| General Fiction posted January 11, 2017 | Chapters: |
...7 8 -9- 10... 
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La Antigua Guatemala
A chapter in the book A Tale of Yucatan
A Tale of Yucatan - Part 9
by tfawcus
| Background A turn-of-the-century travelogue. 19 days on the Yucatan Peninsula. |
I have walked Antigua from one end to the other, from one side to the other, along its cobbled streets and high narrow pavements. The journey in each direction takes less than half an hour, even when time is taken to loiter in open doorways and glimpse the sun-drenched courtyard gardens hidden behind each wall.
We are lodged at the Hotel del Carmen, two blocks back from the street sellers and shoe-shine boys of the city's bustling Central Park. The guidebook tells me that the famous fountain there was built in 1738 and I wonder ... has anything been built since that time in this most special of places?
Founded in the sixteenth century, the most Noble and Loyal City of St James of the Knights of Guatemala was the seat of government. Then in 1773 a great earthquake caused the capital to be transferred to the ugly sprawling metropolis of Guatemala City. With funding and power removed, La Antigua Guatemala was soon forgotten and became locked in a time warp, 5000 feet up on a small plateau, ringed by towering volcanoes and protected by its isolation. I have seen nowhere even remotely like it anywhere else in the world.
Like most cities, it is best seen at dawn, when zephyr breezes begin to wash away the silence of the night. I hear a thin metallic chime of a distant bell strike five. Cocks crow, one to another across the valley. There is just enough light to see the whiteness of the page, the black marks being made upon it, but not to distinguish the individual words of the song. So it is with the town, from the edge of this rooftop garden. To the southwest, a stone's throw away, there stands the bare silhouette of the Catedral de Santiago, lit yellow by street lamps. Behind and to its left loom the shadowy slopes of Volcán Agua, towering ten thousand feet and more; silent sentinel of the south. This one is a tame giant, its fires quenched by a dark and subterranean lake. Farther to the west there are two more distant peaks; below them lie thin wisps of grey mantilla lace, a swirl of morning mist. A thin dark sulphurous plume rises from the left, more distant peak. Sometimes it is said that at night the jagged cone of this one, Volcán Pacaya, glows red in the dark - but it is far enough away and does not threaten the city or its people.
A veil shrouds the silvered gibbous moon as the first blue-grey light of dawn brings meaning to my page. A black cat scampers along the rooftop tiles, too busy to bother with a lone stranger invading her domain. Behind me there is a sudden crackle of fireworks; a second volley, more distant, answers from the west. It is Saturday morning. Do they salute the dawn? Or are there revellers still at large in this awakening town?
Now, at 5.25, the twilight magic strengthens. There is the first rumble and clatter of morning traffic on the cobblestones. On my right, rises the solid rectangular shape of the roofless Iglesia El Carmen. The medieval tiles of the three or four low pitched roofs intervene. Six round windows spaced evenly high up in a nave wall now frame the speckled pink of dawn. Four ornate columns decked with ferns and moss define this church's entrance on the eastern street. Behind, below its outline and to the left, the shadows of two palms stand side by side. Beyond, directly to the north, a low tree covered hill defines the city boundary. Near its top a cleared patch of green field, perhaps a hundred yards across and fronted by a low stone wall, has at its upper end the massive outline of a wooden cross which guards this sleeping city. Among the lichen covered terra cotta tiles, here and there above chimneys there rise small square cupolas, whitewashed and domed.
The hour of six chimes thinly from the ochre tower of Iglesia de Santo Domingo, echoing across the valley, soon to be answered by a clatter of bells from the opposite, south-eastern corner of the town. Now the lone angelus. Iglesia de Santa Lucia is calling its faithful to prayer.
Below me a courtyard garden wall supports vivid sprays of bougainvillea and spindly bushes covered with jaundiced limes. The first rays of sun touch the garden in which I stand, with its borders of iris, rose and fuchsia, its ragged splashes of plumbago blue and oleander pink; its geranium and fuchsia in painted pots. The sky behind the main plaza is silver now between the volcanoes. Volcán Pacaya sends up a small black mushroom belch into the middle distance every three or four minutes; just enough to remind one that the giant only sleeps, he is not dead.
