This is your stomach speaking, we will be experiencing some slight turbulence...

For the past few weeks the state of my stomach has ranged from “experiencing some slight turbulence” to “a raging inferno where the forces of good and evil seek mutual annihilation.”  I hope I’m now emerging from that storm and returning to the land of regularity.  But, in two weeks I’ve learned not to let my hopes get too high.

True today my digestive system is working like… well like a system should, but it’s taken so long to get to this point and I’m not really sure what cured me.  I’ve tried a variety of treatments from “ignore it ‘til it goes away” to high-powered antibiotics to Mayan natural medicine remedies to fasting and still I couldn’t string three days of normalcy together.

Part of the way I dealt with my mutinous stomach was simply to avoid letting it get in my way. I managed not to miss any class because of my troubles and I even did a full moon climb to the top of Volcán Santa Maria Friday.  Doing a moonlight hike is hard enough because generally at 4 a.m. one would be sleeping rather than climbing a 12,380-foot volcano, but add to that the fact that I had only eaten one meal all day and hadn’t been able to hold it down and that makes for a challenging hike.

The thought in the back of head that was further egging me one was that the last time I wanted to do the full moon hike up Santa Maria I had also been plighted with diarrhea and that time I let my stomach get the best of me.  I didn’t want to let that happen again.  So after a day characterized by sleep punctuated only by trips to the baño, I joined the group headed to the volcano that towers over Xela.

We bused to the base of the mountain and at 1 a.m. began our ascent.  Juan and Rudy our guides told us that we would take the climb slowly and take plenty of breaks but in my state I felt like I was pushing myself to the breaking point of my endurance until the sweet respites would could when I could throw my weary malnourished sweat-drenched body down on the side of the mountain and let my heaving lungs try to suck in enough thin mountain air to appease my thumping heart.

Anyhow, dramatics aside, I made it to the top with the rest of the group.  It was 5 a.m. so we had to wait an hour in the cold, cold wind before the sun finally got its lazy ass up.  Five of us huddled together under blankets to fight the cold.  I fell asleep and when I awoke it was light out.  I feared I had missed the sunrise but, as it turned out, it was so cloudy that morning that there had been no sunrise to miss.

Clouds.  All of our horizons were blanketed with that white fluffy stuff.  We looked to the north were Santiaguito, the fiery little counterpart to the sleeping bigger brother, should have been spitting up bright lava and saw only cumulous.  We looked to the east where we should have been able to see morning sun dancing off Lago Atitlán but to no avail.  To the south we might have seen all of Xela stretching out below us.  When we looked to the west we received our slight consolation: Volcán Tajamulco peaking out above the clouds.

We cheered ourselves up by drinking hot chocolate, playing hacky sack and admiring the clouds, which, although they were blocking anything else we might have seen, were beautiful in their own right.

On the way down we encountered a flood of indigenous people headed up the mountain.  Some were in the midst of chanting spirituals other were sprinting up in athletic garb.  Counterintuitive as it might seem, climbing down the volcano was in some ways harder than climbing up because our legs were starting to suffer from the wear and tear even if our lungs were having an easier time.

It was noon before we finally returned to Xela and I was so hungry and I didn’t even worry about my stomach issues but instead devoured my lunch of gravy, beef and tamales ravenously.  Maybe the time when the will to satiate petty hunger is greater than the will to avoid gastronomical disaster is the very time when diarrhea finally has been defeated, because I feel that my body was so starved for nourishment Saturday that my stomach just had to cooperate.  And cooperate it has.  I hope it continues.

Taking the chicken bus to paradise

What is a chicken bus you ask?  Is it a whimsical vehicle operated and patronized by poultry?  Not quite.  The chicken bus is what locals semi-affectionately refer to the public transportation in Guatemala.  The name comes from the fact that locals often bring just about anything on the buses to sell at the markets, including chickens. Monday afternoon I took my first stab at taking a chicken bus in order to meet up with my parents in Panajachel and my premonitions of adventures were not proved false.

The refurbished school buses that make up the chicken bus fleets were imported from the states.  Some still bear the markings of the school district from which they came.  Although even cash-strapped school districts deemed these jalopies unworthy, here in Guatemala painting on some flames and racing stripes can compensate for any sense of inadequacy.  Actually, it seems most cars on the road here made some sort of deal with the robot devil to avoid the trash heap and keep sucking up sweet petrol and spitting out increasingly noxious fumes.

I didn’t actually know what I was doing when I tried to catch the one o’clock bus to Pana, but I heard buses pick up on the corner of Avenida 19 and 7a Calle in Zone 3 so I wandered around this general area like a beheaded chicken.  I heard there were direct buses to Pana but I wasn’t seeing any Pana-bound buses.  Luckily, if you look confused enough, one of the ticket salesmen will eventually come up to you and ask you were you want to go.  The guy who came up to me had gold teeth and his red T-shirt bore slogans in English promoting reading books although as far as I could tell this guy spoke no English.  He said if I got on his Guate-bound bus he would drop me off at the crossroads for a connecting bus to Pana.  I was sick of waiting so I took up his offer and stepped on the bus.

