Pre-Departure Thoughts Before Thanksgiving
Date: 20 November 2015
Location: My cubicle at Ambry Genetics, Aliso Viejo, US
Friday afternoon, and productivity had virtually plummeted
to zero. The lab was empty and the few people who hadn’t taken off early
were found lounging in the company kitchen, a friendly chatter
diffusing through the air about mouthwatering meals, food comas, and
general gluttony. As the holiday season is soon to arrive, all of our
minds were focused on the first of many feasts to grace the
next month – Thanksgiving. But while my coworkers were deeply engaged in
talking turkeys and mashed potatoes, I kept to my thoughts of
tamales
and
mole de platanos. Naturally, it wouldn’t be a traditional Sharja
Thanksgiving without, well, not even being in the country for it.
Reminiscent of my
Christmas in Peru, I was not about to spend a precious
holiday as a conqueror of couches following an imminent gustatory
marathon. And having recently started a new and demanding job with
limited vacation time, spending my holiday somewhere colorful, chaotic,
and close-by (relatively speaking) was nothing short of personally
mandatory. Putting down the micropipette and the final touches on my genetic analysis, I was ready to say
“Adios, America" and
“Bien Venidos… a Guatemala".
Guatemala. To the ordinary individual, the name alone
invokes images of just another Latin American banana republic, where the
only news worthy of international reporting typically involves either
violence related to drug trafficking or villagers getting swept away in
natural disasters. Even more unfortunate are when people think it to be
merely a poorer version of Mexico, or when people frankly admit to
knowing nothing about it at all. But in the eyes of travelers, Guatemala tends to receive a far more positive (and certainly
more deserving) spin as a vibrant country of colorfully-textiled native
villagers living peacefully among silver-stoned pyramid temples rising
above lush emerald jungles. Or maybe that's just Guatemala in my own
eyes.
Regardless of one's preconceived notions concerning this
small and quiet Central American nation, no one can argue against the fact that
Guatemala has witnessed a very colorful past, both tranquil and
turbulent. Spanning millennia, the region has seen the rise and
fall of mighty Mesoamerican civilizations, most notably the ancient
Maya, whose ruined stone metropolises dot the tropical landscape. Their
colossal constructions from the 2nd to 10th centuries CE still stand
silently as a collective testimony to a golden age marked by
artistically complex societies, architectural ingenuity, and
advancements in astronomy. But Guatemalan history also possesses a
darker side marked by great losses of life, from the days of native
human sacrifices and the inquisitions of Spanish conquistadors, up to
the three-decade long civil war from the 60's where tens of thousands were
killed or went missing. Even in its current peaceful state, Guatemala is
sadly still classified to be one of the most dangerous nations in the
region, where gang-related extortion, kidnappings, and murders continue
to occur at alarming rates. Nevertheless, Guatemalans have remained a
highly resilient people over the centuries and many foreign visitors to
this exotic land safely return home every year from fantastic experiences. I'm
anxious to discover the brighter side of their rich culture, cuisine,
and recreation. And hopefully catch a glimpse of their turkeys this
Thanksgiving. I hear they're as pretty as peacocks.
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| The "Pavo Real", or Royal Turkey, spotted in the ruins of Tikal |
Losing My Mind En Route to a Lost City
Date: 22 November 2015
Location: Microbus bouncing through the jungle, Flores, El Petén
Rushing to the check in counter.
"Perdón señor, pero tenemos un vuelo a Guate!"
"Ay Dios! Sala 75... necesitan correr, chicos!"
"Oh shit!"
I don't think I've ever sprinted so fast in my life. Thanks
to Mexico's asinine flight connection system, which forces all inbound
passengers to stand in a sea of people for hours awaiting a second round
of immigration and security, I was literally the last person to make it
aboard the plane to Guatemala City. I should've remembered from my
layovers en route to Panama that Benito Juarez International is grossly inefficient, poorly scheduled, and indifferent towards countless missed
flights. With the stewardesses frantically shutting the door behind me,
the flight immediately took to the skies.
