| General Non-Fiction posted January 21, 2017 | Chapters: |
...9 10 -11- 12... 
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Panajachel and Lake Atitlan
A chapter in the book A Tale of Yucatan
A Tale of Yucatan - Part 11
by tfawcus
| Background A turn-of-the-century travelogue. 19 days on the Yucatan Peninsula. |
From Antigua, we drove up through the Guatemalan highlands to Panajachel, on the shores of Lake Atitlán. It is a journey of about two and a half hours through rugged mountain country. A bank of low cloud hangs in the valleys and distant storm clouds tower behind the lush green slopes of volcanoes. The villages are ramshackle, poor and mainly of breezeblock with rusty iron roofs. In contrast the people are colourful and wreathed in smiles, despite the brutal hardness of their lives.
Almost all the women wear traditional Mayan costume; some of the men too, although western-style jeans and shirts are more common. Acts of physical endurance beggar belief. Men set out for the hillside with iron mattocks, two feet across the blade, with which to tame the land. Sheer slopes, 60° or more, well beyond the capacity of any machine or beast of burden, are neatly terraced and planted with maize. These are a small, stolid people. We are as giants among them, yet I doubt I could even lift some of the tools with which they wrest their living from the land.
I saw one man walk by the side of the road with six timber planks vertical upon his back. They overshadowed him. It was a fearsome load. Before long he veered off onto a narrow, precipitous track which wound ever upward to the terraced ledges clinging to the side of the mountain which he farmed. Women routinely passed us by with earthenware jars upon their heads. I would estimate the jars to hold three, maybe four gallons of water. Yet the women walked with all the poise and grace of Swanson Street models, showing off millinery designs for the Melbourne Cup.
The last few miles into Panajachel are a succession of hairpin bends descending steeply from the mountains to the sparkling mirrored surface of Lake Atitlán. Some twelve miles long and six miles wide, the lake itself is a collapsed volcanic cone. It plunges to a depth of almost 1000 feet. Surrounding the lake are three huge volcanoes, ranging from 9,800 to 11,600 feet. Their summits are almost permanently covered in wispy caps of cloud. As seems to be the case everywhere in Guatemala, their slopes are terraced and planted with neat rows of maize, from the lakeside almost to their very peaks. On the final approach to the town the mountains rise vertically, towering above the road. A spectacular waterfall cascades hundreds of feet down a gorge before disappearing under the road, where it empties into the raging torrent of the Panajachel River.
We scarcely have time to leave our bags in the Hotel Dos Mundos before Wendy has arranged a trip for us by boat across the lake, calling in at San Pedro La Laguna where we are to have lunch at a lakeside restaurant. I bravely partake of the local black bass, heavily smothered in fried onions and, much to everyone’s surprise, survive to tell the tale.
From there we go south across the lake to Santiago Atitlán, a small town squeezed between the towering volcanoes of Tolimán and San Pedro. Women in brilliantly coloured huipiles meet the boat, laden with woven cloth for sale. For quarter of a quetzal they offer to let us take their photographs. When there is no sale their sunny smiles give way to scowls and a silent curse, presumably to Maximón, a local deity who seems to be an amalgam of ancient Mayan gods, the Spanish conquistadors and biblical Judas, despised in other highland towns but revered here in Santiago Atitlán. Each year he resides in a different house in the town where he receives offerings of candles, beer and rum. During our visit we are led to a shanty dwelling in a backstreet near the top of the town where Wendy, Jeanette and Matthew pay 2 quetzals apiece [about 40 cents] to commune with the god and receive his message. They are somewhat reticent when it comes to divulging what this message is!
From there, having browsed the many shops selling woven cloth and other handicrafts and souvenirs, we make our way to the huge white church which dominates the town. Its walls are lined with wooden statues of the saints which are newly adorned each year, in robes woven by the women of the town. The pulpit is intricately carved with an images of Yum-Kax, the Mayan god of corn and of a quetzal bird reading a book. Near the door, there is also a commemorative plaque to Father Stanley Francis Rother, a missionary priest from Oklahoma, much loved by the local people, who was murdered on the steps of the church in 1981 by an ultra right wing death squad. As we leave the church, a huge black cloud hangs over the mountain like a funeral shroud.
We return to the boat and set course through the reeds of a bird sanctuary island on the lake towards San Antonio Palopó on the eastern shore. Time is getting on and so we do not disembark here. There is a fine view of the place from the water and its streets look very steep. On this side of the lake we pass a small volcano which our boatman tells us is known as the Mountain of Gold. Legend has it that years ago the Mayan priests threw all of their treasures into its mouth to save them from the Spanish conquistadors. Our boatman assures us that he himself has dived on that edge of the lake and that there are subterranean passages into the mountain where ancient shards of pottery have been found, pointing to the truth of the tale.
