Guatemala on My Own

The trip actually materialized after a planned—and canceled—attempt in September, a postponement in early October, and the threat of another cancellation because of Guatemalan political disturbances, which, fortunately, abated.

I learned that it is just as much work packing for five days as for five weeks and left Belize on Wednesday, October 14th. We boarded the plane and then sat on the tarmac for almost two hours while TACA personnel tried to coax a jammed cargo door into working.

Because of political differences between Belize (which considers itself an independent nation) and Guatemala (which considers Belize a part of its sovereign area), planes no longer can fly directly back and forth, a matter of about twenty-five minutes. Instead, passengers are routed through either Honduras or El Salvador at double fare on a trip that takes about three hours. In this case it was closer to five hours.

 

Chris and Joan Hempstead, friends whom I had not seen in twenty-odd years, had insisted over my protests that they would meet me. I was relieved not to see them when I arrived so late. A phone call, shortly after I had settled into my room at La Casa Grande, told me that Chris had been at the airport on the balcony overlooking the Customs clearance baggage area, but had missed me because I was so closely followed by another traveler that he had assumed we were a couple.

I was lucky in my choice of an hotel, recommended by friends, and in getting a room at the last minute due to a cancellation. La Casa Grande bills itself as a residential hotel and is on Avenida de la Reforma in the Zona Rosa tourist district, close to the main tourist hotels that charge five times as much. It was a large private home and has been adapted to a gracious, inviting small hotel.

The public rooms are all handsome, with dark furniture and elegant upholstery, looking more like private living rooms than like lobby and bar. The dining room, under a skylight, is an inviting retreat of white walls, green vines, curlicued white wrought-iron furniture, and pastel napery.

My room opened off a small lush inner patio. It was tiled of floor and chintzed of curtain with white wicker furniture. The hotel staff combined the efficiency of professionals with the warmth of family welcoming a distant relative.

I settled in happily and found that I had made a major error in deciding against packing a heavy robe. The room was cold. I appropriated a second heavy blanket from the twin bed and slept warmly.

In the morning I examined the room thoroughly, realized that there was no inlet for heat, and asked at the front desk whether a room with heat was available. The courtly young deskman looked embarrassed as he said they had none, but offered me a room with parquet floor, which might not be quite as cold as the tile. I replied that I was perfectly happy, settled, and would not move, thank you.

Knowing how cold Guatemala City can be in the winter at its 6,000-ft. altitude, I am astounded that they can keep an unheated hotel tenanted. Still, I enjoyed staying there so much that I would return regardless of the weather.

 

The air that was less than comfortable in my bedroom was ideal outdoors. I marched out next morning on my premiere shopping expedition into brisk but sunny weather and the clear, clean air of Guatemala. Despite being in a valley ringed by volcanoes, the city has escaped smog like that which blankets Mexico City.

Incidentally, one of the volcanoes erupted spectacularly recently and still was smoking. Later, on the trip home, we flew over a long line of volcanoes, probably in Nicaragua. One of those also was smoking and the cone was full of what appeared to be moving lava. It obviously had erupted within the “recent” past because the sides were scored with the forbidding gray of lava flow and no green growth had established itself for a large area at the base of the volcano.

You do not need to know about my shopping, which was enthusiastic and successful. If you plan to visit Guatemala, I will give you the names of shops; otherwise my discoveries are of no interest, despite my own delight.

 

That afternoon an old friend, Patsy Shelton, picked me up to drive me to the Hempstead’s new home, up in the hills outside the city, for tea. We branched off the main road onto gravel and stopped at a heavy solid-steel door across a road on the left. It was opened for us; we drove through and paused for four uniformed guards armed with submachine guns. Patsy was driving Joan Hempstead’s car and, being a close relative, was in and out of the house regularly. Nevertheless, one of the guards came over to the car, looked closely at both of us, and peered into the back seat before smiling and waving us on.

The security system was put into place recently after five armed men broke into the house, threatened to rape the oldest daughter and the maid, and forced Joan to unlock the safe. No one was injured; I did not hear how much was stolen.

Both Joan and their teenage son Stephen had walked into the situation separately while it was in progress. I asked Joan if she weren’t paralyzed with fright and she replied that, no, they were the same sort of people she works with all the time in her rural health clinics. She was surprised at how young they were and realized that they probably were not hard-core guerrillas. She said, “I told them that if they behaved correctly with me, I would be correct with them.” Later, when one of them started hassling her, she barked that she could not open the safe unless he backed up and left her alone.

