Solo Para Conocer

         

        I was standing outside my kibbutz room with a towel wrapped around my wet hair, full of excitement for my first solo adventure. Eighty of us from 20 countries had come to Israel to study and work. As I dried my hair, the newly arrived guy from the U.S. walked by and smiled at me. Mark. At the welcome party that night we danced every dance. Afterwards, I climbed into his single bed. 

          A few days later we abandoned our responsibilities and explored Israel. We had coffee with an Arab family on their rooftop. We floated in the Dead Sea. I told my uncle in Tel Aviv that I’d just met the man I was going to marry. At the end of the summer we parted with a promise to reunite in the U.S and create a life together. A life full of adventure, sensuality and travel. And we did. For 9 years we worked as little as possible and spent months going to Europe, Central and South America and across the U.S. Finally, one summer we returned to Guatemala and began to ask each other “And now what?”

          Along the Gringo Trail in the 70’s we’d keep running into the same people going to the same places. I called it “Society of Traveler’s Meetings”: a gathering of hippies boasting about who spoke the best Spanish, had endured the worst bus ride, travelled the longest and had the most harrowing encounters with police and thieves. We bragged about riding the Marrakesh Express, getting all our luggage stolen in Columbia and skinny dipping in Ibiza. But the conversations were wearing thin. One particular night in Chicicastenango I was bored of the one-upsmanship. I was even tired of telling our stories. I wanted to get off the beaten trail. Or maybe off the trail entirely. There was an endless loop of indecision and possibilities on repeat in my head. Were we really just hedonists? Maybe we should start careers, have a family. But if we stopped being travelers, who were we? Just tourists? We loved waking up to roosters crowing, spending days in souks, riding chicken busses surrounded by unintelligible languages. But I missed swimming with my sisters in our parent's swimming pool while our father flipped burgers. I wanted to be part of the circle of friends that played volleyball on the island. How about if we go to Lake Atitlan? Mark suggested. I objected. Everyone was going there. There was even a gringo with a pancake cafe in Panahachel. But, he said, no one was walking there! It could be done. It was only a bus ride away and, according to a map we were given, simply over one mountain. “ It’ll be an adventure!” That’s all it took. Adventure was our cocaine. 

          And so, we fashioned some equipment from plastic shopping bags, bought some sardines and water and got on a bus. When we saw a vague path winding up a hillside I shouted “let’s go!” Hours later we were still breathlessly trudging up the steep rocky path hoping it was the right way. We hadn’t seen a soul until a man walked towards us. He was stooped over from the huge bundle lashed to his back. As he got closer, we could see that it contained an assortment of bulging sacks topped by three sewing machines. “Senor, senor!” we called “Este es el sendero a Lago Atitlan?” (Is this the path to Lake Atitlan?) He seemed surprised but answered, “Si, Lago Atitlan. Pero es muy, muy lejos.” (Yes but it’s very, very far.) We were undeterred. After another hour we finally reached the top, looked down the other side of the mountain expecting to see the lake. There it was. Two more mountains away. I took a photo, sighed and kept walking. 

          Once again, we talked about our future. “When we leave Guatemala this time maybe we should go back to South Carolina, make a home and some real friends. I could get another teaching job or something. ” I said. “

         "Well, we may have “do money” awhile but we don't need much money to travel.” 

         “My dad always says ‘I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and rich is better’” 

         “Yikes, let’s never say that.” 

          When it got too dark to see a path, we laid out our plastic sheet, opened our sleeping bags and ate our sardines. Tomorrow we would have to assess our situation but for the moment we were content knowing this is how adventures begin.

                                                                                                    From my journal June, 1976 

After several days of running around looking, we finally found a boat to take us down the Amazon. The “Patricia” may not be much of a tub but she’s our Amazon Queen. Yesterday it finally left after many “mananas”. The boat is loaded to the gills with gasoline barrels and onions, barely enough room for our double hammock. The crew sleeps here and there. Last night all of our spirits were super high as we’d waited so long to finally get moving. The stars shining and the Amazon reflecting the lights…rocking in my hammock I could hardly fall asleep from the excitement. Mark said, “Ya know this is a moment when you really love travelling.” All I could do was smile and say was. “yeah.”