Our final stop before returning to Panajachel is at a rocky outcrop on the eastern side of the lake. Hot springs bubble here and steam rises from the surface of the water. We ask our boatman why the rocks above have all been wound with barbed wire. He points up to the left, to the palatial holiday home of one of the 2% of Guatemalans who own 90% of the country’s wealth. The owner wants to dissuade people from coming here to bathe in this part of the lake which borders his property, he says. There are many such houses scattered around the shores of the lake; most are only accessible by boat or helicopter. They are the lavish holiday villas of the super-rich - a glimpse of the other side of the coin.
Almost all the women wear traditional Mayan costume; some of the men too, although western-style jeans and shirts are more common. Acts of physical endurance beggar belief. Men set out for the hillside with iron mattocks, two feet across the blade, with which to tame the land. Sheer slopes, 60° or more, well beyond the capacity of any machine or beast of burden, are neatly terraced and planted with maize. These are a small, stolid people. We are as giants among them, yet I doubt I could even lift some of the tools with which they wrest their living from the land.
I saw one man walk by the side of the road with six timber planks vertical upon his back. They overshadowed him. It was a fearsome load. Before long he veered off onto a narrow, precipitous track which wound ever upward to the terraced ledges clinging to the side of the mountain which he farmed. Women routinely passed us by with earthenware jars upon their heads. I would estimate the jars to hold three, maybe four gallons of water. Yet the women walked with all the poise and grace of Swanson Street models, showing off millinery designs for the Melbourne Cup.
The last few miles into Panajachel are a succession of hairpin bends descending steeply from the mountains to the sparkling mirrored surface of Lake Atitlán. Some twelve miles long and six miles wide, the lake itself is a collapsed volcanic cone. It plunges to a depth of almost 1000 feet. Surrounding the lake are three huge volcanoes, ranging from 9,800 to 11,600 feet. Their summits are almost permanently covered in wispy caps of cloud. As seems to be the case everywhere in Guatemala, their slopes are terraced and planted with neat rows of maize, from the lakeside almost to their very peaks. On the final approach to the town the mountains rise vertically, towering above the road. A spectacular waterfall cascades hundreds of feet down a gorge before disappearing under the road, where it empties into the raging torrent of the Panajachel River.
We scarcely have time to leave our bags in the Hotel Dos Mundos before Wendy has arranged a trip for us by boat across the lake, calling in at San Pedro La Laguna where we are to have lunch at a lakeside restaurant. I bravely partake of the local black bass, heavily smothered in fried onions and, much to everyone’s surprise, survive to tell the tale.
From there we go south across the lake to Santiago Atitlán, a small town squeezed between the towering volcanoes of Tolimán and San Pedro. Women in brilliantly coloured huipiles meet the boat, laden with woven cloth for sale. For quarter of a quetzal they offer to let us take their photographs. When there is no sale their sunny smiles give way to scowls and a silent curse, presumably to Maximón, a local deity who seems to be an amalgam of ancient Mayan gods, the Spanish conquistadors and biblical Judas, despised in other highland towns but revered here in Santiago Atitlán. Each year he resides in a different house in the town where he receives offerings of candles, beer and rum. During our visit we are led to a shanty dwelling in a backstreet near the top of the town where Wendy, Jeanette and Matthew pay 2 quetzals apiece [about 40 cents] to commune with the god and receive his message. They are somewhat reticent when it comes to divulging what this message is!
From there, having browsed the many shops selling woven cloth and other handicrafts and souvenirs, we make our way to the huge white church which dominates the town. Its walls are lined with wooden statues of the saints which are newly adorned each year, in robes woven by the women of the town. The pulpit is intricately carved with an images of Yum-Kax, the Mayan god of corn and of a quetzal bird reading a book. Near the door, there is also a commemorative plaque to Father Stanley Francis Rother, a missionary priest from Oklahoma, much loved by the local people, who was murdered on the steps of the church in 1981 by an ultra right wing death squad. As we leave the church, a huge black cloud hangs over the mountain like a funeral shroud.
We return to the boat and set course through the reeds of a bird sanctuary island on the lake towards San Antonio Palopó on the eastern shore. Time is getting on and so we do not disembark here. There is a fine view of the place from the water and its streets look very steep. On this side of the lake we pass a small volcano which our boatman tells us is known as the Mountain of Gold. Legend has it that years ago the Mayan priests threw all of their treasures into its mouth to save them from the Spanish conquistadors. Our boatman assures us that he himself has dived on that edge of the lake and that there are subterranean passages into the mountain where ancient shards of pottery have been found, pointing to the truth of the tale.
Our final stop before returning to Panajachel is at a rocky outcrop on the eastern side of the lake. Hot springs bubble here and steam rises from the surface of the water. We ask our boatman why the rocks above have all been wound with barbed wire. He points up to the left, to the palatial holiday home of one of the 2% of Guatemalans who own 90% of the country’s wealth. The owner wants to dissuade people from coming here to bathe in this part of the lake which borders his property, he says. There are many such houses scattered around the shores of the lake; most are only accessible by boat or helicopter. They are the lavish holiday villas of the super-rich - a glimpse of the other side of the coin.
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