Nearly everyone is a bit nervous in the morning as we breakfast at Fernandos. Even if they have done an Intrepid ‘ home stay’ before there is still that fear of not being able to communicate and how to fill the time whilst in someone else’s home. What will the sleeping arrangements be like? Will they have a toilet? A shower? Hot water? What will we eat? Will they have kids? How many? How old? What presents should we take? All of us, except Barbara (who runs a language school in Spain!), wish we’d spent a bit more time practising Spanish.
Before we get to meet the families we head to Chichicastenaga, famous for its market, where we can get souvenir bargains and also purchase some grocery items for our families by way of thank you.
For those of us who had spent the previous night out on the town in Antigua, Chichi presents more of a challenge than others. The narrow streets are packed with vendors, locals and tourists. Vendors peddling their wares, calling out their special offers at the top of their voices. We hide out in a first floor cafe overlooking the market before determining our strategy. Caroline & Ernie decide that a snooze is required before any further action can be taken and head to a couple of benches at the back of the cafe, but I am determined to take the bull by the horns and launch myself into the fray. Immediately, I am surrounded by diminutive, indigenous women & children trying to peddle their scarves, table cloths, worry dolls, jewellery, ANYTHING! Aha! I am an old hand at this thing. I’ve travelled through India, Asia and Africa and long ago learnt the techniques to avoid this harassment.
1. Ignore them
2. Say ‘No thank you’ politely
3. Repeat in local language
4. Repeat 2& 3 more forcefully
5. Never, ever, EVER, ask a price
6. Never, ever, EVER, show any interest
But it doesn’t seem to be working here. A little entourage accumulates around me, swelling and receding as I wander round the artisan market, endeavouring to look at nothing in particular. My friends wander ahead laughing, unencumbered by the persistent cries of ‘1 dollar’, ‘nearly free’, ‘good price for you’, ‘maybe later’, as each vendor plants themself in my path, anxious to secure a sale. My friends look at items on sale, negotiate pricing undisturbed, make purchases! Still my little entourage continues until I am forced to seek a final escape in the veg market, slipping through a narrow archway & leaving them behind to attack some other poor, unsuspecting tourist.
After a morning in the markets we set off to Panajachel for a couple of hours respite before meeting our hosts in San Jorge. Panajachel sits on the edge of Lake Atitlan with stunning views of the volcanoes. The local lads are swimming in never decreasing circles in a makeshift pool in the lake at increasing speed. It seems triathlon is a big sport here. As we walk back up the high street towards the meet point the rain starts and gets increasingly heavy until the high street itself is a virtual river running down towards the lake. We hop from shop front to shop front but it seems there is no avoiding getting drenched. Then, our hero, Ernie, is running towards us down the centre of the street, in his bare feet, the bus behind him, collecting us from our little island refuges.
San Jorge is only a few minutes drive along the ridge to the next harbour. We have had no advance information about our families, or where we will be, or whether they speak any English or even Spanish. Caroline and I are pointed towards Rosa and we follow behind as she leads us up a steep narrow roadway towards her home. Fortunately, its not too far up the hill, as we are already puffing after a few metres. Home is a modest affair made up several single storey concrete huts with a tin roof, shanty style. Our room is clean and has 2 beds, a window (no glass) with a wooden shutter. There is an outside sink next to the toilet/shower hut. The kitchen has a concrete range, wood fired and is pretty dark. Inside Estephanie, the youngest daughter, aged 10 and Gladys(26) are waiting. Estaphanie is happy to show off her knowledge of English by counting from 1 to 100, in full! The Welsh flag pencils and Welsh map tea towel I have brought as gifts are proudly shown to everyone. We are treated to a cup of hibiscus tea before heading off for the group orientation. Once back, Gladys and Rosa are busy making tortillas and we are invited to help. Despite carefully following the instructions and demonstration, this proves to be much more difficult than anticipated and pretty soon I am covered in flour with bits of pastry stuck everywhere, all of which causes great hilarity with Rosa, Gladys and Estephanie. Even Grandma pops in to see what all the fuss is about. After half an hour Caroline and I have managed 2 miserly, paltry efforts each , whilst Gladys & Rosa have already made about 30. That said, they have had plenty of practice, as tortillas form the staple of every meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner! Rosa has pulled out all the stops for our visit and, when her husband Joaquin, returns from his shift in a local hotel at 7.30, we are treated to a special dinner of beefsteak, rice(made with a delicious consommé), mixed vegetables(also cooked in consommé & served with a little mayo stirred thru) and, of course, a huge pile of tortillas. After dinner, I chat in my limited Spanish with Gladys, who has set up a little evening stall at the front entrance, selling single portion servings of sliced fruit and coconut milk. Joaquin is determined to teach us some of the local dialect and has a crib sheet just for the purpose. Dutifully, we repeat each word or phrase after him, but by the end of the evening we have just about mastered, thank you. Eventually, son Julio, comes home late from school and, the other married daughter, Yolande, pops round to meet us. We opt for an early night and are sad to miss saying goodbye to Estephanie who starts school early in the morning.
Next morning, tortillas and scrambled eggs for breakfast with beans and rice and we say our goodbyes and head back to Panajachel.
As the weather has improved, we decide to hire a boat for the day and head across the lake over to San Marcos and Santiago for the day to get a view of other villages living on the side of a volcano overlooking the lake. The lake waters sit in the centre of several volcanoes. An earthquake sealed the natural drainage system and since then the lake waters have continued to rise with rainfall until many of the homes around the lake have found themselves underwater. As we pull into the jetty at San Marcos, we float past an underwater gallery. Here, we climb the steep hill to visit a women’s cooperative where they take cotton and silk threads, dye them and weave them into garments, pictures, scarves and hammocks. I picture myself lazing in one of the hammocks across the decking in my garden and without thinking, make an offer. Before I know it I am the proud owner of one handmade hammock with wooden batons. Err. How am I going to get this home?