         First priority: finding water. We followed smoke rising in the distance until we saw a little boy scrambling after a darting chicken. He yelled in his indigenous language to his parents who peeked out from behind bamboo walls. We glimpsed pots steaming over a cooking fire. Showing them our empty canteen, they gestured for us to follow them to a man who spoke Spanish.
        
            “Why are you here and where are you going?” he asked.
            “Lago Atitlan."
            “Pues, es muy, muy lejos,” (well, it’s very, very far). Check.

        

We filled our canteens with water and purification tablets, waved to the friendly villagers and hiked on, down one mountain and up the next, continuing our conversation.

         “Maybe I could get a part time job and do some side hustles,” I suggested.
        “ We could weave hammocks!” Mark proposed.
        “Or start a day camp.”
        “Or grow herbs and spices.”
        “Or start an agricultural commune.”
        “Or a food coop.”
        “I can sew…kind of.”
        “Those blankets in Momostenango!” Mark remembered. “We could start an import business,”
        “Or we could….have a baby.”
        “But even if we have children let’s not get so caught up in conventionality that we stop having adventures.”
          “Of course,” I confirmed. “That would miss the whole point.”

           
            By nightfall we started to doubt we were going the right way. Up ahead we could see what looked like a hut. It was actually a thatched lean-to that farmers used while harvesting. Our next campsite. It wasn’t the worst place we’d ever slept.

                                                                 Letter home to my parents from Europe, June, 1973
                                                               Hitchhiking through Germany on our way to Holland

As the sun set we found ourselves stranded without a car in sight.  We were finally offered a ride with a family to Baden Baden.  We hoped they’d invite us home to sleep but they dropped us off in front of a hotel.  It was full. We were stuck.  Enter a drunkish German version of Baba (Grandma) Rose.  She spoke no English, found we had no German money and paid for a ride to a youth hostel.  Then she talked to the caretaker and, even though they were friends, we were told we couldn’t stay there because we didn’t have a hostelling card, whatever that is.  We did the only thing left to do—we slept in the Black Forest.  Talk about creepy!  We were both up all night worried about wolves and Nazis.

  

            Following rising smoke the next morning we encountered two men hauling firewood who immediately asked the question we heard most frequently: “Why have you come here?” We gave our usual answer: “Solo para conocer,” (just to know). They took us to their village store which was hardly a store: a few cans of sardines, dusty bottles of Coke and a few warm beers. We rewarded their help by buying a round of beers and after just one, our new friends were totally drunk and riotously laughing. “Cheap dates,” Mark joked.
            “Seriously! And who schlepped all of the Coca Cola up here?” I wondered.
            Further up the trail we started seeing cultivated fields and knew we were approaching a larger village. We waved to a pack of children playing tag and followed them to a man who introduced himself as Maestro Luis. He was there to teach the indigenous children Spanish.
            “It’s so exciting that you’re here,” he said. “We don’t get any visitors. Come tell the children about your country!” Inside his one-room classroom the children barraged us with questions.

           “How much does a pencil cost in the United States?”
            “How many kilometers away do you live?”
            “Why don’t you have any children?”
            “Why have you come here?”
            “Please, sing your national anthem for us,” Luis suggested.
            “Do you know it?” I whispered to Mark.
            “Ah, do you?”

            

We stumbled through it as best as we could. When the school day ended Luis offered the benches in the classroom for us to sleep that night. He was walking home the next day and invited us to go with him. We were happy to accept the upscale sleeping arrangements and particularly his guidance in getting closer to the Lake. But reaching it would mean that we’d have to decide what to do next.

                                                                                                   From my journal after reading
                      The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge by Carlos Castaneda.

            Que sera sera no? Today I watched and waited for a little green grasshopper that had             crawled up my leg to tell me the secret to life. Is this because I am open to anything             or is it because I am desperate for suggestions?

            We had to hustle to keep up as we followed Luis for three hours down the mountain. “You’ll stay with us,” he insisted, “We’ll be glad to have you.” His smiling wife greeted us with their baby bound to her chest. It was a simple house with a dirt floor, two rooms, an outdoor kitchen and an outhouse.

            As night fell we helped the señora slap tortillas onto the comal to eat with fresh vegetables from their garden. With the lake within sight, it felt like a celebration. The next morning we thanked them profusely, waved goodbye and walked to the shore for a boat to Santiago de Atitlan.


