No sweat, Guatemala

Our first few days in Guatemala have been eventful. The border crossing was easy–Milo and the pony required more paperwork than either of us. I might or might not have been shaken down for 20 pesos (less than $2). I call those tourist fees.

On the advice of an overlander we met in San Cristóbal, we took the long and winding RW-7 that branches from the main road going east from La Mesilla. It turned out to be quite the detour–extraordinarily steep in some parts, not always paved, and difficult to follow through the small towns. After descending from the 2200m of San Cristóbal to Frontera Comalapa, we ascended back up to 3400m in some parts. We spent the night in the mountain town of Tacana, in the Hotel Los Angeles. The lobby was plastered with photos of topless girls, religious icons, and they also sold tequila and propane (handy!) Within twenty minutes of arriving, a bird pooped on my head–I think the Chinese would call that ‘auspicious.’ After a short walk, we dropped the dog off to go and indulge in some street food. A guy stopped in his truck to ask us where our dog was–this after being in town all of one hour. Yes, we stuck out that much.

The next day we passed right through a livestock market in the town of San Marcos. I was entertained to see a woman carrying a baby in a fabric with trains printed on it–the same exact pattern of some bed sheets we had when we were kids.

We always have good luck with the roadside restaurants. I eat like a trucker.

Arriving in Quetzaltenango–otherwise known as Xela–was a relief. I had the same kind of feeling when we drove into Morelia in Michoacan, of finding a completely stunning downtown after so much nothing.

The women in the western highlands of Guatemala, much like in Chiapas, also wear some incredible fabrics. Lots of them. Then they layer these ruffled aprons of them, weave ribbons into their hair, or a circle of fabric around their temples. Again, I am disappointed that only the women wear the traditional clothes, not the men.

Our first night in Xela, we settled into the best beers we’ve had since leaving San Francisco. Apparently Xela had a large German population, which might explain the quality bock and pilsener-style beers.

To close, instead of Find Juan, play Find the Baby:

I was highly entertained by that.