Day 6 May 28
Part 2




A view of the lake on our way down the challenging mountain path.




The path down to the lake cuts through a village set along the mountainside, not far from the base. If there were laws against trespassing here, then we must have "broken the law" many times by passing several backyards through which the unpredictable path ran.

As usual, we had to be cautious of taking pictures of the people. (Less careful tourists have been attacked.) This picture shows indígena women gathered around the village well, which also serves as a nearby center for gossip. Their brightly colored dress, embroidered with animal and geometric motifs, declare their tribal identity.

Occasionally along the path, we passed Maya women walking in the opposite direction, often laboring over water jars or loads of laundry delicately balanced over their heads. They seemed aloof, even fearful, of our presence. Later on, I learned that Indian women, who can hardly speak enough Spanish to denounce their ladino assailants, have been abducted and sexually abused in such remote trails.


We stopped by a miserable adobe hut where a few children offered to sell us souvernirs. These turned out to be crude woodcarvings and the usual native-style cloth bracelets-- nothing really interesting. But we felt sorry for these kids whose entreating looks revealed their desperation. Alvaro whispered something about how they had spent many days in making these items to supplement the meager family income. Roberto seconded, adding "perhaps we should help them out.... ".

So I ended up buying a few bracelets, and the "piece de resistance": a tiny woodcarving for (the equivalent of) about fifty cents. However, it was not its poor workmanship, but the strange subject matter which struck me. For this was no rustic or imaginative geometric sculpture, like the majority of tipica pieces, but the likeness of an ancient foe, the Spanish conquistador! The prominent nose, narrow face, and full beard of the Castillian invader were unmistakable.

I was impressed. The fearsome Spaniard, responsible for centuries of oppression and the most horrific genocide in human history, had been assimilated into the local color spectrum. Far from being a demonization, my purchase was actually a light-hearted-- even humorous-- treatment of an unpleasant historical subject.

How many people in the world can be as good-hearted and resilient as these Guatemalans?






Upon reaching the foot of the mountain, we boarded a small ferry boat to take us through the lake and to the village of San Antonio Palopó. At San Antonio, we were greeted by hordes of kids hawking candies, cigarettes, peanuts, and other assorted stuff. They did not earn a lot from us, but afterwards, we met Paulina, a perky little Cakchiquel girl who talked us into visiting her house to look at her sister's handwoven fabrics. Already an astute merchant for one so small, she succeeded in selling us more than a hundred quetzals worth. (Years later, I watched a program on Maya civilization that noted: "far from being isolated priests, these Maya were rich merchants". I was reminded of clever Paulina.)

Later on, I was surprised when Roberto told me that the "tiny little girl" was actually twelve or so years old, and that her sister (whom I first mistook for her mother) was only in the teens. The hard life tells on the stature and features of these highland Maya. Their house was a one-room, single-lightbulb affair with only a few straw mats and rustic chairs for furniture, but it was considered a fine one by local standards.

War, poverty, and discrimination by the land-owning ladino minority force many Maya to leave their ancestral lands for work in the crowded cities. There, encountering even more bigotry, many of them finally abandon their traditional way of life and are assimilated into the "mainstream" culture. In Guatemala City, for example, it is common to see persons with entirely Indian features speak only Spanish and wear jeans, sneakers, and baseball caps.




Alvaro prepares to supplement the house's single lightbulb with his professional camera's flash.


"Is it true what they say, that life over there is very good?" Paulina asked me, a soft smile lighting up her dark, beautiful face. She was referring to the great North American republic where I now lived.

"It's different from here, but it's also nice." My reply was trite, but I did not want to elaborate on life in El Norte. I was no great advocate of modern industrial culture.

I briefly thought of how bountiful life would have been like for this little entrepreneur had she been born in the United States. But the scenario just did not make sense to me. It was easier for me to imagine a mountain flower blooming from desert sands. Here by Lake Atitlán was the soil that would sustain her. Her life, with its many attendant difficulties, did not seem less fortunate than one spent in the spiritually arid urban wastelands where I still struggled to grow a few roots.

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Into Guatemala 1989. © 1999 J. L. Pe