Interestingly, my first impression of Guatemala City was
how it actually reminded me of a mix of other places from previous trips. In an
evening descent over the provincial-looking city nestled among dark
rolling foothills, I recollected
my first arrival in Addis Ababa, which
also shares dimly-lit narrow streets of crumbling paths and unfinished
construction. Much like
colonial Yangon, Guatemala City possessed a
number of avenues lined with large aging trees and lush vegetation
framing dilapidated facades. Reminiscent of Bangkok but on a smaller
scale, the streets were filled with families buzzing away in the humid
and misty air, most migrating towards sidewalks lined with rows of
smokey street food stalls. A heavy tropical rain had just passed,
leaving puddles and miniature lakes to form at intersections where
cheesy multicolored holiday decorations spanned across light posts. While
few visitors have anything positive to say about this drab little
capital, something about it seemed oddly quaint last night, possibly
from the brightly illuminated Christmas tree that dominated a large
roundabout overran by ecstatic children. My father and I walked around
the dark corner from our hotel, past the neon lights of a Hard Rock Cafe
and Applebee's to a small, candlelit restaurant blasting salsa music at
a decibel rivaling nightclubs back home. It instantly brought back
memories of
bar-hopping with the I-Crew around Panama City's Casco Viejo, though this time in the company of a 62-year-old who was past
his bedtime.
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| Guatemala City from the air, with the volcanoes of Agua, Fuego, and Acatenango seen in the distance |
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| Guatemala City rush-hour traffic |
The next morning, I found myself playing the role of
personal tour guide as I led my father around the dark old colonial
halls of the National Museum, the final resting place of innumerable
renowned artifacts from Guatemala's glorious Mayan past. Occupying an
aged red colonial building sporting white neoclassical colonnades, the
museum had all the trademarks of an 18th century Spanish mission, albeit
littered with gargantuan stone tablets of Mayan kings, anthropomorphic
statuary, and countless ceramic vessels. Simply said, I was in a veritable archaeological paradise, a place that my art historian colleague and Indiana Jones fanatic,
Jaimee, would likely be found roaming about herself. Having spent much of my
childhood studying the Maya and their art, getting the opportunity to
guide my father through three-thousand years of history was quite
sentimental. With many of the poorly maintained exhibits explained
solely in Spanish, it was also quite practical. A lunch of chorizo
sandwiches followed by a stroll through an artisan market was a
relaxing way to spend an afternoon of monsoon rains while waiting to
catch a domestic flight.
"Disculpe señores, pero no hay vuelos domésticos de este terminal."
"¿CÓMO?"
We arrived at the airport to catch our flight to Flores
only to be told that there was no flight. After much confusion mixed
with a little linguistic difficulty, we learned that we needed to depart from a domestic terminal with its own landing strip located all the way at the other end of the runway. We had barely an hour until take
off. With no taxis in sight, a truly bizarre occurrence for an airport
terminal, I tested the limits of my Spanish in frantically pleading with
a kind (albeit very nonchalant) parking attendant to assist us in the
mad dash towards the TAG departures office.
"Without traffic, you'll get there in 15 minutes. With
traffic, maybe one hour and a half. It's no problem. I think you'll make
it."
Driving around town in a heavy downpour towards this second landing strip, we
later found ourselves winding through a maze of rusty airplane hangars
to a tiny nondescript office lacking any kind of signage. We arrived
just in time to a miniature check-in counter and proceeded to make our way out onto
the tarmac where a tiny 33-seat propeller plane sat ready and waiting to
transport us deep into the jungles of El Petén.
I still have three more flights scheduled until I make it back home. I wonder which one I'll finally run out of luck with.
