Caminetas (fancified school buses in electric colors) weave between other cars that overspill on the roadway in major hubs and sail solo up mountains in a seemingly deserted countryside. Simultaneously to our boarding, a sturdy man, shorter than I, scales the back of the bus to the roof top without hesitation (like second nature). Entangled in his arms - my gringo sized backpack and the ten pounds of fruit the 60-year old abuelita had previously been balancing on her head (while carrying two children, a baby strapped to her back, a skirt tied tightly from her waist to her ankles, and a sandal missing one strap). Adentro, its six to a row (four in the seats and two in the invisible chairs that are created when persons squeeze close enough together - either for warmth or out of necessity). As the camioneta climbs in altitude circling the mountain, the man next to me leans his leather-like hand on my shoulder to maintain balance, we exchange smiles, which acts as a universal language. The girl next to me, non-descript in age, opens her hand to offer me a candy without saying a word. A boy - blind, enters, he praises the lord in word and song, and feels his way down the aisle in the old worn-out school bus. Astonishingly (although this shouldn’t be the case), casi every Guatemalteco offers to him at least a few quetzals, which could likely be a noticeable portion of their daily income. Every few minutes persons jump on and off the bus, many in seemingly deserted areas. We change buses in hub cities where streets are lined with vendors of the most exotic vegetables/fruits, homemade snacks, American soft drinks, and artisan crafts. I gawk in amazement of the diversity of offerings, the intensity of the professions, the simplicity of life.
For everyone around me this is life – camioneta rides are perhaps a once daily, twice daily, thrice daily afterthought at most - the most relaxing time of the day for those that spend the majority of it laboring in fields, over stoves, in the heat shaded by a small umbrella selling anything that will be purchased.
For me this parallels the essence of Guatemala – a taste of the perseverance, humility, vitality, simplicity, and passion of the Guatemaltecos that surrounded us. It was an immediate appreciation for the diversity of landscapes - the breath taking views of the active volcanoes, vegetation, and crops; the historical architecture of doors on small tiendas that I attempted to capture on camera from the window of the fast moving camioneta.
I am utmost grateful to two amazing guides for exposing us to Guatemala – the ability to shop in local markets, speak with the Chiantla neighborhood pharmacist, engage with Guatemaltecos eager to learn English and equally those eager to read and write their own language, dine in local tiendas, to travel from one corner of the country to another – something most natives will never have the opportunity to do, and all of the other adventures Jason reminisces in his blog post.
With little perception of Guatemala before I arrived in Guate, I left two weeks later with a few broken finger nails, a stomach ache, and a desire for a long hot shower, but most importantly with an appreciation for a life very different than my own (both that of Guatemaltecos and PCVs). I see this country as a gem that is often overlooked by the American tourist, but offered to me, an American tourist, a diversity of adventure, relaxation, and exposure - and make a million life long memories (and of course the chance to travel wtih a childhood friend, visit with an awesome friend of 8 years, and to make new friends in David and a few Guatemalans)! It goes without saying, for those of you yet to visit Cara, get planning - you have 8 months!
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