Finally On the Move

I finally found the means to pull myself out of the vortex that had become southern Guatemala; this segment of my journey was like a new chapter since it meant that this time, I was really and truly leaving all the places I had become so fond of and comfortable with over the past nine and a half weeks. Xela, Lago de Atitlan and Antigua were now to be archived as a part of my past and would have to sit in my memory for the time being--rather than me continuing to sit around in them...

Yesterday I arrived in Coban, a city of about 86,000 people which, in looking at a map, appears to sit smack in the center of the country of Guatemala. Although sad to be leaving my comfort zone, I was at the same time ready and excited for what lie ahead (not to mention the impending warmer temperatures I would soon be faced with as I moved along my planned route in the coming weeks--I was getting awfully tired of being cold while in Central America). Somewhere along my six-hour journey, on yet another shuttle van filled with all Israelis, I developed a terrible headache that I can only attribute to one of two possibilities: the change in elevation (a drop of only 600 ft), or, my high annoyance level that was an obvious result of riding in a van with five others, all young, post-army age Israelis who felt the need to do such things as sit in the very front seat next to the driver with their bare feet up on the dashboard while their wet sandals dried out (also on the dashboard) even though the rest of the van was full of empty seats, demand (and that is no exaggeration) that the driver pull over immediately on several occasions so that they can use a toilet, or, throw the temper tantrum of a five year old when we begin to drive through--straight through, without stopping--Guatemala City just because they were previously informed that this was a direct route to the final destination (long sentence, I know). At this point I was so fed up with their attitude and disrespect toward the bus driver, who was indeed ready to kick them off the bus himself, that I chimed in (and with a little of my own attitude, I will admit) and reassured them that we were only driving through the capital city that has developed such a bad reputation and that this was the normal route taken by all buses--SO JUST DEAL WITH IT!!! You can be the judge of where that headache came from, because I'm sure it wasn't from a lack of sleep, or dehydration, or anything else like that...

Finally, about four to five hours later, the van approached the outskirts of Coban. I was the only one getting off here (the rest of them were continuing on to a place called Lanquin), and how delighted I was to soon be removing myself from this situation. However, this suddenly, without any warning, became one of those times in which a one of the Israeli girls desperately needed to use a toilet. I knew this moment was too good to be true. So, per her request, we stopped to let her do just that while I stared down to the city below, just out of arm's reach, wishing I could magically transport myself there immediately. In the meantime, the bus driver had brought my backpack up to the front of the bus, since he knew I would soon be getting off. Upon stepping back onto the bus one of the Israeli girls thought it necessary to inform me, with the usual attitude (to be fair, it's quite possible at this point that my perception of her was more a result of my own attitude than hers), that the driver had brought my bag up. I said something along the lines of "okay" and then took my seat. Well, that was not good enough because then she needed to know if I had "asked him to do that." I annoyingly replied with "No, I did not ask the driver to do that, but I will getting off the bus in Coban before everyone else, so the driver was probably just trying to make the whole process easier on everybody by bringing my bag to the front" (because god knows they might throw another tantrum if we were to stop too long in the city to let me off).

I was so happy to get off that bus when the driver pulled up to the central park in Coban, that I couldn't even be bothered with hearing what that nice man was telling me about where the good hostels were before I was already walking away. I think the driver and I had a mutual understanding, though.

DISCLAIMER: In no way am I trying to disrespect or make any unfair generalizations toward one specific group of people. I am merely trying to document my own personal experiences.

I found a hostel (thanks to a nice young English-speaking couple whom I ran into on the street), checked in, and then immediately took some Tylenol and a much needed nap. It appeared as though I was the only traveler in the entire hostel, which meant that I had a dorm room of three bunk beds and a private bathroom and shower to myself. For me, the chance that I may have an entire dorm room to myself is always an exciting prospect after such a long day. However, just as I was getting up from my nap, in entered a new roommate. Anke, an adorable and friendly blond-haired German girl (see photo below), and I hit it off immediately and spent the next 30 hours or so together before she moved in with a local family to start Spanish school. With my headache gone, I was actually quite thankful that a new friend walked into my life at this moment, for it's always better to explore a new place with somebody else, and I had lost some close friends to their own journey just a few days before.

Anke, my 30-hour German friend.

More often than not it seems, the Europeans I encountered were smokers, so Anke and I spent a few hours or so that afternoon sitting at one of the restaurant tables in our hostel (this hostel doubled as a local restaurant), with Anke puffing away on her cigarettes and me downing another cup of coffee. We talked about a lot of different things, but most of our discussion revolved around our similar life situations of deciding to travel while we just kind of drift along figuring out what comes next, not really sure of exactly where we want to go in life but enjoying the moment nonetheless--sentiments that most of the other travelers I met shared. Anke is 26, a year older than myself and although I can't remember the details, her recent life goes something like this: she went to university, spending some time in South Africa on an internship (where she met and started dating her current boyfriend five years ago), and then lived in London for a while (or was that her boyfriend who lived in London?) before taking off on a year(ish?) long trip to several parts of the world. She still has to finish up some sort of teacher training/education back in Germany, but had decided that in the meantime she'd travel. Again, like many of the other travelers I met, Anke has already spent time in other places like India, where she lived (by herself!) for eight months. It's people like Anke whom I continuously met on my travels who are such an inspiration to me and my aspirations to never settle without the inclusion of world travel in my life :)