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| Just arrived at the gateway to the jungle via an adorable 33-seater propeller plane |
The Gods Demand Blood... from a Thousand Mosquitoes
Date: 23 November 2015
Location: A tent under a banana tree, Tikal National Park
Driving along a narrow two-lane road in the blackness of
the muggy jungle, I came to realize something intriguing about the
course of my life. Whereas embarking on journeys through rugged
terrain in the past would fully captivate my youthful attention, nothing
this time about cruising into a tropical heartland seemed novel to me.
I've wandered through many rainforests over the years, but certainly
don't misinterpret this as a lack of excitement or a case of feeling
jaded. Rather, everything about bouncing along in a microbus through
dense vegetation and thatched-roof villages seemed perfectly natural to
me, as if it were just another episode of my usual existence. Shouldn't
it be more riveting than this? With Thanksgiving around the corner, the feeling made
me reflect upon how fortunate I am to have been born into a family where
going on international adventures was indeed a normal part of life, at
least as I've always known it, something that "normal" families back
home would likely never experience nor fully understand.
After a 1.5 hour trip north of Flores, the portal to the El
Petén rainforest, we ended up deep within the dark viney confines of
the Parque Nacional de Tikal. Out back on a property belonging to a lodge, we found a cluster of tents set up near a muddy banana
grove, with the sounds of an invisible insect symphony buzzing and clicking loudly in the
silver moonlight. I nearly tripped over a trail of large leaf-cutter
ants, meticulously carrying off their floral bounty into the depths of
the forest. Only an hour after my arrival and I was already starting to
feel the itch of the mosquito's kiss. A heavy rain began to saturate the soil around the tent, soaking towels, blankets, and shoes in mere seconds. It was 80 degrees with nearly 80
percent humidity as I tried lulling myself into a sticky slumber, only
to be thrust from sleep at midnight by the demonic, teeth-clenching growls of
howler monkeys in the canopy overhead. Something was lurking outside the tent, rustling through the leaves. It was a beautiful, rather nostalgic feeling.
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| My tent under a banana tree |
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| View from the tent at night |
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| Tree overgrown with epiphytes and lichens |
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| The path to the lost city of Tikal |
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| The path to the Mundo Perdido temples |
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| Capturing a shot of spider monkeys is quite a challenge. They swing through the canopy at amazing speeds. |
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| Looking cool before that unfortunate tarantula sighting |
We awoke at 6 AM, just as the sunlight slowly began to
diffuse through the misty cloud cover, and took a stroll down a dirt
path to the entrance leading towards the lost Mayan city of Tikal. Imagine that,
camping out merely a stone's throw from an ancient metropolis that
once supported 80 thousand people in the first millennium. The dirt
trails leading up to the Grand Plaza were surrounded on both sides by
walls of dense green foliage, a smorgasbord of vines, palms, orchids,
and bromeliads whose stationary branches were occasionally set into
motion by spider monkeys raucously swinging their way through. The
squawks of parrots and chirps of tree frogs echoed melodiously off of
the silent megalithic edifices of a sacred palace complex, a narrow
portal opening up into the airy space between Templo II and the famous Temple of the Giant Jaguar. At 44 meters, the steep
stairway of the sacred pyramid soared above the canopy and dwarfed us
like the termites being crushed beneath our soles. The entire complex of
the northern acropolis stood as imposingly as a fortress, but with an
architecture and floor-plan as elegant as a palace, its geometric levels
of stacked masonry piling like petrified rice terraces. Giant faces of
fierce-looking gods peeked out from the encased layers of older temples,
finally freed by excavations after 1,500 years. Having seen the
monumental wonders of Tikal so many times in my history and mythology
books, I felt like I had already been there once before, as I
intuitively navigated the labyrinth of jungle trails that cover the 6
square mile site.
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| Wearing my best Mayan shirt for the ancient Mayan city of Tikal |
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| The most famous structure in Guatemala, the 1,300 year old Temple of the Giant Jaguar |
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| The Northern Acropolis and its many stacked temples |
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| It ain't easy maintaining an ancient metropolis |
"Templo I always looked so gigantic when I'd read about it
in primary school. Now that I stand before it, it's actually not as tall
as I imagined."
