Mella Madness

It started in Mucugê, the day before I left Chapada Diamantina, which was Saturday, 25th October, the day before the Brazilian election of their new president.  There had been some loud music on Friday, but on Saturday everyone took to the streets, following a trailer mounted with about 12 big speakers, waving banners, cheering, and dancing.  The two candidates were the current left-wing President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva and the right-wing Senator Flávio Bolsonaro.  Bahia is a Lula supporter, so in Mucugê it was all about Lula.  The one popular song being played all the time, was the sports song, “Ole, ole ole ole,” but ending with “Lula, Lula!”  The procession would stop every now and then for speeches and cheering, and then move on again.

They were handing out stickers with the number 13 on it, and back in Salvador I saw a lot of them pasted on the pavement.  I asked Mericia about the number, and she explained that each candidate has a number that you type in when voting, as it is all done electronically.   Lula is 13 and Bolsonaro is 2. 

Mericia and I sat ready at 16h30 on Sunday, waiting for the results of the voting which were supposed to start coming in at 17h00, but then the dramatic event occurred where Lula’s lawyer managed to get a court order to postpone the voting by two hours.  Mericia couldn’t explain to me what was happening, so she got someone to type what had happened, and I could translate (this was the person’s view):

“Whatever the outcome of the election, it will be corrupted, and what was supposed to be the end of a dark cycle, with a gradual reduction in polarization, becomes the exact opposite: the beginning of a much darker cycle.

Let me explain why:

The Supreme Federal Court (STF), the institution with the least credibility among Brazilians, overrode the Superior Electoral Court (TSE), through the voice of Lula’s former lawyer, and, with 23 minutes remaining before the end of voting, unilaterally and without precedent ordered a 2-hour postponement of voting in all 5,700 municipalities and 100,000 polling places across the country.

All this in a Brazil on edge, at a time of historically high polarization and hysteria.

Some locations had already closed their doors, sealed the ballot boxes, printed the zeroing report, and released the poll workers.

Considering the immense disparity in votes for each candidate among each electoral college, the composition of these closed colleges has the capacity to completely change the outcome of the elections.

Furthermore, the obvious instability and insecurity in the process will open the door to fraud in a process that has been carefully refined over the years.“

Watching the results was quite stressful, as at pfirst Lula was ahead, then Bolsenaro and eventually Lula led with 51,79%.  It being Salvador, the capital of a state that polled a 70% Lula support, the city exploded even before there was a final announcement.  Fireworks, cheering, hooters, quite crazy.  It reminded me of Mossel Bay after South Africa won the World Cup in 2023, the same mayhem.  Except this was the election of a president of a strong and powerful nation, and the news reports on Monday were varied, some in support of Bolsenaro, but mostly in favour of Lula.  What was significant was that the Brazilian Real started losing value the day after the election, as the hope had been that Bolsenaro would stabilise the economy, which evidently was not the case with Lula.  When rumors started circulating that Flávio Bolsonaro had fled the country, it was said it was fake news, but in fact that is what had happened.  Evidently he was facing investigation by Brazil’s Supreme Federal Court (STV) for several different criminal cases and he had lost his indemnity which he had had as senator.  Bolsonaro denied these allegations, stating that it was a political witch hunt against him. 

Politics is politics, and as one person said “You know why this Brazil is tolerated? Because the profits are immense. It’s a casino, controlled by the mafia, with rigged machines.”  I couldn’t help but think: “I am watching history in the making” as I sat there in front of the TV in Salvador watching the results – very exciting. 

I still had two days in Salvador, so I went to the Modern Art Museum which had been closed on the previous visit, and was surprised that the entrance was free. 

There was a special exhibition of Frank Walter’s paintings, an artist, composer, sculptor, photographer and philosopher, who had been born in Antiqua in the Caribbean in 1926, and whose work only became well-known after his death in 2009.  He was very shy, and lived the latter part of his life in isolation in Antigua, focusing on his art.  The theme of the exhibition was his use of colours, especially red, black and yellow, which “…can be understood in relation to questions of race, and to the experience of a Black man living in societies shaped by colonialism.” (Daniel Ranger, from the introduction at the exhibition.)

In a separate venue the work of Paulo Bruscky was exhibited.  He is a Brazilian multimedia and conceptual artist who did pioneering work using different medias such as the Xerox machine and international mail art.  The latter he especially used during the time of Brazil’s military dictatorship (1964 – 1985), and an exhibition of his works led to police censorship, imprisonment and threats of ‘disappearance’. 

I had wanted to experience more of the Candomblé religion, so Mericia suggested we attend a service at the Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Rosário dos Pretos (Church of Our Lady of the Rosary of the Black People), which is in the heart of the Pelourinho district.  Every Tuesday there is a traditional Catholic mass that incorporates Afro-Brazilian religious syncretism, including their drums, hymns accompanied by percussion, and dancing.

Candomblé is a syncretic religion that developed in Brazil during the 19th century.  Originally it was  brought from Africa, but because the slaves were forced to accept the Roman Catholic religion, they incorporated their beliefs by associating their nature deities, called orixás, with Catholic saints.  They believe in a supreme creator god named Olodumaré, who is served by the lesser orixás.  At first they were persecuted by Brazilian law, but now they are widely accepted and many people have joined the Candombé groups.  They do not have a supreme governing authority, but have localised community houses called terreiros led by a religious chief, which is often a woman.  They wear traditional clothes, perform ritual dances to drumming and music, and communicate with their gods by going into a trance.  Their belief system is much more complicated than what I have mentioned here, but I found it intriguing.  

After the service Mericia and I walked up Santo Antônio street, another area with colourful restored buildings, shops and restaurants.  She had told me to go there on my previous visit, but it had not materialized, so I was happy to see it, even late at night.

I met Ale in Argentina, on my first trip to South America seven years ago, where we were both working as volunteers in Sauce Viejo, 450km from Buenos Aires.   He is from Uruguay, but has spent most of his life travelling.  He and his girlfriend, Mell, work in Sweden during the winter and spend the rest of the time in their camper-van in Brazil.   He was the one who told me about the ombu forest in Uruguay, and when I said I was coming to Brazil, he mentioned Chapada Diamantina in Bahia, where they spend most of their time.  The photographs he forwarded of them hiking in lush green canyons and swimming in waterholes below cascading waterfalls convinced me that that was where I would be heading to in Bahia.  He recommended three towns:  Lençóis, Igatu and Mucugê, and I planned my itinerary accordingly, starting at Lençóis,  which is the entry point to the park. 

Chapada Diamantina national park lies within the greater plateau region of Chapada Diamantina, and covers 1520sq  kilometres.  The bus from Salvador took about 8 hours and we travelled through different landscapes, descending into the Lençóis river valley which is bordered by the plateau.

I was the only guest (it was becoming a habit) and after unpacking, I went in search of dinner.  There was an area that was closed to traffic (except the occasional bicycle that would squeeze through) where the restaurant tables were packed out on the street, all very ‘gesellig‘.  It was difficult to choose, but because I was looking for local food, it narrowed down the options.   The menus were displayed on one table at each restaurant, but even so the waiter or owner would approach you and explain.  I noticed that people often engaged with the waiter, instead of just shaking them off.  They would talk and discuss, sometimes sitting down, and sometimes moving on, all very polite and civilised.  

 

Each town has many trails to waterfalls and I chose to visit the ones that were closest as my left knee was really beginning to trouble me if I walked more than 10km.  In Lençóis I set out to Ribeirão do Meio, almost 5km out of town, through some forests and more arid vegetation.  At the start of the trail was a notice explaining the vegetation:  “Chapada Diamantina’s particular geography,  with different altitudes, topography and soils, gave place to a rich and diverse vegetation.  For this reason it is considered a huge mosaic of ecosystems:  desert vegetation, tropical savannah, Atlantic forests and rocky fields.”  As I left town, I became aware of a sweet aromatic smell, and I found a tree with tiny flowers that were emitting the smell.  In the forest the same thing occurred, and I really had to search to find the tiny flowers that were providing such pleasure.