Steps lead down to the hotel balcony, with its black wrought iron rails surrounding a Moorish internal courtyard, typical of so many of the houses here. Already the first guests are beginning to seat themselves for plates of fresh tropical fruits and steaming pots of coffee, with which to start the day. In the middle there is a fountain, onion shaped and painted with rough brush strokes of Italian blue. Broad leaved green aquatic plants grow in its tier of dishes, splashed by a slow-welling stream of water which cascades into the pool below. The floor is tiled in terracotta. Four raised garden beds are divided one from the other by curved stone seats forming alcoves, each with a small round table with white table cloth and two cane chairs. Between the columns, brick red arches match the floor tiles. The flower beds are filled with palm fronds and ferns, and vines trail down the fluted columns softening their line. Sun streams in through a glass roof, making dappled patterns where it falls. How could I not feel centred and at peace as I join my travelling companions? Breakfast is served, and I will soon be ready for the adventures of the day ahead.
Our tour of Antigua with Elizabeth Bell is fascinating. She is an extraordinary woman. Her tours and books help to fund community projects, and her energy and advocacy broker links between the common people and their local government. She is an expatriate American who has lived in Antigua since she was fourteen years old. It is, in every sense, her home. The people are her family.
We start at the town hall, where she notes two women waiting patiently to register the births of their new-born babies. Recently, with the new government, this has become much easier. It is but a small example of the changes. Before, they would have been given the run-around, told to wait all day, to come back again tomorrow or next week, fobbed off until at last they gave up the attempt. Their children would have become non-persons with no official existence, no rights to passports, education, anything. Now things are changing. Opportunities for education grow in this land where the literacy rate is around 5%. Grievances that in the past dared not be voiced, are now heard.
Across the square is the cathedral of Santiago. The façade and front section are still intact. Beyond the transept lie the ruined remains of the rest, left gradually to decay for two hundred years or more. Now the columns and arches are being carefully restored, floors renewed, walls repointed and plastered. The roof will not be mended for this is to be a community space. Sunshine will flood in during the day. At night it will be open to the stars and moon. A space for youth theatre. A space for the people.
We enter a breathtaking courtyard across the street. The covered archways lead us through to a museum of jade and to a factory in which the stone is cut and polished and fashioned into jewellery. The profits help fund the college housed in the rest of this magnificent building. This is the story of a people who have joined together to help themselves, to help each other, and the small jade ring, which I purchase as a gift for Wendy, will always hold within its depths a reminder, some faint memory of them.
This ancient city leaves an indelible impression. We shall be sad to leave.
We are lodged at the Hotel del Carmen, two blocks back from the street sellers and shoe-shine boys of the city's bustling Central Park. The guidebook tells me that the famous fountain there was built in 1738 and I wonder ... has anything been built since that time in this most special of places?
Founded in the sixteenth century, the most Noble and Loyal City of St James of the Knights of Guatemala was the seat of government. Then in 1773 a great earthquake caused the capital to be transferred to the ugly sprawling metropolis of Guatemala City. With funding and power removed, La Antigua Guatemala was soon forgotten and became locked in a time warp, 5000 feet up on a small plateau, ringed by towering volcanoes and protected by its isolation. I have seen nowhere even remotely like it anywhere else in the world.
Like most cities, it is best seen at dawn, when zephyr breezes begin to wash away the silence of the night. I hear a thin metallic chime of a distant bell strike five. Cocks crow, one to another across the valley. There is just enough light to see the whiteness of the page, the black marks being made upon it, but not to distinguish the individual words of the song. So it is with the town, from the edge of this rooftop garden. To the southwest, a stone's throw away, there stands the bare silhouette of the Catedral de Santiago, lit yellow by street lamps. Behind and to its left loom the shadowy slopes of Volcán Agua, towering ten thousand feet and more; silent sentinel of the south. This one is a tame giant, its fires quenched by a dark and subterranean lake. Farther to the west there are two more distant peaks; below them lie thin wisps of grey mantilla lace, a swirl of morning mist. A thin dark sulphurous plume rises from the left, more distant peak. Sometimes it is said that at night the jagged cone of this one, Volcán Pacaya, glows red in the dark - but it is far enough away and does not threaten the city or its people.
A veil shrouds the silvered gibbous moon as the first blue-grey light of dawn brings meaning to my page. A black cat scampers along the rooftop tiles, too busy to bother with a lone stranger invading her domain. Behind me there is a sudden crackle of fireworks; a second volley, more distant, answers from the west. It is Saturday morning. Do they salute the dawn? Or are there revellers still at large in this awakening town?
