In travel there is a persistent dichotomy between a country's government and their physical nature, with often a strong narrative element--quixotic, cautionary, satirical-- between the two. It seems as if the greater the country's provisional shortcomings, the greater its ecological beauty. Perhaps we can blame this on the rape and pillage by the First World.
Beauty and cruelty are subjective terms, but it's hard to deny Guatemala's radiance and violent vigilantism. The difference between the ramped criminality and the breathtaking people, ocean and sun reminded me of the overlapping weights of the world.
Though sunup highlights a softer side, I have a proverbial preference for twilight. It is during this time of limbo that I suffer from a somewhat crippling introspectiveness(?). That said, watching the sunset over a chain of Guatemalan volcanoes was the greatest moment of my life.
But who cares?
When we reached Guatemala, I thought,"Whoa, we've come full circle. Back to the New World! Ho ho ho!" We were so close to the Bahamas, our starting point, I could practically smell the conch shell salad, the rum-drunk pre-teens, the perfectly thonged asses.
Colin and I lucked out and nagged the front seat of the van. I sat between him and our driver, straddling the stick shift. We stayed at 90 mph the entire hour it took to drive to Antigua. The drive was a great way to see the countryside of the highlands, the horses, the fauna and the mangrove forests. We weaved between the colorfully modified American school buses, also known as chicken buses. For whatever reason, Colin and I were exceptionally talkative.
In Antigua, we ate huevos rancheros and drank café con leche and watched a young Guatemalan woman paint a mural on the restaurant’s wall. What a life, I thought, to paint and listen to music and drink Guatemalan coffee all day. What an absolute desirable bohemian existence.
As others shoved fifths of Jose Quervo into their backpacks, Colin and I wandered the charming colonial streets, admiring the landscape. The buildings are painted my favorite shades of blues and yellows. I peeled off a paint chip and put it in my pocket for safe keeping, a good luck charm.
Then I scribbled my initials on the release form that the boys at OX gave me in order to indemnify themselves against any personal injuries that I might incur during the hike. Our tour guides were three grizzly American expats. (One of them hailing from Alabama via Portland--small world!)
They knew the names of the children who greeted us at the base of the volcano. The children were some tiny babes. They laughed. But collecting walking sticks to sell to tourists instead of attending school is sad. I had a hard time returning their enthusiasm.
The hike was through a forest trail. We set up camp just before the sun began to set. The girls let the boys pitch the tents.We poured the wine into the tin cups and said goodbye to the sun. We could see volcanoes from every direction in the dim light. We were told a man once fell through the shifting rocks, succumbed by the lava. We talked about what that would be like. I thought about the playground game, Lava Monster. My main goal here is not to die, I thought. The heat will melt your brain. Are we on the moon, I thought. The gravel shifted beneath our feet with every step we took and the hot rocks stole the soles of our shoes.
We roasted marshmallows over the river of lava, as chunks shot out of the mouth and burned our pants. Everyone just stood, shell shocked, starring at the lava: I. AM. MAN.
“This is some real-ass shit,” Some girl kept saying. I wanted to know what she meant by "some real-ass shit.” How "gangster" of us to climb a volcano....
Back at the campsite, we could see the lights of Guatemala City. The arid land cityscape reminded me of one of those meaningless drives through the chaparral hills of Redlands, when I was bored and upset by my seemingly stagnate life. Central America holds some native mystique, but my initial idea of Guatemalan peyote yielded reluctantly to a box of warm red wine and vicarious hallucinations.
Sitting in the gravel, starring at the night valley did a number on my neurotransmitters. It was an almost alien experience, an existential moment without parallel and one that I will never get back. I got no sleep that night but somehow woke up very early again the next morning for a sunrise hike that kicked my butt into creamed corn mush.
It rained that day in Antigua. I debated whether or not to buy a poncho. Colin and I took an expensive cab back to the port for a change of clothes. I referred to this as a “$60 shower.” We fell asleep in the cab, drool down our respective chins, and woke up to more rain clouds. We returned to Antigua.We skipped through puddles and watched the thunderstorm. We drank “Cuban Missile Crisis” shots. I laughed a lot. I danced at a bar. I was elated.
I woke up more confused (and bare) than ever. There were slight flashbacks to a couple arched wooden doorways, a scraped knee on the cobblestone, and the backseat of a police car. I once read that a true philosopher doesn’t separate himself from life, but places himself in it. I was happy and confused, but more so confused by my happiness . I tried to glue together the pieces but they were as flaky as the blue and yellow paint chips in the pocket of my dress, which was mysteriously laying wet on the floor.
Sitting in the backseat of the van, drowning in the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol, we kissed Guatemala goodbye as we drove to port. And then I sat on the deck of the ship as we departed to sea. Antigua and the mountains faded into the twilight. That’s when I realized, for whatever reason, this, yes, this was the greatest moment of my life.
But I don’t care…
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