The waterfall didn’t have much water, but there was a large pool to swim in, very refreshing.  The water in all the rivers is brown, but clear, as a result of minerals and the roots of plants, just like in the mountains in South Africa.  I went back via a different trail and found a ‘bar’ in the forest about 2km before town – a beer went down well. 

I’m a little bit ashamed to say (but secretly quite happy) that I outwitted the system the next day.  There is a Municipal Park (Parque Municipal da Muritiba), where one pays an entrance fee of $R20 (R66) and additional fee of $R200 (R660) for a guide if one wants to go the waterfall and caves.  Maps.Me showed a trail which went to a viewpoint next to the park, which I took, finding a small little waterfall and some pools all to myself right at the top of the hill. 

On going back, I saw there was a trail that went into the park at a higher point, and as I followed that, I went past the waterfall, the caves and the ‘open’ pools of the park, without paying anything.  Nobody asked why I was walking around without a guide, and I even had the audacity to swim at ‘their’ waterfall. 

Cachoeira da Fumaça (Fumaca Waterfall) is one of the most popular waterfalls to visit, but I had to go to another town, Palmeiras, to see it.  I had to catch a bus at 05h20, and as I walked to the bus terminal, there were people having coffee in the street.  The owner persuaded me to join them:  “No, the bus won’t come until 06h00, and I will see it from here,” he said. 

A taxi, which cost R450, took me to the starting point of the 6km trail to the Fumaca waterfall the next morning.   It was 2km very steep uphill, then 4km along the top, only to find no water cascading, just 2 girls taking pictures at the edge where the water was supposed to fall.  The view was spectacular, and I met some friendly people at the top.  The one lady offered me a ride half-way back to Palmeiras, and I hitchhiked the rest of the way, determined not to pay another R450. 

Finding a bus to Igatu was not easy, but I managed in the end, with the help of a friendly woman in a remote town where I had to spend the night.  The last 7km of the road to Igatu was built with stones, just like the Romans used to do. 

Chapada Diamantina was known for its diamond mining in the 19th and early 20th century.  The type of diamonds, carbonados (polycrystalline black diamonds), were harder than the diamonds used for jewellery, and they were primarily for industrial use.  After the Second World War they were no longer in demand and mining came to a standstill (after 100 years), with people moving away.  Most of the small towns bordering the park have sites where the ruins of the mining towns can be visited, and in the case of Igatu, they stretch for 2km or more, scattered along the trail the miners followed to take the rocks down to the river for washing out the diamonds.  Sometimes they lived in caves that they built shut, and they often used the rocks that were dug out to build their homes. It was strange to walk along a path where the rocks were worn out by a hundred years of use, because the trails to waterfalls all follow the route that the miners had made.   There was a museum and art gallery before one got to the ruins.

I also went to a mine site, where one is taken into a cave along the tunnels that the miners had made.  The guide tried his best to explain (in Portuguese) with me nodding away, pretending to understand.  When we eventually got to his office afterwards, there was WiFi and I could ask some questions using Google Translate.  He told me there were still many diamonds;  we went into the cave for about 600m;  the rows of little ‘coffins’ were to represent and honour the people who had died; 200 people had died in that specific mine. 

I met Ale and Mell in Mucugê, the last town I visited.  It was a happy reunion with Ale, after 7 years, and a pleasure to meet Mell.  They took me to two different waterfalls (with water), and pools to swim in.  Some friends of theirs from Uruguay accompanied us the second day, and we spent a few hours at the waterfall, even drinking mate and playing a co-operative card game called “The Mind”. 

Ale had gone to a lot of trouble making recommendations all along the way, which he would WApp to me.  I appreciated it very much, and tried to visit all the places.  The last night in Mucugê they took me to a restaurant where we all had a local Afro-Brazilian dish called acarajé, a bread-like fritter made from black-eyed peas, that one could break open and eat with a filling. 

Afterwards they all accompanied me to my Pousada and we took a final group photo, them waving and sending kisses as I walked away.

Bahia, at last!  Salvador, the coastal city and capital of Bahia, is a vibrant and exciting city, the epicentre of the Afro-Brazilian culture.  It is a big city with a historical centre known as Pelourinho.   Unbeknownst to me, I had booked a hostel in that area for the first night, so I was pleasantly surprised when I was dropped off late at night to find narrow streets with crowds gathering and drinking outside of bars. 

The bus trip to Salvador took 15hrs, and the place we stopped for lunch had little cheeses hanging everywhere, a speciality of the area.  The bus terminal in Salvador looked like an airport building, I had no idea where to find the pick-up point for my Uber, so I missed that ride (but still had to pay) and had to take a taxi to the hostel. 

I had the morning to explore the area before booking in with Mericia, the Airbnb hostess whose apartment was in a more upmarket area called Canela. 

Just down the street from my first hostel was a square that had a museum dedicated to Jorge Amado, one of the best-known  modern Brazilian writers.  I couldn’t understand why everyone was having their photo taken in front of this blue building, until I found out what it was.  

The Afro-Brazilian culture includes music, food, religion and rituals, all influenced and typified by the Africans that were brought to Brazil as slaves, more than 5 million of them between the 1540’s and the 1860’s.  It is especially the Candombe religion and Afro-Brazilian dance forms that are uniquely found in Salvador.  Of the dance forms, the capoeira is most often done publicly and I saw a performance in the historical city centre.  It is martial art camouflaged as a dance ritual that the slaves did to practice fighting moves without being punished.  A circle is formed and two partners engage in combating movements to the sounds of berimbau instruments, the partners being replaced randomly by others from the circle. 

There are many cathedrals in Salvador, but the Cathedral Basilica of Salvador  (Catedral-Basílica Primacial de São Salvador) is the mother church of all Catholic churches in Brazil and the seat of the Archbishop of the country.  The Baroque style interior is magnificent, but a service was on so I only took one photo.   The streets in Pelourinho are narrow and cobbled, with colourful houses, shops, restaurants and murals, with quite a few squares and market places.

I was walking around, when I saw a museum called the Casa do Carnaval de Bahia, which is about the carnival that is annually held in Salvador in February. 

Mericia lives on the 24th floor of an apartment building, with a view over adjoining high-rise buildings and the sea.  She is an Airbnb superhost, who cares about people, wants everyone to be happy and has an interesting life story.  She speaks English, and made recommendations about places to visit, providing information and letting me taste typical food that a friend of her had made.   She kept on talking about ‘chipco’ food, until I asked her what ‘chipco’ was – turns out it is the Portuguese pronunciation for típico (typical).

I walked to a beach called Porto da Barra the first afternoon, a 2,5km hike, mostly downhill, expecting a lovely swim in warm, clear water.  I was not prepared for what I found – it being Sunday, it was so crowded I didn’t even go onto the sand.

The area around Mericia’s apartment has a few museums, which I visited the next day.

On my last day in Salvador, I decided to go back to the historical centre, but via a different route that would take me to the bottom of the Elevador Lacerda (lift), a prominent landmark.  It is the first lift in the world that was built for urban use, and today it transports more than 30 000 people a day.  It was completed in 1873 and was built to connect the lower and upper areas of Salvador that were divided by a steep cliff.  It was revamped in 1932 and now has a height of 72m. 

When I left the apartment to start walking, Maps.Me showed a route that was not the most pleasant walking circumstances.  Mericia was appalled to hear I had walked there, she said it was a dangerous area. 

