Guatemala Part 1: Getting There
Whoever said, “getting there is half the fun” never traveled from Fredericksburg, Texas to Lake Atitlán, Guatemala during Spring Break. I know this because there was nothing fun about my trip between such points. Unless, of course, you find dealing with airlines that are bothered by your existence, listening to teenage missionaries sing their praises for hours on end, and traveling some of the absolute worst roads known to the history of mankind fun. I don’t. And didn’t. But then again it was worth the pain for what I got in the end.
My journey began when my fiancé Cheryl (yes, for those of you that read my column on a regular basis might not be aware, Cheryl is now my fiancé and not long-time lady friend. Our impending nuptials is because of love, tax purposes, and long-term mental health considerations – or so I’m told. I can’t think about that right now. I’m concentrating on writing up our trip.) and I arrived at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport on Saturday March 9 two and a half hours prior to our flight to find the airport a mad house of activity. Spring Breakers were leaving, South by Southwesters were arriving, and United Airlines’ entire system crashed. This meant that our online check-in had been in vain, and we were forced to stand in a line for a very, very long time. This later part was at least partially entertaining given all the “Karens” arguing with airline personal, promising to post their perceived problems on social media for all their followers to see, and yelling at their husbands to do something about something that they could in no way change.
Cheryl and I made it through Check In just in time to grab our flight to Houston. From there we hopped a flight to Guatemala City that proved to be a test of patience as the flight was populated by a host of super happy teenage missionaries. A few “Karens” also made it onboard and between their complaining about the plane’s Wi-Fi being down, the lack of enough ice for their Diet Cokes, and not being able to sit wherever they wanted combined with the incessant happiness, giggling, and singing of the teenage missionaries surrounding me saw me curse not bringing earplugs and spend quite a bit on $8 per can beer.
We landed in Guatemala City to a hazy sky and an 85-degree temperature. We snaked through the small airport, claimed our luggage, made our way through Customs, then were met outside by our savior Carlos Andres of Heart of Travel. Cheryl and I had hired Carlos, along with his girlfriend and business partner Chiva, to handle all of our affairs in Guatemala and a better decision we could not have made. Carlos immediately put us at ease, loaded us and our luggage in his brand-new Subaru SUV, and handed us cold bottled water. He informed us that our normally doable in two-hour car ride to San Marcos on Lake Atitlán would probably take us closer to four and half given the traffic and to let him know if we had any questions. My first question was, “Are we going to die?” because I have never in all my years of travel seen such chaotic traffic as I did that day in Guatemala City. Not only was the sheer congestion concerning but so was the whole Mad Max approach to driving most people in the city had. No one stopped at stop signs. No one slowed down for pedestrians. No one drove entirely within their lane. No one cared that they were about to drive through or over another vehicle. Except Carlos who somehow kept Cheryl and I calm as he drove us through the Demolition Derby that was the city limits. I have no idea how he kept his cool driving. Not only that but he gave colorful commentary about national landmarks as he did such.
Things took a literal turn for the worse when he got outside of the city as the road through the mountains had serpentine curves, switchbacks, cutbacks, tailbacks, and quarterbacks. It was nauseating. The roads literally followed ancient game trails and would turn a dime and require a 180 degree turn every few meters. Neither Cheryl or I believed steering wheels let alone Subarus could turn that hard and fast yet Carlos made it look easy. And when, after two hours of this he noticed, Cheryl and I were about to puke he did the nicest thing ever. He gave us a cold beer. That not only put our minds to ease but helped settle our stomachs. A couple beers and seven thousand hairpins later we descended the mountains, traveled down through clouds that hung upon the rainforest around us like dreams, and into the small village of San Marcos La Laguna on Lake Atitlán. It was, as Carlos said, nothing short of a mystic place. A community unlike anything we had seen in country so far.
Carlos dropped us at our home away from home to be for the next few days where we were quickly taken in by Travis Stinson who walked us through his restaurant Tul y Sol and to the back deck. He opened his arms to the volcanic lake before us and said, “Getting here was the hard part. But you’re in paradise now. THIS, is paradise.”
And how very correct he was.
This piece first appeared in the Fredericksburg Standard.
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