I took off for Pala Grande without swim trunks. I had a warm soak at La Barranquita yesterday. There´s a couple hot spring baths there built into the hill with stone and cement. There´d be a view of a strong 70ft waterfall if not for a sheet of corrugated aluminum that acts as wall for spray, I guess. Pipes protrude from the rock face letting the hot, sulfurous spring water fall into the tubs and, keeping a fresh, hot supply, the tubs act as tributaries into the main stream, where the waterfall is. I had the place to myself for 25 minutes lying in the warmer tub with a comfortable pillow made of rock.
Continuing five minutes down the road, I reached the 300 stairs down to Payeshu. There I found more hot baths, including a tub of water actually boiling up from the earth. These were more crowded with local Quiche folks and since I had just soaked and was unsure of the routine at this more popular spot, I simply rested awhile doing my best not to look creepy and took deep breaths in preparation for the stair climb.
I wasn´t sure what exactly the Pala Grande was when I left, but I knew it involved a waterfall. I relished the idea of taking a walk not carrying anything, feeling assured in the fact that my black boxer shorts would serve as coverage in the event of an irresistable swimming opportunity. I was light with no heavy pack and planned on making the 2k walk, having a look at the falls, and turning around and coming back to carry on in my book, Children of Sanchez. I really wanted to finish Consuelo´s final segment of this five-person combined autobiography. I mean, it was no wonder Papa threw her out of house and no one liked her because in addition to being winy, sickly and bossy, she also attacked Delilah, the widower Papa´s current mistress. Everyone else pretty much got along if you count yelling, screaming, insulting, beating, fighting, whoring and treachery. I felt good walking up Calle 3A. I had on my sneaker sandals with my Barca socks and my brand new hat from the big Wednesday market that morning. It´s kind of a cross between a cowboy hat and something a little classier with a smaller brim. It´s an earthy tan. If I had known what I was in for that afternoon, I´d have worn my safari hat and my real shoes.
I followed multiple directions of ´recto´ until I topped the hill near the cell phone tower. After a good-sized sleeping chucho woke up and got real angry at me, a road branched off to the right. There was a sign for Pala Grande but in the traditional Gaute style, someone had placed an even bigger sign just in front of it. Descending into the valley, I noticed the climate and flora change. There were riscos here and there, natural stalagmites caused by erosion, not by dripping. It was beautiful and as I descended further into the valley, I saw a small foot bridge over a stream and a summer-campy kind of picnic table grove but with no picnic tables. I carried on down the road and came to another bridge.
Always wanting to get as near as possible to the water, I crossed the bridge and took a dirt trail, or camino, to the left. Moments later, I was able to drop down about 12-feet into the canyon where the stream came through. Sunlight poked in and lit up spots of the rocks, moss, and skim-milky water. I carried on up the camino which soon became narrow to pass through some homes. Here I hesitated for a second before carrying on. I remembered that caminos often get narrow and pass near people´s home and also I just stopped being a bitch. Five kids in the trail saw me and I wondered how many gringos had casually strolled up this camino next to their house. Four little ones got excited and ran toward the house but the oldest was more interested in getting his kite airborne than paying attention to me. When asked, he casually told me I could reach the bridge further up by going on up the trail.
Moments later, the bridge came up. The pool beneath it emptied into the pool beneath that via a seven foot waterfall that was just as wide. One could easily wade in to the small pool beneath the falls before the stream narrowed and turned back into shallow rapids. The decision to enter the water here was made as soon as I saw the site and the obvious goal was to take a seat inside, behind the stout, powerful falls. I would´ve been visible, in my black boxers, from the bridge about 30ft back and 20ft up if anyone at all had been around. I waded carefully into the cold water realizing it never got more than knee-deep. Standing just before the falls, I pondered how powerful the water would feel. Testing the gravity with my fingertips caused a spray of water to shower my yet dry face and chest with a shocking blast of cold. Tough part over, I again tested the force with my head. Realizing I would not be crushed by the water, I plopped down beneath the falls. While the ergonomics of the seat were comfortable, it was so loud, intense and still freezing in there that I could only manage to stay under for a few seconds. I popped out clapping my hands very excited then turned to see two local men watching from the bridge. Exiting the water, I dried off happy in the spackled sun considering this fine spot on the Earth.