After an early dinner that evening at a local comedor that sits along the central park in Coban, Anke and I returned to two new roommates, who were at first not very interested in the friendly small talk that usually occurs when first meeting the people you are going to sleep in the same room with. My sneaking suspicion that these two guys were Japanese was solidified when I secretly glanced at the book spread on the bed next to mine and saw the Japanese writing. Of course, there were other things that gave away their nationality to me too, particularly after having grown up around Japanese culture, like the possession of a higher than average number of technological gadgets, their extreme organization, and the ramen noodles that one of the guys was cooking in the room. So what else am I supposed to do than take advantage of an opportunity to try out my rusty Japanese language skills?

Luckily for me, Hiro (the more social and interactive of the two), turned out to be very friendly--and quite amusing! His English was not particularly strong, his Spanish even worse. But, Hiro, Anke and I managed to spend the rest of the evening chatting away, our conversations accompanied by several good laughs. You see, Hiro explained to us in his broken English that he only arrived a week or so prior to begin his year-long journey around the world (another inspirational world traveler). He soon met Toshi (the other Japanese guy), a 30-something year old doctor whom Hiro had since been following around through Mexico and Guatemala like a little puppy (according to Hiro, the doc was boss and Hiro just went where and when the doctor said). We also learned that within a week's time, among other (but smaller) mishaps, Hiro had managed to lose the most important part of his passport somewhere between his arrival in Mexico and the border crossing into Guatemala. Apparently he handed his passport over to immigration at the border, only to have the person open it up and find the page with his name, photo and other important information missing from his passport entirely. Talk about a moment in time where one would have a difficult time knowing how to react, let alone provide some sort of explanation to the border-crossing officials. He ended up getting through somehow, but not without the use of monetary bribery. Hiro had also lost his shoes the day before, so was wearing some cheap Croc knock-offs he bought somewhere in Guatemala, and when he came back to the hostel the following day after going off on some day-long adventure with the boss, he informed us that he lost his ring somewhere underwater in the caves. I tried to reassure him that he was just getting all of these mishaps out of the way in the first weeks of his travels, so that way the remaining 50 weeks of travel would run smoothly. Oh, and perhaps one of my favorite moments of that first evening was when Hiro disclosed to Anke and I that he, at age 24, was a retired football player for Japan. American football, not soccer. Mind you, Hiro stood at about my height and this is Japan we're talking about here. Several good laughs were had that night indeed, and my Japanese proved to remain at a third-grade level. But hey, one never knows when she will need to know how to say peach, monkey, please sit down, and pleased to meet you in Japanese, right?

My second day in Coban was spent in part walking around the city with Anke, dabbling a little in the local culture as we waded through the market. I always tried to make it to the local market of every new town I visited, because to me it seems like a good place to learn a little bit about the people and culture of that area. Traditional Mayan dress varies depending on the region, town and which indigenous Mayan group the people of that area belong to. Sometimes the men would just be wearing jeans with a polo or collared shirt, and perhaps some cowboy boots, and sometimes, in more traditional areas, men (particularly older men) would be sporting traditional pants (many of them a straight and wide leg that falls just below the knee and made of a bright colored and patterned fabric) and a similarly patterned shirt. Women would always be in a skirt, often just a large piece of beautiful cloth reaching from waist to ankle and wrapped around the body a few times, held up by a belt of sorts. In the warmer climates, women would be wearing shorter skirts that reached just below the knees. Women always wore some kind of sandals, heels or dress shoes, never once did I see a Mayan woman wearing tennis shoes. Women usually sported long hair, usually back in a braid (sometimes complete with one brightly colored ribbon interwoven through the braid), or wrapped up around the head with a ribbon or cloth. They were also sometimes adorned in some type of small gold jewelry and wore a brightly colored and lacy blouse, or a huipil (a large piece of fabric doubled over with a hole cut in the middle for the head, sides joined together with openings for the arms, made of Mayan textile that displays such things as which village they reside in). Every new town or village was represented by a new style of dress. Talk about keeping things interesting...

One of many variations of traditional Mayan women's dress outside a shop in Coban

Later that afternoon I went solo and took a tour of the coffee plantation in Coban, called Dieseldorff. And yes, this is a German name. The city itself was first developed by German coffee growers at the end of the 19th century. Come WWII, all of those Germans were expelled from the country by the Guatemalan government (thank you Wikipedia). The tour consisted of just myself and an older Mayan woman who spoke excellent English, and although I could tell she ran on autopilot from having given this same tour a countless number of times to curious tourists/travelers like myself, she was very kind and willing to answer all of my questions--including the non-coffee related ones.

With Anke and my Japanese friends soon gone, I felt no reason to stay any longer in Coban. So, the morning after my second night I caught an early shuttle to Semuc Champey, one of the more beautiful natural wonders in the country. Let the journey continue!