A few days ago it was the celebration of life ceremony for a good friend of mine in Hermanus, Jakes, who passed away on the 7th October.  The service was livestreamed, so I could follow the proceedings and feel a little more connected, but it is difficult when one is so far-away.  May you rest in peace Jakes, I will remember you as a kind and loving (and very funny) person. 

On my way to work at Monte Alvão,  I spent one night in Belo Horizonte and was astounded by the size of the city – 2 million people in the centre, and 6 million in the larger metropolitan area.  I stayed in a hostel in the Savassi area, which is a cultural suburb and close to the Praça da Liberdade (Liberation Park), with many old historical and modern buildings surrounding the park.  Quite a few buildings in Belo Horizonte were designed by Oscar Niemeyer,  a well-known Brazilian architect who was known for developing the aesthetic possibilities of reinforced concrete in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.  He also helped design the headquarters of the United Nations in New York.

I had seen that there was a architectural/design/art exhibition in a building close to the hostel, called Casacor.   I decided  to return to Belo Horizonte after completing the Workaway job, to see the exhibition and spend some time exploring more of the city.

Another prominent architect, the Italian born Raffaello Berti, settled in Belo Horizonte and was co-founder of the School of Architecture at the Federal University of Minas Gerais, where he taught for many years. He left a legacy of over 500 buildings, and it was he who had designed the Art Deco building where Casacor was housed. The theme of the exhibition was “Mind and Heart,” and various interpretations of the relationship between reason and emotion, technology and sensitivity, and permanence and the passage of time were explored. 

I was sharing a room with Bianca, who is from a small town in the Bahia province, and as she could speak English, we had many long conversations.  What she has accomplished in her 30-odd years of life is quite astonishing.  She has veterinary training, but now she is busy with her PhD in community health and was doing research in Belo Horizonte for a month.  “I was part of a team of researchers that spent a month in Amazonas (another province) working with local traditional midwives who shared their knowledge of herbal remedies and birthing processes with us.  We wrote a book about it which we presented to them at a local ceremony at the end of the month.  They (the  midwives) were very grateful, as they had been labelled as witches in the past,” Bianca told me.  The day before I left, she heard that a grant had been awarded to her to study in Portugal for a month, about which she was jubilant.  She joined me to visit a viewpoint which was within walking distance from the hostel – 6km of uphill, and she persuaded me to go up the final 500m to an even higher viewpoint.

The Américo Renné Giannetti City Park was my final destination in the city, although there was so much more to explore. I enjoyed  Belo Horizonte much more than Rio de Janeiro, but that is just my personal opinion, the Brazilians all disagree with me.

Bahia had been on my bucket list since many years ago, when I had attended a course in Cape Town, presented by Claudia Vassau, a Brazilian, on Quantum Constellations.   At the end of the course, she had presented us each with a ribbon from Bahia that we could tie around our wrist and wish three wishes.  If we wore the ribbon until it fell off, our wishes would come true.  I wore mine on my ankle for quite a few years before it finally fell off, and my one wish, to visit South America, did come true.  Since then I had the strong desire to visit Bahia in Brazil. 

It was a long way from Belo Horizonte to Salvador, the capital of Bahia, so I booked a night in Pedra Azul, which looked like an interesting place and was about halfway to Salvador.  The hostel I had booked was 3km out of town, in a very small village called Pedro Cem, which is just the name of the street running through it.  The taxi driver was halfway there when he convinced me it couldn’t be right.  “I have lived here for 60 years, there is no hostel that way, it must be in town,” he said.  He turned back, went to a shop and asked the directions.  Climbing back into the car, he admitted:  “You are right, it is that way.”  He charged me R160 ($10) for 3km, but arguing with a taxi driver is pointless, even if they are friendly and helpful.  

The hostel was brand new, I was the only guest, and first foreigner to stay.  Manuel and Andrea were the most generous, considerate and kindest people, doing everything to make my stay pleasurable.  Manual offered to take me to the granite mountain on his motorcycle late that afternoon, just to see it, and 5 o’clock the next morning to climb it and see the sunrise.  After that he took me to town to see all the historical buildings, the church and square. He also took me to all three banks to draw money, unsuccessfully, and then offered to give me money from his shop, paying with my credit card. 

I had taken the night bus to Pedra Azul (15 hours), and was surprised when Manuel said they would be serving lunch at 12 noon, which Andrea had made.  A lovely meal, table set just for me, in the entrance hall of the hostel.  The same happened for every meal after that:  breakfast, lunch and dinner, prepared by Andrea, all free and served in style.  Manual would sit outside, the general area where everybody gathered as it was right next to the only shop in town, and clear away everything when I had finished.  The last day he took me to town to check bus schedules, and we went to a restaurant for coffee and cake (I thought, but mine was a chicken pie).  Here are some of the buildings in Pedra Azul:

I walked around the little town of Pedra Cen, impressed with the tidiness of it all, and the fact that there were three churches.  When I asked Manuel if he would like to travel, and whereto, his response surprised me:  “Yes, I would like to travel to Israel,  because it is the foundation of Christianity.”  It made sense, his gentle and kind nature portrayed his belief in God.

Busbud, the app I use to book buses, indicated that there was a direct bus to Salvador, but after our visit to the bus terminal, Manuel told me I would first have to take a bus to Vitória da Conquista, and then catch one to Salvador.  It was going to pass right in front of the hostel at 7am.  Communication was difficult, using Google Translate, and I was not sure if I had understood everything, especially when the bus was late, but Manual patiently sat and waited with me until it arrived.  Another 15-hour trip to Salvador.

Monte Alvão – a paradise created by Iara, my Workaway host, near Caeté in the province of Minas Gerais in Brazil.   The farm was bought by Iara’s father after his retirement from local politics, and she took possession of a section, developing it into what it is today in just a few years. 

The house was built after Covid, and the bricks for it were made on the farm – raw bricks, painted with a mixture of red clay (from the area in front of the house), water, glue and a chemical compound dissolved and boiled in water.  The result is a cool house in summer, warm in winter.  Repainting has to be done regularly, much like whitewashing of Cape-Dutch houses in South Africa.  Just one of the many jobs that Iara has to tend to, which she does single-handily with the help of volunteers. 

Let me start at the beginning.  While in Rio de Janeiro, I was looking for a Workaway job in Brazil, when I saw it advertised as “Create trekking paths and climbing routes in Caeté, Brazil” and further down in the profile, “Our place is very quiet and rich in nature, pets and scenery views.”  Caeté is close to Ouro Preto, where I was heading to anyway, so it was perfect.  I applied, starting with my usual opening sentence of “My name is Meryl, I am a 73-year young, but mature, traveller from South Africa…” and was immediately accepted by Iara,who normally has volunteers between 19 and 25 years old.  We arranged to meet in Belo Horizonte, the sixth largest city in Brazil and 60km from the farm, last Tuesday, and I would then stay for two weeks. 

From the start we just clicked, and we talked non-stop all the way to Caeté, where we stayed at her mother’s house for the afternoon, as Iara was doing an online course in AI and the internet in town is better.  Her mother, Bel, is a ceramic artist and she has an artistically decorated house that she had built after her divorce, when she moved from the farm to town.  The house is close to the edge of town, on a rise, with a view of the mountains and a huge garden, with fruit trees, a vegetable patch, rolling lawns, orchids, creepers and various other flowers and plants.  Bel’s studio is in the downstairs part of the house, and I had a peek into a storeroom that was full of ceramic pieces waiting to be fired. 

