After four nights in Todos Santos, I left on foot early in the morning yesterday for the 10-mile walk to the village San Juan Atitan. I've been waking up very early, usually just before dawn, because I've kept my sleep schedule from the Yoga Forest as well as all the roosters and turkeys sounding off. People also shoot very loud bombs into the sky and the last few days being Todos Santos' biggest holiday of the year, they begin shooting these bombs quite early in the morning.
I stopped for some breakfast of fruit and breads after the first big climb out of Todos Santos by the cell tower. The options were left, right or straight and I wasn't sure what to do, but as keeps happening, someone came along at just the right time. A friendly local man was going the opposite way with his wife and son and pointed me where I needed to go. While we were talking, I finished my banano and flung the peel into the brush. As he was leaving, he asked for ´¿un banano, por mi hijo?´. I had bought two bananos the previous day because I like having two bananos and I knew I would want to eat two bananos, but I couldn't refuse so I parted with my second banano. ´Bueno, un regalo¨, a gift. No really, I was happy to do it. I set off for lower ground as the weather took a rapid change for the worse but stopped soon later for my ¨morning glory¨ a few steps off the trail. I covered my offering with an elegant and natural-looking arrangement of very long, red pine needles and as I walked off,.the sun was shining again.
I passed this chucho along the way. In the excitement of the long holiday weekend, someone had painted him blue.
I flirted with the edge of the cloud forest for some time before the cloud finally enveloped me and I spent most of the walk in very low visibility. I'm sure the view would've been lovely but it was also nice in the cloud with the road and my own thoughts. I stopped for lunch on the cement covering of a municipal water intake. Just after sitting down, a chucho came by alone, threw me a quick glance, sipped from the stream over the road, and continued on. 15 minutes later, I looked up to see two more chuchos in the road staring at me statuesque. They were reading me, judging me, deciding whether or not to come beg for food. There certainly wasn't any meat but rather only canned refried black beans on bread or leftover tortilla and some fruit. I should note here that passion fruit is delicious and is now in my regular repertoire. It is extremely tasty, juicy and crunchy all while very neat and easy to open. Its the design a pomegranate should've been given. One chucho decided it wasn't worth it, sipped from the stream, and continued on. The last chucho, the smaller one and the one who may have had to try harder for his calories, waited it out. I was staring into the eyes of the chucho, each of us sizing up the other, when I had to avert my glance to see who was now coming down the road.
In front was a caballo loaded down with lleña, or firewood. A medium-aged man and his grandson were driving the caballo. The caballo carried on by himself because the niño was wapping the side of his ass with a twig but the older man asked me ¨¿Para donde?¨ and we began to chat while the niño played in the small stream. Like just about everyone, the man was extremely friendly and after a while, he did ask after his other two chuchos. I took their photo which is a real testament to how cloudy it was; they were only about 6 feet away when photographed.
I walked another hour and met a crossroads and was unsure which road to take. While I pondered and again reviewed my vague map/directions, another lleña toting caballo approached, this one driven by a lone 13-year old. He pointed me down the road I would've guessed and we walked together for a while. He made it home and I carried on. I was feeling good and strong, walking downhill through the outskirts of my destination pueblo. I was summoned ¨Venga!¨ by a group of about seven young men and boys under a little hut by the roadside. I was a bit past but when I noticed the oldest was holding a pool cue and there was a pool table beneath the hut roof, I made a sharp turn for their hut. I was asked in Spanish if I played (yes) and if I wanted to play (yes) and was told to put down my mochila. When I said ¨pool¨, they all almost fell apart laughing and I thenceforth was confused by their humor because when I broke (pretty decent break), they all laughed and when I made a good shot in, they all laughed, but when I missed it was silence. As you can see in the photo, this hut was built for mountain Guatemaltecos and it was not over designed my any stretch. I bumped my head more times than I bothered to count and each time, they all laughed. I took two out of three off the first guy but the next guy, the traditionally dressed man photo-center, beat me twice before I resumed my descent. The table was not regulation and I blame my loss on the strange curves and nuances and have to place each loss under protest or at least chalk them up to home court advantage.
Thankfully, the sky opened up as I rode down from the village to the Pan-American Highway for the bus into Huehuetenango. It was a toss up between microbus and pickup and I'm glad which one came because standing up in the back of a pickup truck is a great way to make a 3000-foot descent surrounded by gorgeous mountain faces.
I flirted with the edge of the cloud forest for some time before the cloud finally enveloped me and I spent most of the walk in very low visibility. I'm sure the view would've been lovely but it was also nice in the cloud with the road and my own thoughts. I stopped for lunch on the cement covering of a municipal water intake. Just after sitting down, a chucho came by alone, threw me a quick glance, sipped from the stream over the road, and continued on. 15 minutes later, I looked up to see two more chuchos in the road staring at me statuesque. They were reading me, judging me, deciding whether or not to come beg for food. There certainly wasn't any meat but rather only canned refried black beans on bread or leftover tortilla and some fruit. I should note here that passion fruit is delicious and is now in my regular repertoire. It is extremely tasty, juicy and crunchy all while very neat and easy to open. Its the design a pomegranate should've been given. One chucho decided it wasn't worth it, sipped from the stream, and continued on. The last chucho, the smaller one and the one who may have had to try harder for his calories, waited it out. I was staring into the eyes of the chucho, each of us sizing up the other, when I had to avert my glance to see who was now coming down the road.
In front was a caballo loaded down with lleña, or firewood. A medium-aged man and his grandson were driving the caballo. The caballo carried on by himself because the niño was wapping the side of his ass with a twig but the older man asked me ¨¿Para donde?¨ and we began to chat while the niño played in the small stream. Like just about everyone, the man was extremely friendly and after a while, he did ask after his other two chuchos. I took their photo which is a real testament to how cloudy it was; they were only about 6 feet away when photographed.
I walked another hour and met a crossroads and was unsure which road to take. While I pondered and again reviewed my vague map/directions, another lleña toting caballo approached, this one driven by a lone 13-year old. He pointed me down the road I would've guessed and we walked together for a while. He made it home and I carried on. I was feeling good and strong, walking downhill through the outskirts of my destination pueblo. I was summoned ¨Venga!¨ by a group of about seven young men and boys under a little hut by the roadside. I was a bit past but when I noticed the oldest was holding a pool cue and there was a pool table beneath the hut roof, I made a sharp turn for their hut. I was asked in Spanish if I played (yes) and if I wanted to play (yes) and was told to put down my mochila. When I said ¨pool¨, they all almost fell apart laughing and I thenceforth was confused by their humor because when I broke (pretty decent break), they all laughed and when I made a good shot in, they all laughed, but when I missed it was silence. As you can see in the photo, this hut was built for mountain Guatemaltecos and it was not over designed my any stretch. I bumped my head more times than I bothered to count and each time, they all laughed. I took two out of three off the first guy but the next guy, the traditionally dressed man photo-center, beat me twice before I resumed my descent. The table was not regulation and I blame my loss on the strange curves and nuances and have to place each loss under protest or at least chalk them up to home court advantage.
Thankfully, the sky opened up as I rode down from the village to the Pan-American Highway for the bus into Huehuetenango. It was a toss up between microbus and pickup and I'm glad which one came because standing up in the back of a pickup truck is a great way to make a 3000-foot descent surrounded by gorgeous mountain faces.
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