Our accommodation in Todos Santos
You know you’re well off the beaten track when a US Peace Corps worker turns to you, both shocked and amazed, as you walk through the local market and exclaims - “Oh my God, what are you doing here??” like you’re an old friend. At first, I thought that we must have met her along our travels, but when her face rang no bells, I realised that she was just extremely excited to see a gringo in her neck of the woods. She quizzed us madly, trying to discover what on earth we were doing in her neck of the woods, and was incredibly disappointed to learn that we were only passing through for a couple of days.
Anyway, where are we, and how did we get here?
We thought that it would be a chicken bus battle to get to the little village of Todos Santos, hidden way up in the hills 2 hours north of Huehuetenango in the Cuchumatán Mountains. However, it was on our list of to dos considering the true taste of Guatemala we would get – the community still speaks Mam and they all wander around in traditional attire; for the men, this means red and white stripped pants with a blue and purple cuffed shirt (or if you’re a teenage boy it means tailoring your red and white pants so that your boxers hang out like some US rapper, or making them flare out 70s style at the bottom). Luckily for us, it turned out to be one of our easiest chicken bus experiences and the trip was well worth it.
Todos Santos men in their traditional attire
To get to Todos Santos, the bus winds up and over the Cuchumatán Mountains where you get a breathtaking view of the valley and the villages below. I was glued to the window with my camera for the 2 hour trip (not that I have one good shot to show for it). On a clear day, you have a perfect view of Santa Maria – not really a mountain that I want to be seeing anytime soon – probably a good thing it was cloudy and I couldn’t see that far.
On arrival, directed by some locals, we headed up a steep hill about 20 metres to Casa Familiar. When we found out the price of a room, we both gawked. Seeing the look on our faces, we were offered the backpacker option, ‘just 10 minutes up the road,’ which we happily accepted. We were escorted up the street fully laden with packs by chatty Roman to our cheapie beds. ‘It’s only 10 minutes’ he said as we started walking. ‘It’s like this for the first bit’ (gesturing a hill) ‘and then flattens out.’ About 8 minutes into our walk to our cheapie beds, I was regretting being so cheap as the 'your working to hard, your going to puke’ feeling hit. With Roman chatting along (carrying nothing), our answers and questions got shorter and shorter as we struggled to gasp for air. I seriously considered saying that I needed to have a break, but instead asked, ‘is it much further’ only to receive chuckles from Roman. The hill, like Santa Maria, seemed like it would never end. Corner after corner I prayed that flatness would appear, but ahead all there was was more hill. When carrying at least 25kgs of stuff – I am seriously regretting packing the GHD now – serious hill climbs are not a good idea. After a good 20 minutes (we moved like snails up that hill) we reached the ‘flat’, right outside our cheapie beds.
It turns out that our cheapie beds were in Roman’s house, a gorgeous little white cottage covered in purple bougainvillea and surrounded by a luscious garden of apple trees. With little more than a gas stove, and an outdoor composting toilet to keep us entertained we were in for some definite ‘lets do nothing time’ which resulted in us planning our meals down to the salt. Trouble is, we weren’t about to purchase beef hanging in the open air covered in flies, or chicken that had turned a funky yellow colour. After this long braving street food, we still couldn’t help but think of salmonella. We were left to be inventive with the few vegies we could find; we finally decided on pumpkin soup, with a few bits of pasta thrown in – and woo hoo, we found pumpkin. Told by the shop lady to eat it with sugar, we looked at each other confused. Turns out, the pumpkin was well past Australian edible standards - it was black inside. Apparently, that’s how they eat it here. Yuk. The sugar must make it taste slightly better, better than it looks anyway.
The garden
Luckily for us, Roman came to the rescue when he offered to cook a vegetable pasta. So around the little wooden table in the only room downstairs, we ate dinner while chatting to Roman about his amazing travels biking through the States, training it to China and how he ended up living in Guatemala, where he has been for the last 15 years. Turns out, it is the old favourite – a love story. He lives here with his wife and daughters (who I envy because they speak 4 languages!). The next night, we returned the favour, cooking a vegetable curry. Well, Slurry did all of the cooking. I can only take credit for vegetable chopping.
I loved Todos Santos. Everyone here is just so friendly and so chatty (pick the happiest, most chatty person you know and multiple it by a trillion) - it’s brilliant (though frustrating when it takes you 30 minutes to walk a 10 minute walk because everyone wants to chat to you). From the children, who start a chorus of ‘hola’ as you walk by – one says hello, you say hello back, another says hello, to which you reply, until the 10 children or so that you are passing have each said hello and have been responded too – to Daphine, the chatty neighbour who wanted to know everything about us as she sat on her porch weaving - everyone is so happy and smiley.
Unfortunately, we weren’t in time for the annual November horse races – apparently a site in themselves - where men wearing colourful scarves that trail in the wind, race between two points stopping to have a drink at each end. Though they start the contest already fairly tipsy from early morning festivities, the get progressively drunker and drunker as the race wears on, riding beer bottle in one hand, whip in the other. The aim: to be the last one left on your horse. Ouch.
Next stop: Lanquin
No comments:
Post a Comment