We arrived on the farm after dark and Iara took me to the bungalows where the volunteers stay, which is a 10min walk from her house.  I was the only volunteer, so I had the whole place to myself.  I put away the groceries I had bought in town, unpacked the clothes I would need, cooked some supper and while I was eating, discovered that there were fireflies, much to my delight. They flitted around in the tall grass, some coming quite close to the open kitchen, accompanied by the night sounds of crickets, frogs and a night jar. 

The next morning Iara arrived with a leaf blowing machine, having cleared the trail from her house of leaves, and blowing the ones around the bungalow.  We walked to her house together, and the first view I had of the rock mountain where they do the rock climbing, was from the high point of the trail.  The trail then goes down through a forest, and walking to work every morning was sheer pleasure, with the smell and dampness of the forest, the sound of birds and the ever present butterflies, even the big blue ones, the blue morphos.

My work entailed four hours each day, off on Sundays, and we did much gardening, cleaning and polishing of old furniture, sorting out work spaces, moving furniture and personal belongings from a cottage to the main house, with Iara working alongside me all the time.  She is a remarkable person, full of new ideas and projects, and as her life story unfolded, I realised that she is not only passionate and feisty, but once she sets her mind to a project, she follows through on it, often having to study or do a course to prepare for it.  As an example:  she wanted to work on super yachts, and although everyone was impressed with her, she was rejected because of lack of experience.  So she studied to become a masseuse, and was duly employed on the yachts.  She had previously been a trapeze actress, and saw the potential of doing trapeze acts on the boats, using the cranes.  She had great trouble convincing captains that it was possible, but she persisted in trying to implement her idea, and was eventually able to take some pictures to show them, which led to her doing regular shows on the boats. 

On the first Saturday there was a craft market in Caeté, where Iara and Bel were exhibiting some of their products at one of the stalls.  Although it was very hot, locals attended and milled around, drinking more beer than buying goods, but Iara managed to sell some of her plants and earrings.  Bel and I felt an affinity for each other, but communication was difficult because of the language barrier.  I wandered off into Caeté for a few hours, taking pictures and eating ice-cream. 

Iara is passionate about plants, and she uses any off-cuts to propagate new plants, often planting them in bags to pass on to friends who visit.  Her whole gorgeous garden is full of plants that have been grown from one single purchase, and one of the things I did was remove some overgrown plants to replant in another area, which she had cleared of a termite heap and invasive grass. 

The only downside to working amongst all that greenery is ticks – I regularly discovered one, but nothing serious developed from the bites, apart from itchiness.  The roses were being eaten by the leaf-cutter ants, but Iara successfully curbed them with cinnamon.  As the roses started blooming though, we saw that they were being eaten from the inside by weird-looking black flies.  At least she doesn’t have to cope with moles or snails.   There are snakes, but I never saw one.

We climbed up to the top of the rock mountain, with a vista of the whole area, and looking down on the farm buildings and gardens down below, I said to Iara:  “To think you created all that!”  The dogs always accompanied us on walks, and evidently the cats sometimes do as well. 

I climbed up late one afternoon to see the sunset.

Mola, the one dog, craves attention and when there are volunteers, she attaches herself to them, going to the bungalow,  sleeping there and following one wherever you go.  Iara warned me not to feed her or throw sticks for her, as she becomes over-excited and aggressive and often hurts a paw.  She is a lovely dog with a great personality, and I became very attached to her.   I used to swim in one of the many small lakes on the farm after work every day, and there I was allowed to throw sticks into the water for Mola to retrieve.  She would give a flying leap into the water, churning up mud and grass, proudly bringing the stick back to land.

One day, we visited Iara’s friends on their plot of land on the other side of Caéte. Marrege is a restoration architect who has built quite a few cottages on their property for family members, each one uniquely furnished and decorated with artful creativity.  Her husband, Chico, is a musician who gives live performances and teaches music.  They have visited South Africa and were very happy to meet me, promising to contact me if by any chance they returned.  

It rained on the last day and that evening we cooked together in the communal kitchen, a cosy fire burning in the grate.  Another volunteer from Italy, Lele, had joined us the previous day, and he made us some pasta – only three ingredients: onions, bottled Italian tomatoes and the pasta, the secret being to cook the sauce over slow heat for a long time, delicious.  We listened to music, talked and shared stories until late, and by then the rain had stopped and Lele and I could walk home, accompanied by the fireflies and Mola.

Iara had some business in Belo Horizonte, and she kindly offered to take me back.  On the way we had lunch at Marrege’s restaurant, which is another remarkable creation of hers.  The dish of the day was canjiquinha com costelinha (cracked corn stew with pork ribs), a typical Brasilian dish, which had a strong taste of herbs, excellent.  There were other friends there too, and much too soon we had to leave, saying fond farewells.

My plan was to fly to Belém (Brazil) from Flores and work my way down to Sao Paulo, from where I fly back to SA on the 28th Nov.  The flight would have been 32 hours, compared to 13 hours to Rio de Janeiro, so I changed everything and flew to Rio, without preparing myself for a city at all.  Landing there at 00h30 after a stopover in Guatemala City and Bogota, was a bit of a shock – suddenly I could not make myself understood (they speak Portuguese), I couldn’t draw money and I was ripped off by the guy who sold me a sim card, without which I would not have been able to contact an Uber.  I had booked a hotel close to the airport for the first night, and the Uber dropped me off in a dark street in front of a high gate that did not look like a hostel, but a tiny sign indicated where one should ring the bell, and yes, the gate opened and a friendly man  welcomed me. Everybody in the dormitory was asleep, so I took Suerte into the passage to find my pyjamas and toiletries, and went to bed.  When I checked out the next morning, there was a different man on duty who could speak English and said he had grown up in Angola and had been living in Brazil for more than 40 years – suddenly everything seemed a bit less daunting. 

The next hostel was in Copacabana, a few blocks from the beach, and very close to the metro.   One of the owners, Agnes, spoke English and could provide valuable information regarding safe areas, how to use the metro and places of interest in the city.  I unpacked some clothes in the locker (wonderful if dormitories have lockers) and went in search of food and the beach.  Maybe my despondency attracted negative things, but the first thing I came across on the pavement, were two dead fish.  It had been raining a lot, out of character for Rio I was told, but dead fish??? Soon after that I saw a homeless man wrapped in plastic – not a warm welcome to Rio.  I bought a sandwich and coffee and sat on a windy beach where very few people were swimming, but pictures were being taken of women with outstretched arms, excited about being on Copacabana Beach.  I decided then and there I just couldn’t stay in Rio, I was not ready for a city of jubilance, partying and craziness.  

I had booked three nights at the hostel, so I spent the next day exploring the city centre.  It was easy to use the metro, as there are only two lines, both going in more or less the same direction.  I emerged in a bustling street with markets, but as I walked, I realised it was Saturday and most shops were closed and streets deserted.  I wandered around, taking photo’s and slowly making my way to the Museo do Amanhã (Museum of the Future), an interactive science museum housed in a spectacular building designed by a famous Spanish architect, Santiago Calatrava. 

Although the streets were quiet, there were pockets of activity, one of them being Armazém Senado, a popular old bar where samba music is played on Saturdays and Sundays, drinks are served at stalls in the street, and people dance and enjoy the music.  As I walked around in the area, drinking a caipirinha (national cocktail of Brazil, made with cachaça, limes, sugar and ice), I realised that Rio de Janeiro is a carnival, samba and party town.  In that area there are many antique shops, restaurants and art galleries, and everywhere samba performances were held, with people dancing to the music. 

I carried on walking to the Metropolitan Cathedral, a pyramid type construction with stained glass windows that go all the way to the top.  A service was being held when I arrived, and I joined for the closing song – I could at least sing the “amen” part. 