All dressed, escaping the onslaught of the coffee flies at my ankles, I worked my way up the stream on small paths. I had a cliff-view over the canyon in a spot where the stream S-curved and at the closer crest, a colorfully dressed woman worked on her wash. My camera, or memory card rather, is on vacation for a few days before being reformatted, so I apologize for the lack of art herein. Further up the camino, I paused before taking a few steps back toward the water between the outhouse and chicken coop of someone´s property. I heard one, lone bark from an unseen chucho. This was a calm bark. To me, this chucho was saying ¨Gringo, I don´t know you but I´m here and I see you but you don´t see me. You're move¨ It wasn´t aggressive or threatening, just a hello really. I tipped my king over and retreated to the camino with no further sounds from the chucho and saw a woman moving by the house above. She said something incomprehensible to me and I greeted her with ¨Buenas Tardes¨. She did her quick spiel and I´m really not sure if what she was saying was ¨Get out of here quick, you Gringo fuck, we´ve got chuchos!¨ or ¨Careful, young man. You are likely to encounter some unfriendly chuchos and you would be best to hasten along the camino out of their territory. Farewell!¨ She pointed me along the way I was already going, so I went, though not really hastening. This seemed a good time to gather up a chucho stick but selection wasn´t great. The first stick I grabbed was a good, strong switch and not too heavy, but really too curved for effectively and efficiently thwacking at chuchos. I traded that one in for a straight one at first chance, slicing off some small branches with my pocket knife and smoothing out the grip. I wouldn´t want to add to the inconvenience of a chucho attack a blistered hand.
Untested by any chuchos, I peaked a small hump to see a dirt road and a man sitting on a rock at the trail´s edge. I viewed him in profile and saw him before he saw me. His caballero hat was on his knee exposing a bald head with a scraggly horseshoe of hair around the sides. I first noticed the machete, of course, and that this man wore decent, outdoorsy boots, fairly uncommon of locals. I´m sure they were at least two sizes too large. I greeted him from 25ft away, and when he responded I deemed him safe enough to move closer. He summoned me to sit with him on the rock, not an uncommon request, and I obliged. This rock was in the loveseat family so we were now sitting very close and no one else was anywhere near.
He proceeded to tell me that he was the dueño, which I understand to mean owner or boss. He seemed to me to be implying that this was his land and I was intruding. He came off fairly angry. I figured he had been alerted to my presence and sat and waited where he knew I would show up. I felt my pulse begin to rise but tried to remain calm as were sitting hip to hip. He took out a pad and began to write things down, like to name of the barrio and that he was the propietario. I calmed down as I began to realize he was some sort of term sheriff/mayor figure for the Barrio Santa Ana and I hadn´t done anything wrong. This man, Silverio, was not dangerous, but he was raving mad. Picture a cross between Ben Kingsley from Ghandi and Ben Kingsley from House of Sand and Fog and nuts. I took out my book to write down his name. I wrote Silverio in my hand then passed the book and pen to him. I began to chuckle somewhat uncontrollably as I saw what he was writing. He wrote his name and address, using up the whole page, including the country and even continent and tried my best to conceal my laughter when he finished and returned the book and looked up.
Mixing Spanish with Quiche, mystery facial contortions and hand symbols, he told me he lived deeper into the mountains and there was a nice mirador on the way to his property. My diagnosis of harmless whack-job already made, I told him I´d be happy to take a walk with him and we set off. Wishing I had some water, I still enjoyed carrying nothing while he wore a big costale-material backpack full of who knows what and toted that. I was looking forward to the mirador, but deep down I knew I was hoping to see this guy´s house and see if there was any wife or kids to speak of He made a good pace up but I was able to keep up for now. He´d suggest which roads and trails were safe to take and which ones weren´t due to ladrones and chuchos by contorting his lips and face in different ways. Not interested in his instructions, I wondered whether everything between his exposed teeth was old food or an actual dental arrangement.