My father took a rest beside a stone altar and joked around.
"You were a child then and really small. Now that you've gotten bigger, the pyramid will obviously seem shorter!"
I've done a good number of trips with just my Dad,
including
teaching English out on the Mongolian steppes and
documenting tribal customs in Ethiopia's Omo Valley. It felt really fun, and was
certainly long overdue, to be out exploring again with the man who
originally taught me the meaning of the word "adventure". We bushwhacked our way through the jungle from one ruined pyramid temple complex to the next while
pretending to be 19th-century explorers, sharing my studies of Mayan
structural engineering in exchange for his knowledge of tropical flora.
We both frowned upon obnoxious Russians while simultaneously poked fun
at oblivious Chinese tourists. After a full day of hiking and climbing
up countless stone staircases, we reached the climax of our exploration
by summitting the massive Templo IV to catch a view of all the other
pyramids sprouting above an endless sea of green.
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| Stumbling across the massive Templo V in a clearing after wandering down a dense jungle trail |
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| Typing this blog post on a natural hammock in front of a pyramid |
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| View from Templo IV of soaring pyramid temples sprouting from the El Peten rainforest |
A chilled pineapple shake while listening to heavy evening
raindrops rhythmically pattering upon giant banana leaves made for the
perfect finish to my time in the El Mundo Maya. Except for the mosquitoes. Squash those mothersuckers.
A Day Trip Into the Mayan Underworld
Date: 24 November 2015
Location: Fire-grilled chicken stand, Flores, Lago de Petén Itzá
Catching transport from the jungles of Tikal to the
regional hub of Flores was almost too easy. At the quiet Tikal-Uaxactun
junction, a huge camionetta - the iconic Central American "chicken bus" -
pulled up to the roundabout, its driver yelling at me from the window.
"A dónde van, chicos?"
"Flores... Cuánto cuesta para dos personas y equipaje?"
"60 quetzales... pase adelante..."
The hour and a half journey cost only four bucks each. I
sat at the front behind the driver, a moist morning breeze filtering in
through the open door that the "bus boy" hung off of, ready
to collect passengers waiting at unmarked stops in the middle of the
jungle. A thin Mayan mother sat beside me, a baby on her lap and two
other daughters standing in the aisle. We bounced our way
down the narrow road, the overgrown forest engulfing us in a hollow
green tunnel with just enough room to pick up two rugged vaqueros in
cowboy hats sporting two foot long machetes. Forty minutes later,
the Mayan mother departed, replaced by a portly bearded day laborer. The
wonders of the jungle apparently didn't interest him, as he gawked at
photos of scantily-clad Latin women on his mobile Facebook newsfeed. The
bus filled up to nearly full capacity over the course of only 45 miles,
passing thatched villages with women grilling tortillas over the
fire and pigs grazing. Every so many miles, a different road-crossing
sign would be posted - one for deer, one for snakes, one for jaguars.
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| The iconic Central American camionetta, or "chicken bus", offers an fun and cheap local ride (if you don't get robbed) |
We finally ended up at a local market turned bus station
where we caught one of the many tiny red auto rickshaws buzzing around
Santa Elena. The hot tropical day was leisurely spent, starting with a
Mayan brunch of paqueques of Ramón seeds with yucca and eggs, followed
by a lazy stroll through the colorful island town of Flores that sits in the middle of Lake Petén Itzá. Aside from
the chill ambiance of the area, the second (and rather counter-intuitive)
aspect I noticed was the high number of armed soldiers policing with their
AK-47s from the beds of their pickups. It also seemed odd to find security guards armed with shotguns outside of grocery stores and corner mini-marts.
