GUATEMALA - CHICHICASTENANGO MARKET

Throughout Central and South America the vast majority of people travel by the Chicken Bus, so named because people are packed in like chickens rather than the fact that chickens are the passengers (although this does happen).  These buses are ex-US school buses with a very colourful paint job.  Todays destination was a famous Mayan local market followed by two nights home stay with a family.  We were all warned to stay close and make sure that we all got on and off at the same time.  We’d packed a day bag for the home stay but I was distinctly weighed down by the rice, flour and beans bought for my host family.  We didn’t even reach the bus station before we were all aboard the first bus, already a tight fit with three to a seat designed for two. 

The man next to me seemed concerned that I was unwell so fortunately my Spanish was sufficient to convince him that I was merely tired.  Several buses were used, passengers came and went and eventually I was wedged in with a whole family with a tiny baby, Anna Maria who seemed much preoccupied by my glasses.  The journey was dramatic to say the least.  The road was good but there were many bends as it wound its way higher into the mountains.  The driver seemed to be permanently on the telephone with one hand and gesturing with the other, as we bucketed along at breakneck speed with lots of overtaking and changing of mind in places.  Photography was impossible!

We made remarkably good time and arrived at Chichicastenango with three whole hours to spend at the market, an overwhelmingly colourful and crowded place. 

We were warned to stay in the area of the market but I have to confess that I explored a little further.  To be honest I felt less threatened the further from the market I got.  Amongst the stalls I was a constant target for the many vendors, away from there nobody was interested in me at all.  There were lots of children hanging around the cafes, ostensibly shoe shine boys but what they really wanted was food.  I left half a plate of chips for two of them which they dowsed in tomato source and consumed in seconds.  They then became instantly hyper active!

From here a private bus took us to San Jorge de la Laguna, a beautiful location overlooking Lake Atitlan with the village clinging to very steep slopes. 

Whilst we waited for our families to assemble, a football match took off on the dusty square.  We were overwhelmed by the numbers and considerable skill of the local boys!  Our hosts, Felipe and Christina had two children, Ronald and Roberth; an unusually small family given the grip the Catholic Church still has in this area.  The house rose on several levels from the street and had a small terrace looking back up the hill whilst the view from the kitchen overlooked the lake and volcano beyond. 

Edmund had brought the makings of a vast salad which supplemented what would otherwise have been a very simple meal, consisting of spaghetti, refried beans, some processed sausage, chillies and tortillas.  This was accompanied by a mug of incredibly sweet coffee.

Christina left us at seven o’ clock to go to church so Edmund and I went for a walk around the village.  It really was desperately poor with very little to do, although all the churches had some kind of service going on.  There seemed to be an improbably large number of small shops – tiendas – all selling the same limited range of soft drinks, snacks and sweets.  Most had fridges or coolers but in many cases they were not switched on.  With no sign of activity at the house we went to bed by 9 pm and discovered that the strong smell of polish obscured the air of damp which pervaded the otherwise comfortable room.  Given the concrete block construction, recent heavy rain and northerly aspect, I guess the place simply hadn’t dried out.