The Second World, a Ring of Fire and the Properties of Scree

Upon entering any new place or situation, one can quickly become oriented by identifying a few key elements – the highest peaks, the nearest body of water, the alpha male/female, the most apparent risks or dangers, the elements of greatest value. Similarly, any ninja or secret service agent or military personnel worth his/her salt can instantly catalogue the characters of a given scene -- anticipating who is likely to do what and when, who needs to be watched or avoided or befriended or taken down. This quick evaluative ability is honed through a combination of psychic development, focused attention, and Jedi mind tricks that I am not at liberty to reveal.

Until recently, I always associated Guatemala with Mayan culture, beautiful textiles, opportunistic hippies, and volunteer church groups. Since I arrived a few days ago, I’ve been observing, absorbing, and reading about Guatemala’s horrifyingly tragic history – of which, naturally, the U.S. government has played a significant and dualistic role. I guess I’ve also been looking for the Guatemalan equivalent of myself – sort of young, educated, bohemian and open to the world. Yesterday I saw the first identifiable homos – at some crazy Lent-related religious procession involving clouds of frankincense and men in Klan-like robes and caps, no less, -- which felt life-affirming somehow (the gay men, not the men in robes). What is any town without some stylish gays?

What I’ve been struck by, though, are a couple things: One is how kind and docile (at least superficially) Guatemalan people are. According to one ex-pat I met here in Antigua, Guatemala is the sixth ‘most dangerous’ country in the world, whatever that means (Iraq being the first). I suppose it’s measured by murders per capita or something along those lines, but I don’t have much faith in being able to quantify such things with any accuracy. I don’t say this to arouse paranoia or worry, just to set the scene. Considering their history of violence, oppression and decades of civil war, I am aware of an inevitable undercurrent of pain – a calm surface with molten lava bubbling below.

The fault lines and volcanoes that proliferate the landscape and frame the city of Antigua are like scars that belie both the rich history and profound suffering of the people who have lived here. Nonetheless, it’s almost impossible to walk down the street without people smiling and greeting each other with what seems like genuine friendliness. I had a long and involved conversation in the street today with Dañiel, an older man trying to sell me jade. When I politely declined, we launched into an animated discussion about Guatemala and ‘los problemos mundial,’ and we ended by him telling me he’d be on that corner all day if I had any questions about Antigua or any of the neighboring towns. . . and I’m just another gringa who isn’t buying jewelry.

In spite of all this, it feels like there is an almost impenetrable barrier between the third world that is Guatemala and another dimension where I seem to be located. Somewhere between the first world and the third world lies a strange but distinct second world that seems to be populated by travelers, ex-patriots, permanent drunks, burn-outs and tourists. The mysteriously elusive ‘second world’ has finally been defined, and that is where I am standing. While traveling anywhere in Latin America immediately shuffles people into their distinct economic classes – since we second-worlders can enjoy services that are inexpensive for us and unaffordable for anyone operating only within the local economy, -- for some reason I don’t think I’ve ever felt the disparity more than I do here in Antigua. Granted, this is like Guatemalan Disneyland – sort of the Firenze of Central America. This being my only stop so far, I may be premature in drawing any conclusions. Where is the ‘real’ Guatemala?

While pondering these questions and the nature of volatility, I decided to climb a volcano. Originally I’d pictured sort of a mellow day trip kind of thing with a local guide. I happened upon a place here in town that leads groups on various outdoor adventures and was quickly convinced that not only should I ascend the highest of the three volcanoes near Antigua, but I should climb to its peak at 13,000 feet and camp overnight in the crater, sharing a tent with a few strangers. I figured people are only strangers until you know them a little, and I had some hiking boots with me, so I decided to go for it.

Acatenango is an active volcano, and in recent history has been erupting around every 30 years. The last eruption was in 1972, so if we’re going by its pattern, a geological catharsis is overdue and could blow any day now. Calculated risks being a part of a life well lived, I decided if it were my fate to die in a cascade of molten lava, it would be a pretty good way to go.

Accompanied by two armed police officers and our guide – a career adventurer with a seemingly endless well of energy and enthusiasm coursing through his muscular bod -- prepared us for a challenge of near-Olympic proportions, and he wasn’t kidding. We watched teams of Guatemalan teenagers cruise past us with make-shift backpacks, sleeping acoutrements and ghetto blasters, sprinkling the trail with potato chip bags and filling the air with their very particular brand of sugar and hormone-fueled vim and vigor us as we gained 5000 feet in elevation in about six miles (a lot of uphill climbing). We climbed steadily, slowly, faithfully rising toward the summit with the promise of a wine and a sunset, looking out over Fuego -- one of the neighboring volcanoes that errupts about once every hour. Weather determined our fate, however, and we dropped our packs and set up camp at the base of the final summit, then scrambled to the top with wine and flashlights.

The last leg of any journey is usually the hardest, and this was no exception. It was my introduction to a type of terrain I’d never encountered – and yet one rife with metaphor. Scree is a coarse volcanic sand that dictates a one step forward, two steps back kind of traveling pattern, and this is what we traversed. This is the nature of scaling volatile bodies, I suppose.

We missed the sunset but we experienced winds that could tear the hair off your arms and clung to the mountainside while we watched Fuego belch ash into the dusk. Our timing was better for the sunrise, and the descent was – as descents usually are – an exercise in yielding to gravity.