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| Tuk-tuks normally remind me of Asia, but Guatemala has them too! |
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| Lago Peten Itza, the second largest lake in the country |
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| A Mayan folk breakfast of yucca, eggs, and panqueques of Ramon seeds |
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| Shaved ice treats on a hot tropical day are sometimes worth the stomach trouble they cause later |
One can easily circle the island in 15 minutes and we
suddenly found ourselves with nothing to do. For a dollar fifty, we
caught an auto rickshaw heading south to a family property that
maintains the Caves of Aktun Kan. For 5 dollars each, we could
make a mini journey into the Mayan "underworld" of Xibalba. Reading Mayan bedtime legends as a kid, particularly the underworld journey of
Hunahpu & Xbalanque, I was more than thrilled to live the fantasy. Only twenty
feet into the caves, we realized we couldn't see anything wider than the
6-inch circle illuminated by the cheap Chinese flashlight provided, as
well as the fact that we simply had no idea where we were going. Out of
fear, I was able to convince the ticket woman with a couple more dollars
to rise from her hammock and take us through the maze of subterranean
tunnels. Wet, cool, and absolutely pitch black, the sounds of water
droplets broke the cave's silence, adding extra layers to the
stalactites that have been slowly forming for millenia. Upon descending
into the main cavern, an ancient Mayan head carved into the rippling
limestone wall greeted us to the sacred realm of Death. She guided us
through the complicated network of chambers, pointing out mineral
formations with whimsical names that required one's fluid imagination to
interpret. By far the most terrifying sight we witnessed occurred when
she illuminated a giant hole in the cave ceiling where hundreds of
little vampire bats hung together, squirming in the light and flashing
their pearly-white fangs. Bats were sacred to the Maya as messengers of
the Lords of Death, and the sight of them rightfully made me cringe. After 40
minutes of a nightmarish nether region, we returned to the bright
comforts of our mortal world. There's no way we could've survived the
trip without the guidance of our sleepy, flip-flopped Mayan maiden.
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| The house of my Mayan maiden, just outside the entrance to the Aktun Kan caves |
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| Greetings from Xibalba, The Realm of Death |
By God, this grilled marinated chicken is phenomenal! My
father and I are currently street food hopping around the lake shore,
where all of the restaurants have their wood barbecues out and fired-up
for the dinner crowd. I will have to cut out here and wish you all
"Buen
Provecho".
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| Pollo asado in a rich chili-tomato based sauce right on the street |
A Cycling Sample of Central America
Date: 26 November 2015
Location: Yellow House Hostel, Antigua Guatemala
While most of my friends will likely be found at family
homes for Thanksgiving today, I've found myself in the shadows of three
great volcanoes deep in the southern highlands. After catching another
propeller plane back to Guatemala City, we took a collective minivan
southwest towards the old colonial capital of Antigua Guatemala. The "jewel" of the nation, Antigua fully lives up to the meaning of its name as a
charming colonial antique town cradled by the jagged peaks and cones
of the region's most famous fiery peaks. "Gorgeous" hardly does the
place justice, with its Spanish mission style buildings of countless
colors, decaying grandiose churches from the era of the conquistadors,
and lush gardens of flowers and fountains. But behind its
crumbling vintage façades, Antigua is also very much a modern town having transformed into a tourism hub with its many youth hostels, boutique eateries, chic cafes, and brand-name retailers.
Despite being slightly overrun by gringos, expats, and hippies, it's
still possible to keep things local and authentic depending on which
side of town you stick to. Grabbing a 3-dollar home-cooked lunch of pollo
dorado or caldo de res made by jolly old women in the hidden back room of a
small convenience store is a prime example of the many hidden layers of Antigua.