The next day I found a trail on Maps.Me, close to the hostel, that went up to a viewpoint.  I think I walked through a favela, the notorious poor areas of Rio, but nothing bad happened and the people were friendly.  It was more of a staircase (500 steps) than a trail, but there was a little section through a forest.  I reached a viewpoint, and then there was a very rough and steep trail going further up, which had a dead end without a view – literally a concrete wall built against the mountain.  According to the map I thought I would reach a road, but I had to retrace my steps, relying on roots and tree limbs to grasp onto, sometimes going backwards like on a ladder.   

Back at the hostel I googled ‘unique places in Brazil’ and came up with a few places other than beaches that were worth visiting.  The closest one was Ouro Preto (which means Black Gold), so I tried to buy a bus ticket online, but there is a number that each Brazilian has that needs to be filled in, which prevented me from buying it.  The owner of the hostel tried to help me, and later he came to tell me that I had to use Busbud, another website which worked.  The number is called a CPF (Cadastro de Pessoas Físicas), which translates to “Natural Persons Register”, similar to the USA social security number, and is needed for everything, like opening a bank account, buying online, signing a lease, etc.  I read that any visitor or traveller can apply for one when visiting Brazil, but it seems like an unnecessary hassle, hopefully I will get by without it.

Ouro Preto has a ‘rich’ (pun intended) history.  Gold was discovered here in 1695. Black nuggets (covered in iron oxide) were found in the riverbeds, and the different camps gradually grouped together to become Vila Rica in 1711.  In 1823 it was renamed Ouro Preto, which was the capital of Minas Gerais (the name of this state) from 1720 to 1897.  The gold mining had come to an end by then, and the capital of the state was moved to Belo Horizonte.   In its heyday, Ouro Preto was larger than Rio de Janeiro and one of the largest and richest cities in the Americas.  As with Antigua in Guatamala, people moved away when the gold was depleted, and no industrial buildings were erected, or further economic development took place, which meant it retained its quaint character.   The government declared the city a national monument in 1933 to protect its colonial buildings and in 1980 it became the first cultural property in Brazil to be named a UNESCO World Heritage site, especially because of its baroque building style.  It is built over hills with winding roads and  cobblestone streets, which makes it difficult for heavy traffic or modern big buildings to be put up. 

The Portuguese government did not allow monasteries to be established, so the different societal groups built ornate churches, competing with each other in grandeur.  Most of the churches were built in the baroque style, with exquisitely detailed interiors.  There are 13 historic churches and 8 smaller chapels, according to Google. 

I spent a week in Ouro Preto, walking around, visiting churches, eating in one of the many restaurants, climbing up to viewpoints and visiting a national park outside of town.  That day I took the wrong bus, which I realised by watching where it went on Google Maps, and then I waited for a long time, but no new bus came, so I decided to walk the 4km to the park, which was mostly a steep uphill.  I was a bit at a loss when I arrived at the reception area, but a helpful young man that could speak English showed me the map, explained everything and pointed me in the right direction.

It was different from the parks in Central American, it reminded me of the mountains in the Southern Cape in South Africa.   I was taking pictures of flowers, especially small ones, something I’ve always loved to do.  There were three different waterfalls, one was quite a downhill climb, but well worth it.  The young man had also told me about a trail back to the small town where I could catch a bus back to Ouro Preto, so that I didn’t have to walk along the entry road.  

On Sunday, my last day in Ouro Preto, the sun finally shone and I took to the streets to retake photos of previously sombre ones, when it had been overcast or raining.  I had lunch at a restaurant which serves a buffet of local dishes, ‘eat as much as you want’ for quite an affordable price (R180).  They even had desert, which was dulce de leche (caramel), stewed guava as sweet and thick as jam, and wild watermelon, also like jam.  

 

Ten days that had started off with a shock, ended well.  It was time to move on, as I had managed to get a Workaway job on a farm outside Caeté for a week or two.   I will take the bus to Belo Horizonte and the host, Lara, will fetch me there.  Very apt – church bells as goodbye to Ouro Preto.

The minivan trip from Antigua to Lanquin, 270km, was a 9-hour trek up- and downhill, through mountain passes, curves and narrow roads – very beautiful forested landscape.  Sometimes the road was unpaved, or there was construction, and we would just ride in between the construction vehicles as there was no room for bypasses.  In every little village or town along the way there are horrendous speedbumps, and all the buses and cars, even the 4×4 ones, slow down to a virtual stop – very effective speed control.   There is a general speed limit of 40km/hrs in Guatamala, and most people stick to it, especially the bus drivers. 

I was amused by the initial driver (we changed minivans later) who picked me up at 08h00, the only passenger, and he drove right around Antigua, eventually stopping at a local eatery about two blocks from where he had picked me up to get breakfast for himself.  We eventually left Antigua at 09h00, stopped in the outskirts of Guatemala City to pick up another passenger, drove for a few hours, and then he stopped at a random place where we had to wait for 20min until another minivan stopped to pick us up.  The drivers don’t communicate anything, and one just meekly accepts whatever happens.  There was, however, a shuttle service waiting for me at the bus terminal in Lanquin, and the pleasant surprise I got when I saw the hostel I had booked, made up for everything.  It was hot and humid, and the first thing I did was jump into the pool. 

The main reason for staying in Lanquin was to visit Semuc Champey,  a nature reserve with idyllic swimming holes along the river, caves and river rafting.  The Cahabón River plunges into a natural sinkhole and runs in a 300m tunnel under the pools that were formed through thousands of years of limestone and mineral deposits, forming a bridge across the river.  The minerals cause the turquoise color of the water. 

I always forget to write about the butterflies, which I enjoy so much.   Whenever I walk in the forest, they are there.  Many different kinds, difficult to photograph.  At Semuc Champey there were the big blue ones too, that I had first seen in Colombia.  One would be walking along, and suddenly they would appear from behind, fluttering past and disappearing in a wink of an eye.  I managed to photograph this butterfly that had politely sat down long enough for me to take a picture. 

I had 3 days in Lanquin, which is a small town with not much to see.  I walked the 15 min to town twice, and the first time was a market day, with the usual bustling stalls and tables which I always enjoy.  The second time I needed to draw money, and took a shortcut past the church, which I sat in for a while.  There was another smaller church up on a hill, where I discovered the graveyard. 

I saw on the map that there were caves about 1,5km from the hostel, and I decided I would rather visit them than the caves at Semuc Champey, where one evidently gets very wet.  They warned me at the entry gate that the path in the cave was very slippery.  When I asked about walking sticks, they very kindly fetched me a broom handle – just as well, because I would have landed on my butt a few times had it not been for the ‘stick’.   When I came out, there was another older lady entering, so I gave her the broom handle with strict instructions to return it to the office at the entry.  The caves were grandiose and beautiful, much like the Cango Caves in Oudtshoorn, South Africa.  I was the only one there, but a guide, who had been standing outside, discreetly followed me all the way, only joining me as I approached the exit – much appreciated by me, as I don’t know what I would have done if I had fallen.   It was very hot and humid in the cave, and at one stage I started feeling a bit lightheaded, lack of oxygen I think. 

Another minivan trip of 9 hours to Flores, my last destination in Guatamala, and the grand finale – the Maya ruins of Tikal.    Only the first half of the trip was through mountains though, as the landscape changed as we approached the Petén Basin where the first Maya settlement was established in 900BC.  More about this later.

Flores is an island in Lake Petén Itzá which is joined to the mainland with a road.  It is quite picturesque and full of tourists that use it as a base to visit Tikal.  One can take a local ferry to the opposite side to San Miguel and climb up to a viewpoint, which I did on my last day in Guatamala.   I offered to take a family’s picture up on the wooden stand, and they returned the favour and took one of me.  I was not surprised when I became emotional when I told them it was probably the last photo of me in Guatamala- it was a dramatic and memorable visit, in more ways than one. 