Now, at 5.25, the twilight magic strengthens. There is the first rumble and clatter of morning traffic on the cobblestones. On my right, rises the solid rectangular shape of the roofless Iglesia El Carmen. The medieval tiles of the three or four low pitched roofs intervene. Six round windows spaced evenly high up in a nave wall now frame the speckled pink of dawn. Four ornate columns decked with ferns and moss define this church's entrance on the eastern street. Behind, below its outline and to the left, the shadows of two palms stand side by side. Beyond, directly to the north, a low tree covered hill defines the city boundary. Near its top a cleared patch of green field, perhaps a hundred yards across and fronted by a low stone wall, has at its upper end the massive outline of a wooden cross which guards this sleeping city. Among the lichen covered terra cotta tiles, here and there above chimneys there rise small square cupolas, whitewashed and domed.
The hour of six chimes thinly from the ochre tower of Iglesia de Santo Domingo, echoing across the valley, soon to be answered by a clatter of bells from the opposite, south-eastern corner of the town. Now the lone angelus. Iglesia de Santa Lucia is calling its faithful to prayer.
Below me a courtyard garden wall supports vivid sprays of bougainvillea and spindly bushes covered with jaundiced limes. The first rays of sun touch the garden in which I stand, with its borders of iris, rose and fuchsia, its ragged splashes of plumbago blue and oleander pink; its geranium and fuchsia in painted pots. The sky behind the main plaza is silver now between the volcanoes. Volcán Pacaya sends up a small black mushroom belch into the middle distance every three or four minutes; just enough to remind one that the giant only sleeps, he is not dead.
Steps lead down to the hotel balcony, with its black wrought iron rails surrounding a Moorish internal courtyard, typical of so many of the houses here. Already the first guests are beginning to seat themselves for plates of fresh tropical fruits and steaming pots of coffee, with which to start the day. In the middle there is a fountain, onion shaped and painted with rough brush strokes of Italian blue. Broad leaved green aquatic plants grow in its tier of dishes, splashed by a slow-welling stream of water which cascades into the pool below. The floor is tiled in terracotta. Four raised garden beds are divided one from the other by curved stone seats forming alcoves, each with a small round table with white table cloth and two cane chairs. Between the columns, brick red arches match the floor tiles. The flower beds are filled with palm fronds and ferns, and vines trail down the fluted columns softening their line. Sun streams in through a glass roof, making dappled patterns where it falls. How could I not feel centred and at peace as I join my travelling companions? Breakfast is served, and I will soon be ready for the adventures of the day ahead.
Our tour of Antigua with Elizabeth Bell is fascinating. She is an extraordinary woman. Her tours and books help to fund community projects, and her energy and advocacy broker links between the common people and their local government. She is an expatriate American who has lived in Antigua since she was fourteen years old. It is, in every sense, her home. The people are her family.
We start at the town hall, where she notes two women waiting patiently to register the births of their new-born babies. Recently, with the new government, this has become much easier. It is but a small example of the changes. Before, they would have been given the run-around, told to wait all day, to come back again tomorrow or next week, fobbed off until at last they gave up the attempt. Their children would have become non-persons with no official existence, no rights to passports, education, anything. Now things are changing. Opportunities for education grow in this land where the literacy rate is around 5%. Grievances that in the past dared not be voiced, are now heard.
Across the square is the cathedral of Santiago. The façade and front section are still intact. Beyond the transept lie the ruined remains of the rest, left gradually to decay for two hundred years or more. Now the columns and arches are being carefully restored, floors renewed, walls repointed and plastered. The roof will not be mended for this is to be a community space. Sunshine will flood in during the day. At night it will be open to the stars and moon. A space for youth theatre. A space for the people.
We enter a breathtaking courtyard across the street. The covered archways lead us through to a museum of jade and to a factory in which the stone is cut and polished and fashioned into jewellery. The profits help fund the college housed in the rest of this magnificent building. This is the story of a people who have joined together to help themselves, to help each other, and the small jade ring, which I purchase as a gift for Wendy, will always hold within its depths a reminder, some faint memory of them.
This ancient city leaves an indelible impression. We shall be sad to leave.
 Recognized |
Next instalment: Panajachel, on the shores of Lake Atitlan
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