Truth be told, the mirador was quite spectacular. We could see very, very far from here. Here, and in other spots, he would ask me if I had really seen what he was showing me by pointing to the site and then pointing to me then pulling down his lower eyelid a couple times. It was a little sickening. He pointed out the directions of Xela(Quetzaltenango), Totonicapan, Huehuetenango and La Frontera de Mexico out beyond Huehue. It made me feel safe again when he now told me how I could get back from there via the baths but also offered to show me his house. He answered that the house was five minutes away and I agreed to go. Wanting to be able to find my way back, I wanted to nail down a couple navigational details, but he was now too excited and clamped painfully onto my upper arm to pull me along. The third time he did it I realized I reflexively pulled my arm away from his kung fu grip.
He set off on a trot downhill toward his home and I stopped to urinate without telling him. He realized I had fallen behind and yelled at me to ¨vamos!¨. Again setting off running, we passed over several small roads and trail splits and I knew I´d never be able to find my way back this way alone. We reached the house, a nondescript cement double shack with a little grassy courtyard in between. After pulling a beautiful flower and presenting it to me, Silverio rolled up and pinned the chainlink fence covering the entry to the courtyard. He undid the huge padlock to the house and opened up. It was a dark, dusty shithole. No wife or kids to speak of. It didn´t get too much better when he opened a couple windows but it did allow me to see a little more. It was disarray, stuff was strewn all about. I saw a curling bar at the far end. He excitedly showed me everything and demanded ¨Esta bueno?¨. My friends know me as pretty honest and I wanted to say ¨Look, Silverio, I think this place could use a bit of tidying up and organization¨, but instead I told him it was nice. He began to fart audibly at will and one of them was so long and drawn out that it outlasted his sentence creating an awkwardness much like the interview scene in the film Step-Brothers, but of intercontinental proportions. He did have a nice table that would´ve been great for a dinner for four or maybe even six. Silverio must have, not too recently, decided it would make better use as a caballero hat rack so he had it upside-down. It held a hat each for three legs and the fourth was on his head. This was the only actual interior design he had implemented besides throwing whatever wherever.
The outdoors, on the other hand, was magnificent. He owned 32 acuerdas and had beautiful corn, fields of wildflowers, and a great view of his valley. I gathered up my flower and chucho stick and told him I should really hit the road because it was, truthfully, getting late and I had a decent walk back. He didn´t resist too strongly. We had a good amount of miscommunication regarding my way out, but then he warned that on the path I wanted to take there was ¨mucho chucho¨. He ran back to grab his machete and came with me for a spell, which I was hoping he would. I was pretty happy to get away from him but glad I´d experienced his tour and I think he was happy with it as well. Later, I decided what I first thought was anger at the trail edge was strong, serious pride. This is where he was born back in 1955 and now he was an authority figure and he had every right to have excessive pride in this beautiful land. Maybe my new hat caused him to treat me very seriously. At home, I can detect differences in how I´m treated by strangers with respect to how long it´s been since I shaved. When I travel, a hat can change things. My trusty safari hat usually reads very friendly to strangers and I´m still gauging how the new hat comes off.
I was excited to give the lovely flower to a nice señorita, but I got nervous a couple times and ended up giving it to a nice family on the steps down to the baths. I found the road there with instructions from a friendly young man and was a bit of a spectacle to locals walking the road as a casual, lone Gringo. Hours and miles since beginning, I finally came the La Pala Grande, where another waterfall fell near the hot pools. These were, again, quite crowded, and I simply passed through. The Quiche men, women and kids bathe together. The women wear bath dresses and a pair of boobs or some man ass may pop out here and there but it doesn't cause much of a stir.