Tikal was the largest city of the Maya people, and the capital of the most powerful state of the ancient Maya.  Construction of temples, palaces, administrative buildings, pyramids, residences and inscribed stone monuments only started in 400BC and it reached its peak during the Classical period, 200 – 900AD.  The ruins were only discovered in the 1800’s and in 1955 the area was established as the Tikal National Park.  The old city itself covers an area of 16 square kilometres, is well documented and in 1979 it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage sight.  To walk amongst the ruins was an unreal experience.  I remember seeing pictures of the ruins when I was young, and it seemed such a far-off thing, these ruins in the jungle, that had lain undiscovered for almost 1500 years.  I never thought I would see them, and there I was, walking in this jungle, trying to imagine what life was like 2500 years ago.  One gets a good idea of the extent to which the buildings had been covered, as only about 16% has been excavated and one can see mounds of earth covering ruins, with tree roots entwined in the stones.  The whole area is well-maintained, clean and uncluttered (no vendors selling stuff as what is the case everywhere else).  Kyu, a lovely young man from Korea who was sharing the dormitory with me, also went that day.   We took the early shuttle, to be at the gates at 06h00 when they opened, so there were few people around, which made it even more impressive.  One can take a guided tour, but we preferred not to, as we wanted to walk around at our own pace.  Kyu had a lot of information, so he became my guide.  For example, water was an issue for the Maya, so they plastered the hollows that had been made by the limestone that had been removed for building purposes, to use as reservoirs.  They even paved the plazas at an angle to channel the water into canals that fed the  reservoirs.  Kyu also mentioned that Mesoamerican ballgames were played on the plazas, and that at a later stage some cultures combined the competition with human sacrifice. 

There is so much information about the Maya, but for me it was perfect to just experience the ruins, climb up the temple steps and view the plazas, wondering what took place there on an ordinary day – women meeting, local gossip, men discussing strategies and children running around and playing. 

And so it was a grand finale and final goodbye to Guatemala and Central America.  Brazil, here I come!

“The God of the Universe is charming you!” my daughter-in-law, Adéle said on the phone the other day.  I had sent them pictures of my experience of Volcán Fuego, the active volcano near Antiqua, which had had a scary eruption on the 3rd August, the day before I arrived in Guatamala.   It has regular eruptions, about every ten minutes smoke (ash and gas) would rise, but at least once in two hours there is a big eruption, with pyroclastic- (hot gas, ash, pumice and rocks) and lava flows.  These are especially spectacular at night, when one sees the red lava.  There are guided overnight tours up to Acatenango, the dormant volcano next to Fuego.  They are rather pricey, but thanks to a generous donation from a dear friend, I was able to go. 

There is a basecamp at 3600m, with bungalows (just mattresses, sleeping bags and blankets), and from there one can either hike to Fuego itself, or to the top of Acatenango to see the sunrise.  I did neither, as I knew I had to hike back the next day and wanted to give my knees a rest.  The view from basecamp was excellent, and I was able to see quite a few eruptions.

The “charming” relates to my experience as compared to the rest of the group.  After arrival at 15h00 they decided to do the hike to Fuego, which meant 90 minutes there (first down then up), one hour at the top, and 90 minutes back.  30 minutes after they left it started raining softly, and an hour later a horrific lightning- and thunderstorm broke out.  I spent two hours sitting warm and dry in the bungalow, watching nature perform with a vengeance. 

I was still standing there after the lightning, when there was an enormous eruption, which I thought I was recording on video, but I had pressed the wrong button.  Daniel, our guide, had also stayed at the camp and took this picture of me after the eruption. 

The group came back at 20h30, tired, wet, cold and disappointed as they had seen nothing, the rain and clouds had covered Fuego.  I went to bed early, heard rain the whole time, but when I woke at 02h00 to go to the toilet, I saw that Fuego was open in spite of the rain, so I sat outside until 05h00 watching it, and saw two beautiful eruptions.

I had booked a 4×4 tour, but was told that the government had closed the roads, so I could either hike or go up by horse.  I chose the latter, but felt so sorry for the horse that I told Elmer, the guy leading the horse, that I would hike the last stretch, which was not that difficult.  Hiking down the next day was on a zig-zag path through a beautiful forest, a different one from which the horse-ride was.  I had been very nervous beforehand, but my knees were fine and I kept up with the group, much to my surprise.  It was while hiking down that I heard some of the group complaining about their experience, the bad weather and not seeing any eruptions during the night.  It made me realise that one makes choices, and I was very satisfied with the ones I had made.   Daniel and Walter (the guides) were excellent – they prepared the bungalow, made the food and kept on asking me “como estas” (how are you) whenever they passed me. 

Another once-in-a-lifetime experience – I am so glad Juraj persuaded me to go.  He kept on sending me WApps, saying what a unique experience it had been, encouraging me to do it.   

Antigua, the town from where one leaves to go up Acatenango, is a lively and picturesque old colonial city.  It was founded in 1543 as the colonial capital of Central America, and called Santiago de los Caballeros de Guatemala (City of Saint James of the Knights of Guatemala).   It was built in Spanish baroque style, with a grid-layout and cobbled streets, grand monasteries, educational buildings, churches and government palaces.  It was regularly damaged by volcano eruptions and earthquakes, and finally destroyed in 1773 by the Santa Marta earthquake.  It was then decided to move the capital to a safer place, which is now Guatemala City, and the city was renamed Antigua Guatemala (Old Guatemala).  It was virtually deserted for the following 150 years,  which meant the ruins of the grand buildings were kept intact and today there are many old sites to visit.  Restoration was started in 1944, when the government declared Antigua a national monument.  The buildings around the central park have been fully restored, and in 1979 it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  The cobblestone streets have to be maintained and buildings are not allowed to have more than two storeys.  I loved Antiqua, but it is colonial, not a true reflection of Guatemala.   I spent a week there, visiting ruins, walking around, eating ice-cream and drinking coffee, enjoying what it had to offer in terms of restaurants, little cosy shops and markets. 

The historical centre of the city is quite small and everything was in walking distance from my hostel.  Bob had recommended a restaurant (Toku Baru) which served delicious meals, both local and other, at a very good price.  The hostel provided breakfast and a small dinner, so I had a good excuse to have a good lunch, often at Toku Baro.

This blog has to start with una experiencia excelente I had two days ago.  But first a very big thank you to all of you who are reading and commenting on my blogs, it is very inspirational, and I thank you with all my heart.  Sometimes the going gets tough and I feel discouraged, and then I remember people are following me, and I am encouraged again.  So thank you!

The story behind my excellent experience:   The popular volcano to view in Guatamala is Volcán Fuego near Antigua, the one that erupted the day before I arrived.  It is a difficult five-hour climb up the volcano next to it (Acatenango), and an overnight stay to see the regular eruptions at night.  There is the option to take a 4×4 tour up to base camp, overnight bungalows and 3 meals included, but it is very expensive.  So when Juraj left Panajachel to climb Volcano Santa María in Quetzaltenango (or Xela, as the local people call it) to view Volcán Santiaguito, I considered it as a viable option.  It is the youngest volcano in Guatamala and the world, having being created by the massive and catastrophic eruption of Santa María volcano in 1902.  Around 1922, new lava began to push out of the side of Santa María, which created the new volcanic cone.  It is the most active volcano in Guatamala, and considered as quite dangerous. 

I changed my bookings in Antiqua and went to Xela, finding a hospedaje (en-suite rooms in a private house), 100m from the start of the trail.  Veronica, the kind and caring hostess, was adamant that I should not climb Volcano Santa María, as it was difficult, a steep and rocky path.  She recommended the relatively easy two-hour trail that takes one around Santa Maria to a viewpoint that is as spectacular. 

