Guatemalan Shanty towns

We were cramped but we were all onboard and we were off.
Guatemalan van transport leaves much to be desired. Such as circulation in my legs… 9 adults, 9 backpacks, 10 day bags, 1 child and 2 surfboards all crammed into one minivan. Thankfully we only had 2 hours from Guatemala city to Antigua.

I watched the city roll past. Mercedes dealers and high rise apartments melted into fast food chains and mega malls, which then turned to slums and shanty towns.

I’ve always been fascinated by these communities. Walls of tin, branches, signs, car doors, bonnets, plastic tarps (anything they can get their hands on) are all held together with wire and rope, propped up against the next and so on to create a community. Smoke and steam wafting out from fires between the alleys.
I pictured the mothers that would have been cooking rice and beans on these small fires. Using the ingredients sparingly to feed their extended family. Perhaps when good fortune smiled on the family they would add a small amount of chicken or egg…

The town was perched delicately on the edge of a ravine. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live like that in this arid climate. Temperatures reach over 30 degrees consistently throughout the year. During the wet season monsoon rains drench the city daily, which would run torrents down through the ravine. And at night it would get surprisingly cold. Living in a tin shack would be almost unbearable… if you knew anything else to compare it too.

I remember as a child, our home was without air conditioning. During a hot Australian summer, when temps would reach 40 degrees, we would go swim at the beach or the pool. My friends would exclaim, “how do you live without air conditioning! I couldn’t do it.”
I still haven’t ever had an air conditioner. It is not something that I view as essential. Perhaps because I don’t know what I’m missing, or maybe I’m just a stubborn environmentalist.

The comparison between living in a tin shack in the tropics and the home that I grew up in is stark. It makes me want to share my childhood with these kids, to swap my life for theirs to give them a brief experience of my good fortune…. But would showing them what they’re missing out on, changing their perspective, make it harder for them to enjoy their life? If I lived in a mansion for a week would it make me less appreciative of my current lifestyle? It did with Homer when he house sat for Mr Burns….

The shanty towns melted away as we wearily wound up the soft hills of the countryside and over to Antigua.

 August 2011

Lava toasted Marshmellows and the cost of Tourism

I had signed up for a sunset Volcano tour on my last night in Antigua and wasn’t sure if it sounded more romantic or adventure. On true Guatemalan time scale, it only took two and a half hours to get picked up and drive the short distance to the bottom of Pacaya Volcano.

After I booked, I heard several concerning things about Pacaya Volcano.
1. The volcano had erupted a few months ago and killed someone. “But don’t worry, there hasn’t been as much lava since.”
2. There was a significant risk of being “Robbed, Raped, Kidnapped or Murdered,” while climbing the volcano. This was from the guide book, which advised to take security.
3. The guide will try to hurry you up the first steep bit, to try to convince you that you need to hire a horse.
Sure enough, all three came true. There wasn’t much lava, we did need security and we were flogged up the hill. Our guide eventually greeted us and explained the hike in very slow Spanish. My basic understanding of Spanish gave me every 3 words or so. Just enough to understand “stay together” “gangs” and “lava”.

He carried a pump action shotgun, which I happily saw wasn’t cocked, just loaded. (Guns scare me. I’m sure you’re much more likely to be shot accidentally than on purpose… especially when it’s loaded, slung loosely over your shoulder and you’re riding a horse!)

The group started up the side of the volcano at a cracking pace. The ground was sand and ash which made plodding my only possible pace. Eventually most people got onto horses, but being the stubborn person I am, I plodded on. It was reminiscent of my Inca Trail pace on the first day. Before too long I was all alone. Our guide with the shotgun was nowhere to be seen and it was eerily quiet. I couldn’t help but think of the many warnings of violent muggings. After all, this was Central America and it was almost dark.
Thankfully the group waited for me around the corner and we continued along the dusty path. We reached the top of the first hill where the sandy ground gave way to a hard river of solid volcanic rock. The 15m wide frozen river wound its way up the volcano to the peak.
A few months ago this volcano erupted killing a photographer and creating this massive river of now solid rock. It was surreal imagining this river as glowing red lava but it was blatant that the volcano was still active. The ground was ridiculously hot, we could actually toast marshmallows over the deep crevasses. I did so with glee!
When we reached the top we sat on the side of the volcano, under the smoking top and watched the sun set. This was the romantic bit. It was beautiful and surreal. The heat and the massive scale that was not only the volcano, but the remaining lava river.
The stars came out as we descended. They’ve always made me feel the infinite nature of the universe but the volcano was something else. Millions of years ago this volcano would have been here, erupting as she pleases. The power, the heat and the huge scale of the frozen river, it was like sitting in the jaws of a lion. You hoped it was tame and having a good day.

Pondering the wondrous universe was abrupt halted when at the base of the volcano kids begged for our food, torches, money and anything else we had. “Can I have Pringley?” a boy who was barely seven years old begged Adam. “No.” “Only one?” “No.” ”How about 2 or 3?” We both laughed and I rolled my eyes. I was annoyed and saddened. I wondered how many times the boy had said those lines. Whether they had lost meaning and were simply a script that he rolled out every night to the next lot of plump western tourists. I disliked being lumped in with the hoards of westerners that visited a country for a few days, went on the mandatory tours and stayed at western resorts, not bothering to look beneath the surface or learn the language. I wanted to wander through the slums, talk to the locals and find out what was important in their life. I suppose we did that to some extent with a home stay in Nicaragua. But it was but a brief glimpse into a middle class family and the conversations had limited depth with the language barrier.

But what else could we do with our financial and time constrictions? Enrol in a charity work program, like the English schools in Costa Rica? Why should the locals learn English? So they can use comical lines to get an extra pringle out of tourists?

I came to see the volcano, but at what cost? I hated the overwhelming fact that tourism and travel is destroying local cultures. I wanted this boy’s Mother to tell him to ‘stop annoying the tourists, come home and eat your vegetables.’ I just hoped he had a Mother and vegetables and a home.