I passed through the bath area and paced myself up the steps on the other side. Eventually, I reached the road. Just across the way is where I had originally gone left. Pleased with my wrong turn, I made the climb back up over the ridge, enjoying some agua pura from a plastic pouch. Descending back into the center of Momostenango, I watched as the last of the sunlight crawled up away from the tops of the taller buildings. I approached a fried chicken stand directly (Q7, with fries) for a nice appetizer before the real dinner. My Spanish suffered ordering dinner as I thought ahead to that night´s sleep and a nice, hot soak early the next morning.
Continuing five minutes down the road, I reached the 300 stairs down to Payeshu. There I found more hot baths, including a tub of water actually boiling up from the earth. These were more crowded with local Quiche folks and since I had just soaked and was unsure of the routine at this more popular spot, I simply rested awhile doing my best not to look creepy and took deep breaths in preparation for the stair climb.
I wasn´t sure what exactly the Pala Grande was when I left, but I knew it involved a waterfall. I relished the idea of taking a walk not carrying anything, feeling assured in the fact that my black boxer shorts would serve as coverage in the event of an irresistable swimming opportunity. I was light with no heavy pack and planned on making the 2k walk, having a look at the falls, and turning around and coming back to carry on in my book, Children of Sanchez. I really wanted to finish Consuelo´s final segment of this five-person combined autobiography. I mean, it was no wonder Papa threw her out of house and no one liked her because in addition to being winy, sickly and bossy, she also attacked Delilah, the widower Papa´s current mistress. Everyone else pretty much got along if you count yelling, screaming, insulting, beating, fighting, whoring and treachery. I felt good walking up Calle 3A. I had on my sneaker sandals with my Barca socks and my brand new hat from the big Wednesday market that morning. It´s kind of a cross between a cowboy hat and something a little classier with a smaller brim. It´s an earthy tan. If I had known what I was in for that afternoon, I´d have worn my safari hat and my real shoes.
I followed multiple directions of ´recto´ until I topped the hill near the cell phone tower. After a good-sized sleeping chucho woke up and got real angry at me, a road branched off to the right. There was a sign for Pala Grande but in the traditional Gaute style, someone had placed an even bigger sign just in front of it. Descending into the valley, I noticed the climate and flora change. There were riscos here and there, natural stalagmites caused by erosion, not by dripping. It was beautiful and as I descended further into the valley, I saw a small foot bridge over a stream and a summer-campy kind of picnic table grove but with no picnic tables. I carried on down the road and came to another bridge.
Always wanting to get as near as possible to the water, I crossed the bridge and took a dirt trail, or camino, to the left. Moments later, I was able to drop down about 12-feet into the canyon where the stream came through. Sunlight poked in and lit up spots of the rocks, moss, and skim-milky water. I carried on up the camino which soon became narrow to pass through some homes. Here I hesitated for a second before carrying on. I remembered that caminos often get narrow and pass near people´s home and also I just stopped being a bitch. Five kids in the trail saw me and I wondered how many gringos had casually strolled up this camino next to their house. Four little ones got excited and ran toward the house but the oldest was more interested in getting his kite airborne than paying attention to me. When asked, he casually told me I could reach the bridge further up by going on up the trail.
Moments later, the bridge came up. The pool beneath it emptied into the pool beneath that via a seven foot waterfall that was just as wide. One could easily wade in to the small pool beneath the falls before the stream narrowed and turned back into shallow rapids. The decision to enter the water here was made as soon as I saw the site and the obvious goal was to take a seat inside, behind the stout, powerful falls. I would´ve been visible, in my black boxers, from the bridge about 30ft back and 20ft up if anyone at all had been around. I waded carefully into the cold water realizing it never got more than knee-deep. Standing just before the falls, I pondered how powerful the water would feel. Testing the gravity with my fingertips caused a spray of water to shower my yet dry face and chest with a shocking blast of cold. Tough part over, I again tested the force with my head. Realizing I would not be crushed by the water, I plopped down beneath the falls. While the ergonomics of the seat were comfortable, it was so loud, intense and still freezing in there that I could only manage to stay under for a few seconds. I popped out clapping my hands very excited then turned to see two local men watching from the bridge. Exiting the water, I dried off happy in the spackled sun considering this fine spot on the Earth.