Well, what can I say.  My father-in-law had the saying “It is better to travel expectantly than to arrive”, but in this case the arrival over a ridge to view the volcano outweighed the expectation that had been building up over the last 2km of the trail.  The barren, rocky outcrops contrasting the lush green of the surrounding area made me exclaim out loud, and I went back down the trail to make a video recording. 

I was the only person there, and sat down on a grass ridge to eat my bread and watch the volcano, which had smoke coming up the edges.  About 10 minutes later I heard a rumble, and some smoke came out of it, and thinking this was it, I posted a video to my family. 

I love hummingbirds, and 30min later I glanced back and saw one feeding on flowers behind me.  I got up to see if I could take a photo, when I heard a loud “boom”, and when I turned back to the volcano, a huge eruption was shooting billowing smoke high up into the air – what a sight, and only me to witness it!! 

Soon after the eruption the mist and clouds started coming up the mountain, and the whole volcanic area below was covered in clouds.  Had I been an hour later, I would not have seen a thing – I felt truly blessed. 

Now back to our day trips to villages surrounding Lake Atitlan.  On the Saturday we had off,  Anja and I went to a village more inland, called Chichicastenango, which has a very colourful graveyard.  There we witnessed a Maya fire ceremony, where a big fire is decorated with sticks of tobacco, coloured candles, sweets, marshmallows and black and white sugar.  Each of the objects and colours used has a unique meaning, and the ceremony is intended to be an appeal to spiritual guides and ancestors for the healing or assistance of a specific person.  The fire itself is sacred and acts as purifier and a bridge between the human world, the cosmos, and the ancestors.

Back in town there was a school band performing on the cathedral steps.  Interestingly, the church acts both as cathedral for Catholics and as place of worship for the Maya people.  When we first arrived, there was a mass inside, and outside a Maya shaman, called Ajq’ij in K’iche’ (the local Maya dialect, meaning ‘daykeeper’ or ‘timekeeper’) was performing a ritual. 

We had lunch in a small restaurant, and Anja started chatting to a guest, the mother of a 15-year old daughter, who told us that the average age for girls to get married was 12 years.  Anja strongly advised the daughter to finish her schooling and travel before settling down.  The mother herself was very young, having had her daughter at the age of 16yrs.

On Sunday we crossed the lake with an overloaded ferry which bumped so hard, I was afraid I made break my coccyx.  We went to San Marcos first, and walked out of town and down 150 steps to a viewpoint that Juraj had told us about.  There was a sacred place, where one could see the remnants of fire ceremonies, and the view of the lake and volcanoes was beautiful and tranquil.  

Our next stop was San Pedro, and then we took an overpriced tuc-tuc to San Juan, a very colourful village close to San Pedro.  The ferry costs Q25 (just more than R50) per trip, whether you are going far or near.   Less for locals of course, as some of them do daily trips to and from villages. 

On the ferry back to Panajachel Anja struck up a conversation with a man (she speaks fluent Spanish), and he insisted that we disembark with him and his family, that he would pay (the local fee) and we could pay him back.  That kind of made up for the overpriced tuc-tuc, we thought.  The family then proceeded to walk some of the way with us, concerned for our safety.  The two little boys were taken up with Anja, and both wanted to hold her hand, so sweet.  Earlier I had heard the one boy telling his mother he needed to go to the bathroom, but as there was none in the vicinity, his father was going to take him behind a building.  He and Anja kept on talking though, and I reminded him that his son seriously needed the bathroom, and we eventually left. 

Lake Atitlan is the centre of the K’iche’ Maya, and Bob had a fascinating book telling of their beliefs and traditions.  The Ancient Ones (los Naweles) created a divinity called Rilaj Mam, who created human beings from maize and cacao, binding men and women together as fertile and fecund couples.  Through rituals of sacrifice, these couples sustain and provide for their divine ancestors, the Ancient Ones.  The Maya therefore believe they are corn and they are cacao.  It is a deep culture, spanning many centuries, reminding one that perfection lies in the harmony between man and nature, which in modern times has become warped and imbalanced as a result of many factors. 

The day before leaving Panajachel I realised I had not even had one swim in the lake, so Anja and I set out early that morning to a spot Bob had suggested, but even there the water, although clear, looked a bit polluted.  I had a quick dip, not daring to put my head underwater.  Evidently it is not only sewerage polluting the lake, but also chemicals and waste that washes down the rivers when it rains.  Friends of Bob told us that a sewerage purifying system had been installed in Panajachel,  but funds had not been allocated to run it, so it was non-functional. 

I had decided to spend a few nights in San Pedro after finishing the work with Bob at The Chocolate Factory, just to unwind and relax, regain my equilibrium.   The key of the room I had booked was missing, so I was upgraded to a room with a queen-sized bed and en-suite bathroom, sheer luxury.  I spent two days exploring and walking and visited Santiago, another village close by. 

Finally I had to leave Lake Atitlan, quite nostalgic, but in retrospect it was for the lifetime experience of seeing an erupting volcano. 

When I left on Monday morning, the street was empty again, everyone back to work.  There is a bus stop just down the road from the house, and the bus blows its horn to announce its arrival, so Suerta and I walked down the dusty street, paying Q5 (R10) instead of the Q40 (R80) the Uber had cost me to get there.  I was very hungry when it dropped me at the terminal, and I decided to join the locals in sitting down at a stall to have breakfast – cornflakes in a plastic cup and tamales (cooked maize wrapped in banana leaves) which were kept warm wrapped in blankets in a basket.  I looked down and saw a chicken in a big bag next to me, which was being sold alive (to be eaten, the seller assured me). 

When I had boarded the bus at a crazy terminal full of chicken buses (as the funny looking local ones are called), I was assured it was going to Antigua, but 10km before the city, at a turn-off, I was told to get off and catch another bus 20m down the road.  I was most upset, showing the conductor (who was a boy, not older than 14yrs) the map on my phone, but he just told me to get off, dropping Suerte from the top of the bus into my hands.  I of course couldn’t catch her, so she fell on the ground, thankfully unharmed.  Great respect for her, but I furiously picked her up and just shouted “No no no, this is not good!”.  As if anybody was listening… I followed some other passengers, and within five minutes a bus appeared and I could board, Suerte being grabbed from me and put up on the roof again.  They are always impatient and in a hurry, I don’t know why.  This time however, when we stopped in Antiqua, a kind man helped me lower Suerte gently to the ground (I was again saying “No no no!  Don’t drop her!”). 

And now I am in Antigua, a beautiful old city, but I will write about it in the following blog. 

A friend sent me a WApp the day I was leaving Costa Rica:  “Stay far away from the volcanoes!” she said.  I couldn’t understand why she would say that, until I looked at  Google Maps to follow the route we were flying to Guatemala City that afternoon, and saw a red star and inscription close to Antigua, warning of the eruption of Volcán de Fuego that had started the previous day, 3rd August.   People had been evacuated from surrounding villages, but could return a few days later.  All along the way one could see a hazy orange glow, and as we approached Guatemala City, I could see smoke coming from the volcano. 

It was getting dark when I arrived at the hostel, and when I went to the reception area later to ask if it would be safe to go out to a restaurant, there was an American, Shane, who invited me to accompany him as he was going to find something to eat.  He had a very long and complex story regarding his ex and his daughter whom he had not seen for several years, so he had been there for six months, involved in a legal battle.  The area in which the hostel is located is called Zone 4, and it is known for its restaurants and artistic vibe, so it was great to have someone show me around.  We ate tortillas at a popular local restaurant, where one gave your order at the entrance, went upstairs to a deck and filled your basic tortilla, which they brought to your table, with goodies from a salad bar. 