Before we get to meet the families we head to Chichicastenaga, famous for its market, where we can get souvenir bargains and also purchase some grocery items for our families by way of thank you.
For those of us who had spent the previous night out on the town in Antigua, Chichi presents more of a challenge than others. The narrow streets are packed with vendors, locals and tourists. Vendors peddling their wares, calling out their special offers at the top of their voices. We hide out in a first floor cafe overlooking the market before determining our strategy. Caroline & Ernie decide that a snooze is required before any further action can be taken and head to a couple of benches at the back of the cafe, but I am determined to take the bull by the horns and launch myself into the fray. Immediately, I am surrounded by diminutive, indigenous women & children trying to peddle their scarves, table cloths, worry dolls, jewellery, ANYTHING! Aha! I am an old hand at this thing. I’ve travelled through India, Asia and Africa and long ago learnt the techniques to avoid this harassment.
1. Ignore them
2. Say ‘No thank you’ politely
3. Repeat in local language
4. Repeat 2& 3 more forcefully
5. Never, ever, EVER, ask a price
6. Never, ever, EVER, show any interest
But it doesn’t seem to be working here. A little entourage accumulates around me, swelling and receding as I wander round the artisan market, endeavouring to look at nothing in particular. My friends wander ahead laughing, unencumbered by the persistent cries of ‘1 dollar’, ‘nearly free’, ‘good price for you’, ‘maybe later’, as each vendor plants themself in my path, anxious to secure a sale. My friends look at items on sale, negotiate pricing undisturbed, make purchases! Still my little entourage continues until I am forced to seek a final escape in the veg market, slipping through a narrow archway & leaving them behind to attack some other poor, unsuspecting tourist.
After a morning in the markets we set off to Panajachel for a couple of hours respite before meeting our hosts in San Jorge. Panajachel sits on the edge of Lake Atitlan with stunning views of the volcanoes. The local lads are swimming in never decreasing circles in a makeshift pool in the lake at increasing speed. It seems triathlon is a big sport here. As we walk back up the high street towards the meet point the rain starts and gets increasingly heavy until the high street itself is a virtual river running down towards the lake. We hop from shop front to shop front but it seems there is no avoiding getting drenched. Then, our hero, Ernie, is running towards us down the centre of the street, in his bare feet, the bus behind him, collecting us from our little island refuges.
San Jorge is only a few minutes drive along the ridge to the next harbour. We have had no advance information about our families, or where we will be, or whether they speak any English or even Spanish. Caroline and I are pointed towards Rosa and we follow behind as she leads us up a steep narrow roadway towards her home. Fortunately, its not too far up the hill, as we are already puffing after a few metres. Home is a modest affair made up several single storey concrete huts with a tin roof, shanty style. Our room is clean and has 2 beds, a window (no glass) with a wooden shutter. There is an outside sink next to the toilet/shower hut. The kitchen has a concrete range, wood fired and is pretty dark. Inside Estephanie, the youngest daughter, aged 10 and Gladys(26) are waiting. Estaphanie is happy to show off her knowledge of English by counting from 1 to 100, in full! The Welsh flag pencils and Welsh map tea towel I have brought as gifts are proudly shown to everyone. We are treated to a cup of hibiscus tea before heading off for the group orientation. Once back, Gladys and Rosa are busy making tortillas and we are invited to help. Despite carefully following the instructions and demonstration, this proves to be much more difficult than anticipated and pretty soon I am covered in flour with bits of pastry stuck everywhere, all of which causes great hilarity with Rosa, Gladys and Estephanie. Even Grandma pops in to see what all the fuss is about. After half an hour Caroline and I have managed 2 miserly, paltry efforts each , whilst Gladys & Rosa have already made about 30. That said, they have had plenty of practice, as tortillas form the staple of every meal, breakfast, lunch and dinner! Rosa has pulled out all the stops for our visit and, when her husband Joaquin, returns from his shift in a local hotel at 7.30, we are treated to a special dinner of beefsteak, rice(made with a delicious consommé), mixed vegetables(also cooked in consommé & served with a little mayo stirred thru) and, of course, a huge pile of tortillas. After dinner, I chat in my limited Spanish with Gladys, who has set up a little evening stall at the front entrance, selling single portion servings of sliced fruit and coconut milk. Joaquin is determined to teach us some of the local dialect and has a crib sheet just for the purpose. Dutifully, we repeat each word or phrase after him, but by the end of the evening we have just about mastered, thank you. Eventually, son Julio, comes home late from school and, the other married daughter, Yolande, pops round to meet us. We opt for an early night and are sad to miss saying goodbye to Estephanie who starts school early in the morning.
Next morning, tortillas and scrambled eggs for breakfast with beans and rice and we say our goodbyes and head back to Panajachel.
As the weather has improved, we decide to hire a boat for the day and head across the lake over to San Marcos and Santiago for the day to get a view of other villages living on the side of a volcano overlooking the lake. The lake waters sit in the centre of several volcanoes. An earthquake sealed the natural drainage system and since then the lake waters have continued to rise with rainfall until many of the homes around the lake have found themselves underwater. As we pull into the jetty at San Marcos, we float past an underwater gallery. Here, we climb the steep hill to visit a women’s cooperative where they take cotton and silk threads, dye them and weave them into garments, pictures, scarves and hammocks. I picture myself lazing in one of the hammocks across the decking in my garden and without thinking, make an offer. Before I know it I am the proud owner of one handmade hammock with wooden batons. Err. How am I going to get this home?
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