No, I did not actually see any chickens on the bus, but I did see people of all shapes and sizes.  There were respectable looking men in business-casual and shady characters wearing the clothes they slept in, farmers with cowboy hats and teenagers wearing the latest American fashions of 1995.  I—the lone gringo on the bus—meekly found a spot next to a mother in indigenous dress holding a sleeping child.

The bus headed north out of Xela.  The interesting thing about chicken buses is that although they are the largest vehicles on the road, they also drive the fastest while simultaneously making frequent stops and taking in and ejecting large quantities of bodies.  However, I must warn you that the idea of “fast” progress on a Guatemalan road, especially with a chicken bus, is very different.  For a number of reasons it just takes longer to get places.  For one, the roads are very windy since they often weave through the mountains.  Moreover, the highways are littered with speed bumps because apparently this is seen as the only way to ensure that pedestrians will be able to cross them.  A section of the highway near Xela is under construction right now further contributing to sluggish progress.  And finally a chicken bus is always trying to pick up more passengers so they will slow down and honk their horns and yell at pedestrians trying to seduce more customers or just park it in a busy town and wait for the seats to fill up.

Nonetheless, we were making somewhat steady progress out of Xela until we reached a place called the Cuatro Caminos, where Highway 1 out of Xela intersects with the Inter-American Highway.  Turn left and head toward Huehuetenango and Mexico or turn right and head toward Guate (Guatemala City).  The fourth path, which basically no one ever takes, is continuing on Highway 1 east toward Totonicapán.  Our bus waited at a stop light for ten minutes and then waited for no apparent reason on the side of the road.  Cuatro Caminos is lined with numerous vendors and strewn with pedestrians.  And endless stream of vendors entered the bus from the front offering newspapers, tortillas, bananas, French fries, empanadas, water, soft drinks and get-rich schemes.  They entered the front of the bus and continued right out the back down which was opened for them in a continuous stream.

A few beggars also entered the bus.  One woman had a bandage covering the right side of face and had a muffled voice like the grownups in Charlie Brown.  I couldn’t understand her words but she pulled up her bandage to expose a vacant hole in her face where her right eye and cheek would be and I understood well enough want she was trying to communicate and reached in my pocket for some change.  I was glad when the bus finally accelerated out of the commotion of Cuatro Caminos.

After that we had smooth sailing more or less.  The mother next to me started breast-feeding her baby whose thirst for milk seemed unquenchable, but breast-feeding in public isn’t uncommon in Guatemala and by now I am used to that.  Of course, the chicken bus passed slower vehicles on curvy roads with little visibility, but that is just living up to their reputation.  I drifted off and next thing I knew the ticket-guy was tapping my knee to met me know we had reached my stop—Los Encuentros—that is, the place where the road heading south to Pana intersects with the Inter-American Highway.  I hopped on another chicken bus, which took me to Sololá.  The passengers of this bus included more foreigners.  There were three bohemian-types with instruments sitting in the back and a few backpackers too.  It was a short ride to Sololá where I switched to a Pana-bound bus.

We snaked deeper into the mountains and soon below loomed Lago Atitlan, its waves lapping up against towering volcanoes on all sides.  It was about 3:30 p.m. when the bus dropped me off in the north part of Pana; I had made it to Pana in less than two and a half hours.  On the down side, I could not see the lake so I set to walking.  After thirty minutes I finally reached the shore.  The vibrant afternoon sun beat down on the rippling surface of the youthful-ancient face of the lake.  Beneath my sunglasses I joyfully stared dead into the sun.

Only minutes after I reached the shore, my parents pulled up to in a yacht and we had our hallmark reunion after I extricated myself from a persistent nut-peddler blocking my path.  My parents were with their tour group so we followed the turista herd around the town for a while before we worked up the courage to break free.

Sadly, my parents had given up the will to even try to speak Spanish and had resorted to approaching savvy-looking Guatemalans and speaking very crisp English, hoping if they said their words slowly enough the confused strangers would somehow understand.  Essentially, if they strayed from tourist-friendly zones they were helpless.  I did my best to be their translator, helping them haggle down the price of a hammock to 230 quetzales (still not a great price).

My mom seemed very excited to be a country where she did not have to be the authority telling me not to consume alcohol and she even suggested we split a bottle of wine.  At 5:30 p.m. we took a cruise back to their hotel in Santa Catarina.  From the roof of the boat we watched the sun fade behind some bulky clouds low on the western horizon and filter out through gaps.  It was picturesque and many pictures we did take.

At the hotel we had the chance to catch up and also exchanged presents.  I gave them some trinkets I had accumulated during my travels and they gave me a care package including tennis shoes filled with candy bars.

As if things couldn’t get any better after taking a sunset cruise on one of the beautiful lakes in the world and receiving a care package of American goodies, I even scored a free dinner thanks to a tour group member who had succumbed to stomach ailments.

I awoke at 5:15 the following morning to catch the chicken bus back to Xela, hopefully in time for my 9 o’clock class.  My mom called the hotel in Santa Catarina "paradise" and it was a bit sad leaving “paradise” but looking back I’m glad that in less 24 hours I had survived the chicken bus twice, reunited with my parents, and also got a brief taste of beautiful Lago Atitlan.