscape redolent of Greece or the Italian Mediterranean, presenting, as we summit a rise or round a headland every few hundred metres, a fresh outlook over lake Atitlan and the soaring volcanoes beyond it. It’s mostly fir trees and scrubland, soft underfoot when not rocky, with lots of birds, brown squirrels and reptiles. There are villas, some of them very grand, going up at a frantic pace. But all of the most majestic sites, on a headland or on a west facing plateau on a cove, have been taken. Won’t stop ‘em building though, not until the goose has been undeniably killed.
The boho-chic vibe in San Marcos is new age catwalk, but favourably, the presence of so many cool dudes and chicks sustains a quality French style boulangerie. We buy croissants and a very fresh baguette. We walk down what Jo calls Shopping Street with its array of tattooists, vegan restaurants, boutiques and dreamcatcher outlets. The cool chicks look inscrutable, narcissistic and haughty – the so-called ‘bitch face’ look is in at the moment. Look at billboards and none of the models are smiling. I find them a bit unnerving, unlikely to engage in a pleasant chat, more likely one with angsty undertones. They don’t smile, clearly not really enjoying themselves, concentrating hard to maintain their image, afraid of dropping their guard. I pity the dudes.
I have a ten day beard stubble and I’ve bought a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses for a dollar. Firing up the cigar on the veranda I could pass as an honorary gringo member of the Guatemalan People’s Revolutionary Front. Not to be confused with those corrupt bastards, The Guatemalan Popular Liberation Front.
It’s a nine hour bus ride from lake Atitlan to our next watery destination, Semuc Champey, next to the river Cahabon. Nine hours, the duration of a long haul flight, seems onerous, but there’s plenty to see. We’re still in the Highlands and the road dips, climbs and hairpins through the mountains, which despite the challenges of the terrain is richly agricultural. A diverse mix of the Maya peoples live here, each with their own language and traditions, Spanish, if spoken at all, has been relegated to a second language. Their ancient history is tragic, as is their modern one. The 36 year long Guatemalan Civil War from 1960 to 1996 left more than 200,000 people dead, half a million driven from their homes, and at least 100,000 women raped, and most of these victims were Maya.
The following day, it’s very hot, we’re lying in the shade of a massive tree on the bank of the river Cahabon watching kingfishers, when my daughter Phoebe phones me to tell me that she’s about to appear and sing on a local Sussex radio show in the UK. She has a fabulous voice, but tonight she’s going to be subjected to the unnerving experience of a conversation with the DJ, Ben Featherstone. I’m tuned in for the intro. Ben, who has a slightly eccentric style, quickly puts her at ease and it’s a relaxed, funny and very entertaining forty minutes.
Accompanied by Tom on guitar, she sings Black Horse and the Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall and Heart Like a Truck by Lainey Wilson. Given where we are, it’s a slightly surreal experience. Her voice has matured in the last few years, she sings with emotion and feeling, her pitch is exquisite, she rasps and squeals beautifully.
I send in an email and get a shout out, ‘Armand in Guatemala has requested Get Up Stand Up by Bob Marley.’ ‘Hey, that’s my Dad, he’s in Guatemala.’ says Phoebe. ‘Hey Dad’ says Ben, ‘Armand Wadsworth is not a name. Arnand in Guatemala sounds so made up. And here’s a message from Seven Brand. Is she a friend of yours? All your friends have names I’ve never heard of. What’s your middle name?’ ‘Rome.’ says Phoebe, ‘Rome? Why have we only picked up on all these weird names with a minute to go.’ They collapse into hysterics.
The next morning we’re in a rickshaw to Semuc Champey; a remarkable natural feature where the Cahabón River rages beneath a natural 300 metre limestone bridge. The bridge is a series of stepped, turquoise pools, also fed by the river. There are lots of Guatemalan families here for the day, splashing in the cool clear water, but most of them can’t swim so we take advantage of the deserted deeper pools and waterways.
We continue north to the island town of Flores on Lake Peten. It’s a tiny island that can be circumnavigated on foot in an hour. Jo goes for a day tour to the Mayan site of Tikal and I take the small ferry boat to San Miguel village and climb a watchtower for a panoramic view of Flores and the lake.
We don’t linger in Flores, we’ve booked a room in a small hotel in the quiet village of San Jose on the more remote north western shore of the lake. We’re the only guests. Next to the hotel, in the high branches of a copse of trees above a small river, live a troop of howler monkeys. They don’t seem to require much territory, they’re hemmed in by shacks. We walk down to the bridge over the river to watch them: they’re large primates with big heads and snouts and a strong prehensile tail, used to remain aloft in the branches, and the noise they make is terrific, more like a Spielberg dinosaur than an ordinary monkey.
We enjoy a peaceful Sunday on a private lakeside beach, costing $3 for the day, swimming, sunbathing and drinking beer and fresh coconut. The lake is almost entirely devoid of traffic and still. It’s a very beautiful day.
We’re close to the Belize border, to the north of which is Mexico. In February, my daughter Hannah, her husband Adam and my granddaughter Edith will be holidaying in the Yucatan resort of Playa Del Carmen. I’m thinking it would be opportune to wander up the coast of Mexico to meet them.
For the next stage of our Central American trip please visit Belize and Mexico.