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| The highland colonial jewel of Antigua, nestled at the base of the active Volcan de Agua |
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| 16th century churches and convents |
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| Gateway to the fine dining sector of town |
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| Guatemalans are a highly devout people |
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| Amazing home-cooked lunch made by old ladies hidden in the back room of the convenience store, Tienda La Canche |
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| Makeshift chicken bus station in front of one of Antigua's many churches |
While nearly all of the tourists have been keeping to the fancy
restaurants, backpacker bars, and souvenir shops of their comfort zone,
my father and I plunged right into where we've always felt familiar, a place also dubbed as the heart of Guatemalan culture - the
mercado. Having grown up
shopping and wandering around many of the world's greatest marketplaces
and bazaars, the Antigua mercado felt somewhat like a little piece of
home with its labyrinth of narrow covered alleyways filled to the brim
with colorful goods and products. As always, our first stop was the
produce section, where Mayan women in colorful
huipils sat guarding reed
baskets piled high with tropical fruits and vegetables. For just over a
dollar, 24 fresh rambutans (
lichas, as they call them here) were ripe
for the taking, along with a fruit I'd never tried before, the small
yellow sphere clusters called
míspero (which turn out to be loquats). Passing through towers of cheap
Chinese-made clothes and kitchen utensils, the "comedores" were next on
our list. Miniature restaurants right in the heart of the bustling market served local food, mostly fried chicken or
whole fried fish over rice and beans, which could be bought for a couple
dollars.
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| Pollos, chorizos, and other butcher items in the mercado |
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| Street foods and snacks outside the central market |
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| A fruit-lover's paradise |
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| Buying lichas for cheap |
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| Lunch in one of the small comedores at the heart of the mercado |
Waking today to the sounds of popping and massive
explosions threw us into a temporary state of confusion, as in this
country one can't always easily discern between church fiesta
firecrackers and gang-related firearms. The staff at our cozy hippie
hostel, Yellow House, have been exceptionally friendly and informative
in warning us which buses to avoid and places not to hike due to the
likelihood of robberies or gun violence. We were told that the area
around Volc
án de Agua, whose perfectly archetypal cone soars straight
into the heavens above Antigua, is home to bandits that prey on locals and
foreigners alike. Rather than walk, we opted to spend
Thanksgiving riding bikes through the amazing countryside towards the valley below Volc
án de Fuego and Volc
án Acatenango, giving us a
chance to explore more distant areas near the bases of the volcanoes (as
well as make faster getaways from any potential sinister activities).
 |
| Loving Yellow House Hostel and its awesome terrace. |
With the help of Henri, a local cycling guide, we set off from Antigua
along its beautiful, albeit painfully bumpy, cobblestone streets towards
the small towns and villages that cling to the volcanic slopes.
Cobblestones turned to pavement, which turned to gravel and eventually
to dirt, as we rode further away from churches and houses into rolling
green plantations of coffee and nuts. Our rickety bikes with rock-hard
seats, likely vestiges of the late 80's, served us surprising well as we
crossed the hilly terrain. The small towns of Ciudad Vieja and San
Miguel were just starting to come to life in the early morning, as men
set off for the fields with their machetes and shovels while women sat
on the street side flattening the first round of tortillas with their hands. Everywhere
we passed, we were welcomed with bright smiles and welcoming
greetings from young kids walking along the road and old ladies carrying baskets of fresh
fruits on their heads. We descended into the valley and made a pit stop
at an organic macadamia plantation, where we observed the process of
growing, harvesting, and sorting the delectable nuts. Further in the
valley, we briefly rested at a camionetta garage where greasy mechanics work on
the multicolored monstrosities, though the owner wasn't around to let us
get up close and personal with them. After riding some extremely narrow
dirt trails through densely overgrown vegetation, we eventually came across an open
field where we accidentally interrupted a soccer match by literally cruising right
through the pitch.
