30 January 2010 - Loopy borders and impossible conversations

It was difficult to tear ourselves away from the beach, but after three nights the road was calling again. A taxi, three buses and an overnight stay later we found ourselves in the mountain town of San Cristobal de las Casas, probably the best example of a Mexican town handling the tourist trade well. Although there are lots of bars, restaurants and local handicraft shops (and a large local artisan's market) the town maintains a distinct local character, helped out by the fact that some Mexicans visit as tourists, not only foreigners. We spent some time exploring the markets, looking in churches and generally breathing in the local atmosphere. The local markets here are on to a winner selling hats, socks, mittens and jumpers to tourists who, having come from warmer climes, are unprepared for the distinctly chilly evenings. Having been in Canada not too long ago the frigid mountain air still felt positively balmy to us - I didn't even need my thermals.

On our final day in San Cristobal we took a tour of the unique indigenous Mayan village of San Juan Chamula. In order to get there we first took a ride in a purple VW beetle (with classic 80's rock pumping on the stereo) and then met our guide, 16 year old Juan, and our trusty steeds for the day - two fairly tired looking horses. This was my first ever riding experience and it wasn't exactly problem free. Namely:

• Wooden saddles are very unforgiving indeed;
• The old problem of being tall in Mexico arose again as both Lisa and I had our feet grazing the ground (and various rocks and bushes) on uphill sections;
• Lisa's horse, Colorado, was not particularly responsive to instructions, frequently getting a little up close and personal with the other horses;
• The sun in the mountains is deceptively strong - I ended up a less than delicate shade of pink.

The town itself was interesting - the locals beliefs blend Mayan and Catholic traditions meaning that although the church looks quite ordinary from the outside, inside the floor is covered with green palm fronds and people sacrifice chickens and drink soft drinks in order to burp and release evil spirits. But, as ever with indigenous villages, visiting was not without its problems. Most unfortunate was the feeling of tourists looking at the locals as if it were a zoo - turning up to see the local dress and rituals for the afternoon before heading back to their hotels. The locals seemed to bear this as a necessary evil (as tourists bring much needed cash) but with an understandable lack of pleasure. After whipping round the town for an hour it was back on our horses (including a short ill advised gallop), back in the beetle (more rock classics) and back to the hostel to wile away the rest of the afternoon talking to our parents (Skype really is excellent) and making plans for the trip ahead.

Bright and early the next morning, we boarded our minibus for the Guatemalan border and the next stage of our adventure. If the journey to the border was uneventful, the trip from there onwards was anything but. As we approached the border, the roads were suddenly thick with people and lined with market stalls. We disembarked from our minibus and walked the last few hundred metres in order to cross over in to Guatemala on foot. Unfortunately, our bus driver who was supposed to guide us to the border did not show any consideration for his passengers being laden with large backpacks and went dancing off into the hubbub at speed. In trying to keep pace with him, Lisa, unsighted by backpacks and the crowd, rolled her ankle, managing to grab our fleeing guide in order to break her fall. She hobbled on and we made it to the passport check point in one piece.

My perception of international borders has always been much the same: sterile places with heavy official presences that one just tries to get through with (hopefully) the minimum of fuss. It's safe to say that the border at La Mesilla defied this stereotype. Whilst we waited to have our passports stamped, locals merrily walked backwards and forwards past the barriers without showing any paperwork. People were literally going to Guatemala for a taco and then back to Mexico for an ice cream. It was excellent.

When we finally got moving again (our bus waited for an hour or so for other passengers) we were suddenly plunged into stunning scenery - the road weaved through valleys flanked on either side by unfeasibly steep mountainsides covered in lush green forest. It was exactly as I'd imagined Central America in my mind's eye. After a few more hours of traveling, we rounded a turn in the road and got our first glimpse of our destination - Lago di Atatlan. The lake is located high up in the mountains and on one side is bordered by two impressive volcanoes - it was quite a sight.

Our first night at the lake was spent in Panajachel, a very touristy, but very fun little town. We had arrived on the bus with a British chap called Mike who we went for beer and dinner with that evening. The latter consisted of sitting around a small street stall whose name translated as 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.' This was quite literally the case as we sat around a charcoal grill as two women prepared sausages, chorizo, chicken and pork. Served up with guacamole, tortillas and a carrot side dish (all for the princely sum of 1 pound 50) it was delicious. However, the best part about dinner was listening to Mike conversing (in his fluent Spanish) to the ladies working at the grill and the chap sitting next to us. Lisa was able to follow the conversation and pitch in, but for me it was a case of grabbing what snippets I could understand. The experience only intensified my desire to learn at least some Spanish.

This feeling was multiplied the following morning. Having taken a boat across the lake to the small village of San Marcos La Laguna, Lisa went to look for somewhere to stay whilst I waited with the bags close to the docks. Almost as soon as Lisa was out of sight I was approached by two young girls (who I later learnt to be 12 and 14). They didn't want me to buy anything or to give them money - it was much worse than that - they wanted to chat. The conversation was difficult to say the least (my Spanish vocabulary being limited to around 50 words) but we muddled along somehow helped in no small part by Antonia's (the younger of the two girls) tendency to happily monologue for five or ten minutes at a time. Rarely have I been as relieved as when Lisa arrived back.

We checked into our hotel (a very funky affair - all new age chic and stained glass) and set about relaxing and enjoying the lake - first off though we thought we would explore the village. It was here, more than anywhere else, that the contradiction of the place struck us. On the lake shore were a number of small hotels and hostels similar to ours along with other new age style places offering alternative therapies, meditation, massage and month long spiritual discovery retreats running in time with the lunar cycle. Alongside all of this was an ordinary Guatemalan village complete with avocado trees, coffee bushes and a dusty football field. The locals seemed to view the tourists with a kind of weariness (almost all of the businesses were owned by westerners) as they saw other people coming to their town and making all of the money whilst the best that they could hope for were a few fringe benefits (increased sales on fruit stalls, a job at one of the hotels). This gave the place a feeling of unreality and not necessarily a pleasant one.

It was good therefore to see a local woman castigating one of the western travelers for making an inordinate amount of noise one evening down on the beach. The locals, it seemed, would put up with a certain amount of odd behaviour from visitors, but they had their limits. As for us, we just did our best to enjoy the place (and made a pretty good fist of it) spending our days swinging in hammocks, listening to music and swimming in the lake. From here we leave for Antigua, our base for three weeks of intensive Spanish study - hopefully on my next encounter with a Spanish speaking twelve year old I won't feel such a half-wit.