From Flores to Antigua

Antigua, city "under the volcano"

Very little street noise, except for a few early-morning cars; hardly a barking dog, but three different church bells tolling the hour – we have arrived in Guatemala's former capital, the beautiful old city of Antigua.

Worlds seem to lie between the lush jungle around Flores and the just as tropical, but much drier highlands we reached after a long day of bus travel on Thursday.

At about 10 in the morning we saw our backpacks disappear in the belly of a “Linea Solada” bus and soon were on our way. This bus was a big improvement over the last one we took from Chetumal to Flores. Then, we were surprised to find a 25 passenger Mitsubishi van of uncertain age instead of the comfortable bus we had expected. It was a hot day, and there was no air condition, though fortunately we were only thirteen passengers so that almost everyone had a seat to themselves. Still, we were very glad when the doors of the van opened after almost nine hours of travel, and we were released from the sauna-like conditions.



Our "luxury bus" from Chetumal to Flores



In contrast, a nice, modern bus expected us this time, with reclining seats, cool air streaming from the overhead vents: this time the eight or nine hours of travel would be a breeze – or so we thought.

The road south climbed steadily, but at first very slowly through beautiful, lush countryside. In Guatemala, just as in Belize, there is so much more agricultural activity than in the part of Mexico we passed through. Sugar cane and papaya orchards, corn fields planted on slopes that seemed too steep for machinery, beans and pastures – it seems as if every available space is used to produce food. We saw very few big fields, and just as little farm machinery.

Every house, no matter how small and poor, has a garden, not only to produce the corn, beans and squash that form the staple food, but full of flowers, too: bougainvillea and roses, calla lilies and a multitude of others I don't know, a profusion of yellow and lavender, pink and red, flaming orange and white.

After about an hour we entered a strange landscape. Forested, cone-shaped hills, first on the periphery of my field of vision, moved ever closer and soon were shoulder to shoulder. The road got steeper, the bus slower, and we climbed steadily. Here, it looked more like jungle again, and houses and villages were a bit further apart.

Not too long, and we left the hilly country behind. Now, pastures stretched far to the left and right, dotted with herds of white, cream coloured and brown Brahma cattle. Their ears are long, drooping, and strangely fleshy, and with their melancholy eyes and long faces they remind me of Spanish noblemen. Often they are so thin that I can almost count their ribs driving by, just like many of the small horses. Why is this? They seem to have enough to eat. Are they plagued by parasites?

At three o'clock we stopped for a bathroom break and chance to buy something to eat and drink at a restaurant not so far from Rio Dulce, the starting or ending point for river cruises to the former slave town of Livingston. This is supposed to be a beautiful trip, according to the “Lonely Planet”.

The Lonely Planet's assessment of our destination, Guatemala City, or “Guate”, as it is called here,was much less favourable: it sounded as if it was to be avoided unless one absolutely had to connect to bus or plane there. While we didn't plan to be there for long we had thought we'd spend a night before we moved on to the highlands. We don't have a set schedule, however, and it's nice to be flexible. On our last day in Flores we decided to instead go on to Antigua, only an hour further, and find a hotel there.

Meanwhile the road climbed again, this time quite steep, hugging the hillside. It felt as if we were driving disconcertingly close to the precipice. The bus, though obviously straining to manage the incline, kept passing other buses and trucks, tanker trucks and others filled with cattle and oranges and all kinds of other produce. Solid lines didn't pose a hindrance, and I was thankful to sit so far in the back: while I had a good view of the abyss beside me I at least couldn't see what was ahead.

The landscape, meanwhile, had changed. It had slowly become drier, and accordingly trees often had smaller leaves, and some looked almost thorny. Cacti, too, appeared between the trees, huge club-like upright plants with strangely white tips. Still there were orange, papaya and banana trees and the ever-present coconut palms.

In the early afternoon already we had started to notice how effective the air conditioning system of the bus was, and as the day progressed people started to put on more and more clothes. Some of the more experienced native travellers had brought warm jackets and shawls, some even blankets. I was wearing bermuda shorts and sandals and a sleeveless blouse, but had at least brought my rain jacket. If someone had asked us towards the end of the trip if we'd rather have our Turismo van from the last trip back, the answer might not have been so clear anymore: we were all freezing.

It was slowly getting dark, and Venus appeared in the sky, followed by more and more stars. We were nearing our destination. We were so late that there was no way we'd catch the last bus to Antigua. Guate didn't look very inviting in the dark – but then, outskirts of big cities rarely do, no matter where they are. The surroundings of bus terminals in Argentina and Chile didn't look much different, and neither do those of train stations in Germany. But what would we find at the bus station? Would there be dubious characters we would have to fight off, trying to lure us into some adventure?

No. To our relief we found that, along with the prices listed for different bus destinations, there was also a set rate for taxis to Antigua, 225 Quetzal, which is about $30. A bus company clerk sent us to a taxi driver, the bags were stowed in the back with a bit of shoving and pushing, and we were on our way again. It was almost 7:30 by now. What we saw of Guate now could have been a modern city in Canada: several McDonald's (the first two-story I ever saw among them), Pizza Hut, Domino Pizza, glistening malls and the streets full of cars: Toyota and Hyundai, Chevrolet and Renault, even BMW and Mercedes. Was this the same city we had entered by bus on the other side?

After about an hour we reached Antigua. Cobble-stone grid-line streets, often one-way, houses presenting closed fronts, lots of people, locals as well as tourists walking – we had arrived at the “one must-see destination in Guatemala” (Lonely Planet). Our taxi driver was not very familiar with the city and had to ask three times for the address of the hotel we had chosen, again from the Lonely Planet. When we knocked on the door we found out that it was full. We had unloaded our backpacks already, but since we had passed a lot of hotels in the vicinity we sent the taxi driver on his way and went looking for a different accomodation on foot. Kurt used the cast-iron knocker on a dark wooden door not far away, and we were let into the spacious courtyard of the Hotel Posadita. Yes, they had two rooms for us – and the rooms were beautiful! They were also expensive by Central American standards, but we didn't care: all we wanted to do was cast anchor at a safe place for the night.

No rest yet, however: we were told that we had to pay for the rooms in advance – but not here. The hotel's owner also owned another, bigger hotel in Antigua, and payment had to be made there. We just dropped our bags – I still in shorts and rain jacket – and waited for a courtesy shuttle to take us to the |Hotel Don Rodrigo La Antigua. By now we were almost numb with fatigue, and very hungry: all we had eaten since breakfast was bananas and peanuts.

Still we couldn't help but notice the beauty of the place, the antique furniture and tasteful decoration. We paid, and decided to eat right there at the restaurant. We looked a bit out of place among the elegant diners in our travel-worn clothing, but we were served with competence, and the food was delicious. Maybe if we had been a bit more alert we might have chosen another beverage than the – admittedly very good – Chilean red, which, at 230 Quetzal, cost half as much as our meal.

The shuttle drove us back to our own hotel. We would take time to inspect the beautiful surroundings more closely in the morning.



Courtyard at Hotel Posadita



Our room at the Hotel Posadita