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| Bouncing through the highland town of Ciudad Vieja on a bike with worn-out shocks and a rock-hard seat |
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| Church ruins of the nation's patron saint |
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| Drying macademias on the plantation |
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| Narrow trails bordered with barbed wire teach you to ride straight |
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| Bike Guate! You know you want to! |
My favorite stop of the day was the
small colonial town of San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a cultural gem famous
for its indigenous textile bazaar. Upon entering the market, our eyes
were met by a living rainbow of Mayan women, all gossiping away while busy at
work weaving exquisite tapestries on their portable looms. Watching
them teach their young daughters this art form using the same
techniques implemented thousands of years ago was a truly touching
sight. I was captivated by the overwhelming sense of continuity, and oddly
thankful that these mothers were perpetuating a once-dying tradition
that's not even my own. Swimming through waves of fabrics, I pondered to myself if Mayan weaving is at all included
on UNESCO's list of intangible human heritage worthy of preservation. Alongside the clacking of wooden looms, the language in the air was no longer
Spanish, but rather the delightfully soft-spoken Mayan dialect of
Kaq'chikel. With her baby wrapped in a bundle on her back, a comical
Mayan mother descended on me, eager to sell me her beautiful handiwork.
"Bienvenidos señor, estás visitando de Antigua?"
"Sí, estoy viajando en bici porque no tengo mucho dinero"
"En bici?! Ay Dios, la distancia es muy grande!"
"Claro! Y porque compré sus textiles caros, ahora tendré que caminar a Antigua!"
"Jaja! Y para mí esta noche... puedo comer! Gracias por su donación, Dios te bendiga!"
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| Mayan girl practicing her weaving skills |
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| The native textile market in San Antonio |
My bike guru,
Captain Matt, who has himself
biked through much of Latin America, would be proud to know that I was able to cover a decent distance on all kinds of steep trails and busy highways, safely
dodging chickens and chicken buses alike. After nearly five hours of
cruising through the countryside on swollen bums, we ditched the bikes
and "sampled" our way through Antigua, hitting up a local coffee
distributer, a cute chocolate museum (the "food of the gods" we can thank the ancient Maya for), and the comedores back at the
mercado serving up a nice breaded cow tongue and fried mojarra. And what
could be more appropriate than celebrating Thanksgiving with a feast for two of authentic Mayan turkey soup (
kaq'ik), a stew of tripe and liver, and fresh tamales at
the popular La Fonda de la Calle Real. That night, we fell back asleep to the
sounds of firecrackers echoing from the nearby church. Or were they
gunshots?
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| Fried mojara and beef tongue at the mercado's comedores |
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| Pepian chicken, an unofficial national dish |
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| Cacao pods and tools for making the Mayan chocolate drink |
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| Thanksgiving dinner of turkey soup and tripe/liver stew with tamales |
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| Night over Antigua is peaceful until the church firecrackers are set alight |
Post-Departure Thoughts On Guatemala
Date: 28 November 2015
Location: Gate 52, Benito Juarez International, Mexico City
Still buzzed from that coffee two days ago and a little
crampy from a local market limonada (but no regrets), I find myself once
again back in Mexico City going through the same absurdly inefficient
system that nearly made me miss my flight a week ago. And what a week it
has been, frantically criss-crossing the land of the Maya from the hot wet jungles
to the cool dry highlands with not a moment wasted. My overall
impressions of Guatemala have been greatly positive and entirely how I imagined it to be, as its people
consistently exhibit a highly commendable hospitality and welcome to
their beautifully vibrant country. It now perplexes me even more how such a
heartwarming place could simultaneously be labeled as the most dangerous
in the region. Nevertheless, none of these lingering national complications
should ever be a reason to deter anyone from experiencing the timeless
ancient wonders and native traditions this tiny Central American country
can offer to the world. While the people may be poor, their heritage is
exceptionally rich, and Guatemalans are gradually starting to realize the
benefits of the legacy their ancestors have left them. As the Maya
believe in cyclical time, I too believe Guatemala will someday
re-experience a socioeconomic revival. Their 2012 prophecy never marked an
apocalyptic end; if anything, it foresees a brighter beginning.
