To our dismay, our 8:00 a.m. shuttle bound for Panajachel picked us up at 7:35. By the time we’d gathered up the other lake-bound tourists, made three unscheduled stops enroute at various roadside vendors (friends of the driver?) it was close to noon. M took this picture from the overlook above Panajachel.
The moment our van pulled to the curb in town, half a dozen pairs of arms writhed at our windows, offering beaded and knotted and woven stuff for sale. As quickly as possible, we escaped and made for the shore, hiring (with the help of a man from Spain) a lancha to take us across the lake to the village of Santiago de Atitlí¡n (Q100 for both of us).
Upon landing, once again we were swamped with people hawking goods and services. A man, identified by a paper badge as a guia named Francisco, asked to walk us to our hotel for a fee of Q50. I didn’t want help so I declined and walked on. He walked on with us. Despite my protestations, he stayed Superglued to our side through the crowded market, up a steep cobblestoned street flanked by dusty, corrugated houses (we had to stop to let him catch his breath), and along the shoreline to Hotel Posada de Atitlí¡n — about a mile in all. To pass the time he thought it would be fun to guess my age. “I think you’re … sixty?”
The hotel, built of stone, is on a hillside just above the lake shore, with a communal hang-out area and a handful of casitas surrounded by tropical flowers and fruits. Here’s our room and its view.
M went for a swim in the hottub and I soaked up the scenery.
From a distance we watched a few women from Panabaj wash their laundry in the lake. Their village, a hundred meters down the dirt road, is the site of a massacre in the eighties and two months ago was wiped out by Hurricane Stan. Many of the villagers died, we heard: buried by the mudslide that transformed the town into a cementerio. All you can see now is solidified, grey mud with pieces of house and human belongings sticking out. A handful of people and chickens and boney dogs walked around on top. We greeted most everyone we passed along the road and, to my surprise, they responded with genuine friendliness, even in the midst of all that ruin.
As we walked back to the hotel a stream of pickup trucks bumped by, packed solid with men and women standing in the back: a blur of color.
We met a young couple from Chicago who were delightful. They told us about how they met on J-Date, and we learned all about the pros and cons of online dating.
During dinner a American women came to our table in a tizzy. “I can’t get the waiter to understand what I want. I’ve tried everything and I’m so frustrated!” She signaled for the waiter and turned back to us with desperation. “How do you say ‘clarified butter’ in Spanish?”