I set out to explore the city the next morning, mainly to see the underground market that is behind the church.  As I walked through a poor area before coming to La Sexta, the long walking street that leads up to the market place, I realized that there is much more poverty in Guatamala than in Costa Rica. There was a long queue at a building that looked like social services, and I noticed that most of them were men.  I think the women are mostly in charge of the stalls selling goods.

The entrance to the underground market is quite obscure, I almost missed it, but I was overwhelmed once I went inside.  It covers a whole block or more, and when I had walked through the artisan part, I saw further steps going down into the fresh market area.  I bought some blackberries which looked delicious, but they were very sour.  After the fresh produce and flowers,  there was a huge food hall where local food was being served.  I stopped at some tables to take a picture of the pickles that were permanently on the table, when the owner walked up.  We started talking, and I asked about the food being sold, as I had seen that pepián (stew with rice and salad) was one of the local dishes.  He took me to the kitchen area, and the woman who was cooking pointed out the stew in one of the massive pots on the stove.  She dished me a plate and I sat right there eating pepián, without the pickles as they were much to picante (spicy), with a musician playing at the next table – delicious food and jolly music.  One also gets a big glass of some kind of watered down juice. 

 

Guatemala City does not have much to offer, but I enjoyed just watching the people and walking in the crowded streets.  There were not many tourists, and I felt a bit conspicuous in my shorts as the women all wear either long pants or traditional clothes (skirt and decorated blouse).  I read later that it is a conservative city and wearing short shorts is not acceptable – luckily mine were knee length. 

The city was severely damaged by a series of earthquakes in 1917, and again by a 7.5 magnitude earthquake in 1976, which killed about 23,000 people.  Some of the buildings have only been partly renovated, like the blue cathedral below of which only the facade has been restored. 

The next day I explored zone 10, which is a more modern and upmarket area, with an open-air shopping mall and well-dressed people walking around.  I was wearing jeans, but felt completely underdressed.   I took photos of a wonderful bookshop, not daring to browse as I find it hard to leave a bookshop without buying something, and packing space is limited. 

There is a textile museum, Museo Ixchel del Traje Indígena, not far from the mall, that I wanted to see.  Although Maps.Me showed me the way, I was at a loss to find it and nobody I asked seem to know where it was either.  I walked down into a lush valley, which turned out to be a university campus (Universidad Francisco Marroquín) with very beautiful gardens.  I saw a big building which I assumed was part of the university, and asked an official person who was standing close to it if he knew where the museum was.  He told me I had to walk out again, and up the hill, but I showed him my map and said it had to be there.  I looked again, and eventually saw the name of the museum on the building – how come he didn’t know?  Or maybe he just didn’t understand me.

The museum was a good introduction to the Mayan textile industry.  It has a big collection of indigenous hand-woven garments, traditional huipiles (loose-fitting blouse or tunic), and weaving tools, and it shows the origin and development of the weaving industry through the ages.  Some of the displays use miniatures to depict the different types of clothes and activities.  They started off weaving with the back-strap, which was eventually replaced by treadle machines and later industrial machines.  The women (because they were more housebound) kept their traditional clothes, but the men (because they were more in contact with the colonists) changed to western clothes. 

I had found a Workaway job in Panajachel, a town on the shore of Lake Atitlan, a volcanic crater lake in the highlands of the Sololá district.  It is 1,563m above sea level, has a depth of 340m, length of 18km and width between 10 and 13km.  There are three volcanoes across the lake from Panajachel (Atitlán, Tolimán, and San Pedro) and many Mayan villages all around the lake that one can visit using local ferries that depart regularly from the public piers.  

The host, Bob, had arranged a shuttle for me from Guatemala City.  I was surprised when I was picked up by a car, but it was only to Antigua (close to the city), where I transferred to a van with other people.  Things were a bit confusing, as the driver did not know where to drop me and I had stupidly not asked Bob for the address as I had assumed he would have given it to them (which he had, but it was not passed on to the driver).  I had applied for the garden job, but what had attracted me was the possibility of learning how to make chocolate and ice-cream.  

Bob has a chocolate factory where Ixcacao (the name of his brand) chocolate bars have been made for many years, and recently he started a business called The Chocolate Factory in a house in town where he makes milk, white and dark chocolate, using it to make truffles and pralines, the fillings which are also homemade.    His ice-cream creations are the best I have ever tasted, all made from scratch using fresh fruit, homemade vanilla paste, and his chocolate.  Bob was very generous, often ending our day with a scoop of ice-cream.  The lemon and basil sorbet was my favourite, and I gladly picked and cleaned a whole pot of basil leaves one day, and squeezed about a hundred lemons for the ice-cream to be made after I left.

There were two other delightful volunteers, Anja (from Serbia) and Juraj (from Croatia) who were helping Bob with computer stuff.  My job was to water the garden, keep it free from falling avocados and leaves, and remove the weeds from the pots in the street.  Bob wanted some plants removed and re-potted, which I did, but  unfortunately my shoulder started giving me huge problems, so after a few days I told Bob I couldn’t carry on and would have to leave.  He kindly offered that I could leave the garden work and just help inside with anything that had to be done, which was sometimes awkward as he has a definite and meticulous way of doing things.  We worked for five hours a day, but Bob liked us to be around most of the time and spent many hours telling us about the Mayan culture, adventures he had had, and life in Panajachel before the tourists took over.  He is from the USA but has been living in Guatamala for 43 years. 

Every night we went down to the lake to watch the sunset. 

Juraj is a very keen hiker, and one morning early he took us to a viewpoint near Santa Catarina, the neighbouring town.  Along the way we met a man, Daniel, who was carrying a very heavy load of onions on his back, using the traditional head-strap, bringing them down into the village from the fields higher up.  He told us he  does about four trips a day of carrying onions to help his aged parents with whom he lives, but he was actually a tour guide.  On the way back from the viewpoint we met him again, and he invited us to visit his home and see his mother weaving with the back-strap.  What a privilege – I bought one of the belts that had taken her five months to weave, very excited to have found an original piece of Mayan weaving as most of the items being sold in the shops and stalls are factory produced.   We met Daniel’s sister, his brother and his wife and daughter, the parents and a little boy that they had adopted. 

Panajachel is an entryway to the lake, and as such has many stalls, restaurants and a big artisan market.  What struck me the most was the colourfulness of everything – even the buildings were painted with bright colours. Walking down to the pier was fun, as the streets are lined with stalls and people, and lights twinkle on the way back.  The stray dogs are a problem though, and one has to watch where you step. 

Bob showed me a book (an Indian fairy-tale for adults) that had been illustrated by a local artist, and there was a gallery in town that sold them.  When I tried to visit it, there was a yoga class being held, but the owner of the gallery invited me to her house next door, and I was able to buy the book.  She told me to look around the garden and the rest of the property, which they run as a guest house.  She was German and had also lived in Panajachel for 37 years, but was yearning for her German roots.  “The older I get, the more I long for the things in Germany,” she said.  “Panajachel has become noisy – too much traffic, air and light pollution, so different from when we moved here.”  I fully understood what she was saying, my sinuses were being affected by car fumes and one had to dodge cars and tuc-tucs all the time.  Sad, that a cosy Mayan village had become a noisy, polluted big town.  Lake Atitlan was quite polluted too, not only with sewage, but with waste and chemicals that washed down when it rained, as Bob had explained.   The water is still clear, but swimming is not advised, and definitely not putting one’s head underwater. 

On Saturday and Sunday Anja and I took the ferry to some villages on the other side of the lake, but I will write about them in my following blog.  (Sorry Lynda!)  I’ll end this one with some murals that are all over town.