All dressed, escaping the onslaught of the coffee flies at my ankles, I worked my way up the stream on small paths. I had a cliff-view over the canyon in a spot where the stream S-curved and at the closer crest, a colorfully dressed woman worked on her wash. My camera, or memory card rather, is on vacation for a few days before being reformatted, so I apologize for the lack of art herein. Further up the camino, I paused before taking a few steps back toward the water between the outhouse and chicken coop of someone´s property. I heard one, lone bark from an unseen chucho. This was a calm bark. To me, this chucho was saying ¨Gringo, I don´t know you but I´m here and I see you but you don´t see me. You're move¨ It wasn´t aggressive or threatening, just a hello really. I tipped my king over and retreated to the camino with no further sounds from the chucho and saw a woman moving by the house above. She said something incomprehensible to me and I greeted her with ¨Buenas Tardes¨. She did her quick spiel and I´m really not sure if what she was saying was ¨Get out of here quick, you Gringo fuck, we´ve got chuchos!¨ or ¨Careful, young man. You are likely to encounter some unfriendly chuchos and you would be best to hasten along the camino out of their territory. Farewell!¨ She pointed me along the way I was already going, so I went, though not really hastening. This seemed a good time to gather up a chucho stick but selection wasn´t great. The first stick I grabbed was a good, strong switch and not too heavy, but really too curved for effectively and efficiently thwacking at chuchos. I traded that one in for a straight one at first chance, slicing off some small branches with my pocket knife and smoothing out the grip. I wouldn´t want to add to the inconvenience of a chucho attack a blistered hand.
Untested by any chuchos, I peaked a small hump to see a dirt road and a man sitting on a rock at the trail´s edge. I viewed him in profile and saw him before he saw me. His caballero hat was on his knee exposing a bald head with a scraggly horseshoe of hair around the sides. I first noticed the machete, of course, and that this man wore decent, outdoorsy boots, fairly uncommon of locals. I´m sure they were at least two sizes too large. I greeted him from 25ft away, and when he responded I deemed him safe enough to move closer. He summoned me to sit with him on the rock, not an uncommon request, and I obliged. This rock was in the loveseat family so we were now sitting very close and no one else was anywhere near.
He proceeded to tell me that he was the dueño, which I understand to mean owner or boss. He seemed to me to be implying that this was his land and I was intruding. He came off fairly angry. I figured he had been alerted to my presence and sat and waited where he knew I would show up. I felt my pulse begin to rise but tried to remain calm as were sitting hip to hip. He took out a pad and began to write things down, like to name of the barrio and that he was the propietario. I calmed down as I began to realize he was some sort of term sheriff/mayor figure for the Barrio Santa Ana and I hadn´t done anything wrong. This man, Silverio, was not dangerous, but he was raving mad. Picture a cross between Ben Kingsley from Ghandi and Ben Kingsley from House of Sand and Fog and nuts. I took out my book to write down his name. I wrote Silverio in my hand then passed the book and pen to him. I began to chuckle somewhat uncontrollably as I saw what he was writing. He wrote his name and address, using up the whole page, including the country and even continent and tried my best to conceal my laughter when he finished and returned the book and looked up.
Mixing Spanish with Quiche, mystery facial contortions and hand symbols, he told me he lived deeper into the mountains and there was a nice mirador on the way to his property. My diagnosis of harmless whack-job already made, I told him I´d be happy to take a walk with him and we set off. Wishing I had some water, I still enjoyed carrying nothing while he wore a big costale-material backpack full of who knows what and toted that. I was looking forward to the mirador, but deep down I knew I was hoping to see this guy´s house and see if there was any wife or kids to speak of He made a good pace up but I was able to keep up for now. He´d suggest which roads and trails were safe to take and which ones weren´t due to ladrones and chuchos by contorting his lips and face in different ways. Not interested in his instructions, I wondered whether everything between his exposed teeth was old food or an actual dental arrangement.