Chris told me later that the main reason he and Joan had decided suddenly to put Stephen into school in the States this month was that he had vowed to kill any of the group if he ever saw them again. Chris and Joan knew that he meant it and felt it would be safer to get him out of the country.

 

Back to the tea…

I had not seen their new home, which Joan had designed and decorated. It is huge and gracious, but done in such a way that it impresses one as a lovely semi-traditional home of white stucco and dark carved wood, rather than as the mansion it is.

In Belize before the trip, as I was following Alex out the door to leave, I suddenly had thought “tea” and dashed back to get a pair of white gloves. I could have saved the effort since mine were the only ones in view. Furthermore, I am used to tea at a British four o’clock, which does not mean 4:01. Patsy did not even pick me up until almost 4:30 and we were among the early arrivals. Guests ranged in age from the 20’s to the 60’s and were delightful. They spoke Spanish, English, or most commonly, both.

There was no tea, or at least no one was drinking it. Joan was serving Rosa de Jamaica (RO-sa day hah-MY-kah), a deep pink beverage served over ice in large wine glasses. It is non-alcoholic, not sweet, and has a delicious faint bite for character. Delightful. I was told it is brewed from rose hips.

The “tea” itself, when it was served around 7:00, was lavish enough to pass for a light supper. No details, but it was not diet food.

Later when we left, I noticed that cars tended to travel in convoy, doors tightly locked.

 

Next morning I headed for downtown and the central market. I knew that the old market, which I had adored, had been destroyed in an earthquake many years ago and was doubtful of what I would find. My first stop was a craft shop where I had been advised to look for the area rug that I wanted. From there I walked to the market and, finding nothing, inquired of a policeman. He aimed me across the street toward an enormous open plaza and told me to take the stairs…down.

Underground, looking only slightly modernized, was my beloved market, two floors of jumbled shops, able to sustain life indefinitely if called on to do so without recourse to the world above.

I made my way past the meat, through the vegetables and fruits, to the baskets, right past the shoes to the handcrafts, and on to fabrics. Only inability to carry another thing and the need to return to meet Joan and Chris for lunch could have pried me out of the market. My one regret about the trip is that I never had time to return for a more leisurely visit…which is all to the good, since I probably could not have afforded it.

 

We lunched at a small French restaurant not far from the hotel. Chris pointed out that the bushes behind me, edging the patio, were coffee trees with ripening beans. We had leisure to catch up on twenty years of news of family and friends in both countries.

 

That evening in the hotel I nearly froze to death. Much of it was my own fault. I always have a couple of glasses of iced coffee late in the afternoon, so when I returned about 5:30, I ordered ice, got into my gown and robe, fixed my iced coffee and settled into bed with my book. I could not warm up. My feet were as icy as my beverage. After suffering for an hour or more, I got up, fixed another glass of iced coffee, put on my coat over my robe, wrapped my feet in my newly purchased Indian fabric to protect them from the chilly sheets, and gradually returned to the land of the living. Subsequent evenings found me coddled by cups of hot coffee.

 

On Saturday I was driven up to Antigua by another friend to visit her brother, an artist whom I knew years ago in Belize and with whom I still correspond. Antigua is the old colonial capital of the country. When it was badly damaged by earthquake centuries ago, a new capital was established not far away in what is now Guatemala City.

Antigua is narrow cobblestone streets; blank-faced walls with grilled windows hiding magnificent restored homes and patios; fine restaurants in converted, restored buildings erected by the conquistadores; parks and small tourist shops and jade museums.

 

I returned the next day with Joan; Patsy and her mother Flo, whom I had known years ago; and a charming young woman from Colombia, who was there for an international organization involved in social work similar to that which Joan does. Carolina spoke only Spanish so most of the conversation was in that language. I was amused that even when friends turned to speak specifically to me they used Spanish half the time. My Spanish is quite usable for normal occasions, but this was the first time I had been comfortable in a group speaking only Spanish and could follow easily enough to enter the conversation casually.

After lunch in the beautiful old patio of an antique-shop-cum-restaurant we strolled across to the park, into a few shops, and to the Jade Museum. Magnificent things were on display. Joan was especially taken by a handsome necklace that was an exact copy of one found in a tomb in the Mayan ruins at Tikal. The curator explained that each bead had been measured and its size, color, and irregularities duplicated exactly. The price was 9,000 Quetzales, which everyone but me thought excessive. My eye had been caught by a lovely, simple strand of blue jade beads separated by small silver beads that I thought would be perfect for Carli. The price of l,450 Quetzales encouraged me to leave it right where it was. The exchange rate is good, but not that good.

 

So it was back to the hotel, forcing all of my purchases to fit into available space, and off just after dawn the next day to return to Belize.