A gale from the mountain howled down in blasts all last night. I dreamed about hurricanes. At 1:30 a.m. the Christian revival was still going strong, more electric than ever and carried on the winds.
Maria had a full day planned for us, so at 5:45 a.m. we got ready to leave Jaibalito. On the way to the dock we passed through the village one last time, accompanied by the talented gardener of the Volcano Lodge.
Before the sun had fully risen over the volcano we were already buzzing across the huge and choppy lake, bound for Santiago de Atitlí¡n 45 minutes away.
Incorrectly assuming I understand Spanish as badly as I speak it, our handsome capití¡n asked Maria questions about me, including my marital status. I confess I was flattered. Why is it that Guatemalan men always ask how old I am? But this time, against all odds, he guessed a couple years on the younger side, which made me love him dearly — almost dearly enough to ride with him into the sunset, except we reached the lakeshore first.
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At the Posada de Atitlí¡n, Maria and I had our favorite meal while sitting at the very same table where Santa Claus almost shot me two years ago.
In the lake below the hotel, women wash clothing.
Entonces we tuc-tuc’d to the radio station, Voz de Atitlí¡n. Santiago was the scene of massive violence during the war, and the station played a significant part in pulling the community together. Maria has worked with them a lot over the years, leading journalism training programs.
These days, Voz de Atitlí¡n supports two additional community projects: a school and a dental and medical care program.
I’m certain I heard myself volunteer to help them put together a brochure in English.
Our next stop was for mass at the giant Iglesia Parroquia Santiage Apóstol, built in the mid-1500s. It’s the same church where Father Rother was murdered in 1981, during the war. Maria told me that Santiago and Solalí¡ are the only two regions in Guatemala where Mayan men still wear traditional clothing.
Along both walls inside the church are scores of wooden saints dressed in what looks like Hawaiian shirts, each cluster wearing its own design.
One apostle was a dead-ringer for Elvis. The Jesuses in Guatemala appear to suffer more than most, with more contortion and blood-trickles and expressions of agony.
The church was packed with over 500 people, almost entirely indigenous, and the service was bilingual in Spanish and Tz’utujil. In refreshing contrast to the sounds of Jaibalito, the music was pretty and not amplified, backed by half a dozen or more big-bodied, mellow-toned guitars that were tuned just a little bit flat. The priest had a beautiful voice and the chorus sounded informal, like a roomful of friends.
During the stand-up times, I noticed once again that I towered over everyone except a tall women up front who was sucking on a lollipop. She turned out to be a girl on her father’s shoulders.
Though I have a marked aversion to churchy things on the whole, this was deeply moving and fascinating. I loved the peace handshake.
Maria and I buzzed around town in a tuc-tuc for a while.
We bought some stuff like matching bracelets.
We rode back to Antigua with Don Toí±o and his wife Sara. Two big metal things in their car’s engine had snapped in half, so it roared all the way home. We bought strange fruit (cuchín) by the side of the road.
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On the highway we passed a motorcycle with five passengers: father driving, mother clutching an infant behind him, toddler in back and a boy riding up front on the gas tank.
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