Truth be told, the mirador was quite spectacular. We could see very, very far from here. Here, and in other spots, he would ask me if I had really seen what he was showing me by pointing to the site and then pointing to me then pulling down his lower eyelid a couple times. It was a little sickening. He pointed out the directions of Xela(Quetzaltenango), Totonicapan, Huehuetenango and La Frontera de Mexico out beyond Huehue. It made me feel safe again when he now told me how I could get back from there via the baths but also offered to show me his house. He answered that the house was five minutes away and I agreed to go. Wanting to be able to find my way back, I wanted to nail down a couple navigational details, but he was now too excited and clamped painfully onto my upper arm to pull me along. The third time he did it I realized I reflexively pulled my arm away from his kung fu grip.
He set off on a trot downhill toward his home and I stopped to urinate without telling him. He realized I had fallen behind and yelled at me to ¨vamos!¨. Again setting off running, we passed over several small roads and trail splits and I knew I´d never be able to find my way back this way alone. We reached the house, a nondescript cement double shack with a little grassy courtyard in between. After pulling a beautiful flower and presenting it to me, Silverio rolled up and pinned the chainlink fence covering the entry to the courtyard. He undid the huge padlock to the house and opened up. It was a dark, dusty shithole. No wife or kids to speak of. It didn´t get too much better when he opened a couple windows but it did allow me to see a little more. It was disarray, stuff was strewn all about. I saw a curling bar at the far end. He excitedly showed me everything and demanded ¨Esta bueno?¨. My friends know me as pretty honest and I wanted to say ¨Look, Silverio, I think this place could use a bit of tidying up and organization¨, but instead I told him it was nice. He began to fart audibly at will and one of them was so long and drawn out that it outlasted his sentence creating an awkwardness much like the interview scene in the film Step-Brothers, but of intercontinental proportions. He did have a nice table that would´ve been great for a dinner for four or maybe even six. Silverio must have, not too recently, decided it would make better use as a caballero hat rack so he had it upside-down. It held a hat each for three legs and the fourth was on his head. This was the only actual interior design he had implemented besides throwing whatever wherever.
The outdoors, on the other hand, was magnificent. He owned 32 acuerdas and had beautiful corn, fields of wildflowers, and a great view of his valley. I gathered up my flower and chucho stick and told him I should really hit the road because it was, truthfully, getting late and I had a decent walk back. He didn´t resist too strongly. We had a good amount of miscommunication regarding my way out, but then he warned that on the path I wanted to take there was ¨mucho chucho¨. He ran back to grab his machete and came with me for a spell, which I was hoping he would. I was pretty happy to get away from him but glad I´d experienced his tour and I think he was happy with it as well. Later, I decided what I first thought was anger at the trail edge was strong, serious pride. This is where he was born back in 1955 and now he was an authority figure and he had every right to have excessive pride in this beautiful land. Maybe my new hat caused him to treat me very seriously. At home, I can detect differences in how I´m treated by strangers with respect to how long it´s been since I shaved. When I travel, a hat can change things. My trusty safari hat usually reads very friendly to strangers and I´m still gauging how the new hat comes off.
I was excited to give the lovely flower to a nice señorita, but I got nervous a couple times and ended up giving it to a nice family on the steps down to the baths. I found the road there with instructions from a friendly young man and was a bit of a spectacle to locals walking the road as a casual, lone Gringo. Hours and miles since beginning, I finally came the La Pala Grande, where another waterfall fell near the hot pools. These were, again, quite crowded, and I simply passed through. The Quiche men, women and kids bathe together. The women wear bath dresses and a pair of boobs or some man ass may pop out here and there but it doesn't cause much of a stir.
I passed through the bath area and paced myself up the steps on the other side. Eventually, I reached the road. Just across the way is where I had originally gone left. Pleased with my wrong turn, I made the climb back up over the ridge, enjoying some agua pura from a plastic pouch. Descending back into the center of Momostenango, I watched as the last of the sunlight crawled up away from the tops of the taller buildings. I approached a fried chicken stand directly (Q7, with fries) for a nice appetizer before the real dinner. My Spanish suffered ordering dinner as I thought ahead to that night´s sleep and a nice, hot soak early the next morning.
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