            We rented a little lake-side house for a couple of weeks. It was a miracle of luxury with a bed, running water and a flush toilet. I arranged to spend the afternoons with an indigenous señora in town learning embroidery and practicing Spanish with her husband. As I stitched the traditional bird images, I recounted our adventures to him. But as I told him where we'd been I kept asking myself where we were going. Every night we talked about the future.
            I began every conversation with what I knew to be true: “The things I’m looking for are fun, excitement, alternative realities, universal truths, sensuality…”

            “Me too. Speaking of sensuality…” Mark murmured as he ran his hand inside my blouse and I leaned in for a kiss. “Remember our first lover’s weekend in Israel laying in that seaside hotel room in Natanya?”
            “Uh-huh. We talked about naming our first daughter Natanya.”
            "I can almost see her now…”
            “Stop! I feel like I’m going crazy from so many choices.”
            “Tranquilo Carol. Just remember. It’s all a trip.”

Natanya and our granddaughters Emilia and Lana. 

Epilogue

Now, 50 years later I’m back at Lake Atitlan.  I can see the mountains we climbed from the window of my casita. Rereading my journals, I’m struck by how many bad ideas we had. We never wove hammocks, grew herbs, started a commune or a food coop. We did actually import blankets from Momostenango but we weren’t so good at selling them.  One covers our bed today.  Luckily, we’ve  been dispelled of the silly notion that having money is a bad thing.

Above our bed is the photograph I took from the top of the mountain.  It reminds me that we were adventurous and  brave.  That hasn’t changed. We naively started businesses and learned on the fly.  I nursed Natanya at the desk of my father’s CFO as she taught me accounting.   Our employees at Jack Rabbit Photo gave us quick lessons in photography.  I've glimpsed alternate realities through the eyes of musicians, dancers and artists. Mark still reaches under my shirt and smiles. I still lean in for a kiss.  We were so stupid.  We were so smart.  It’s quite a trip. 

Returning to Lake Atitlan

 

                

         There’s a photo on our bedroom wall that Mark and I took from the top of a mountain in Guatemala fifty years ago.  We’d confidently hiked there using a bogus map with camping equipment fashioned from shopping bags, planning to walk one day to Lake Atitlan on the other side.   It was the kind of thing we did during the nine years that we travelled as much as possible and worked on
ly enough to keep moving.  The photograph shows what we discovered:  the lake was two more mountains away.  Over the next 5 days we followed rising smoke from one Mayan village to another seeking water and food and talking about our future.

Porta Hotel courtyard.

        When I heard about Joyce Maynard’s one-week memoir writing retreat at Lake Atitlan, I knew that was the story I wanted to revisit.  The trip began in Antigua where I joined a group of 14 other women for dinner.   The luxurious Porta Hotel demonstrated how far the tourist infrastructure has improved since my last visit but the curvy, bumpy   roads to the lake the next day showed what hasn’t changed. After a short boat ride we pulled up to Joyce’s dock and were greeted by a marimba band.   Our happy group danced. 

     

     Joyce built Casa Paloma from an undeveloped piece of land she purchased over 20 years ago.    Now lovely casitas, massage palapas, dining spaces, a yoga platform, porches, a stone sauna, kitchen and living room perch on the hillside. Everything is connected by steep stone steps that require careful navigation. Huipils, carvings, masks and paintings fill the walls. There’s a swimming dock, kayaks and stand-up paddleboards waiting on shore. We were given gifts:  vibrant hand woven rebozos.  There were snacks: tortillas with guacamole and smoothies courtesy of Rosa who fed us sumptuously all week.  Each accommodation offers a view of the shimmering lake and the towering volcano.    My very comfortable casita even had an outdoor bathtub under a thatched roof.  A nearby porch with a swinging bench made from a hand-carved canoe was the perfect spot to enjoy  morning coffee before a bracing swim in the lake. 
  

Joyce and me.

               Joyce Maynard has written over 20 books and has contributed to newspapers and magazines since she was a teen ager.  Her career took off after she wrote an essay for the New York Times, “An Eighteen Year Old Looks Back on Life” and she gained notoriety for her book “At Home in the World” about her relationship with JD Salinger.  Two of her books, To Die For and Labor Day have been turned into movies.  Throughout two marriages, she has supported her family by writing, never having “the luxury of writer’s block”, she says.  “I am endlessly interested in hearing women’s stories,” she told us.  Using a large white board and her arsenal of tools, Joyce led us to dissect each essay.   First of all what exactly is the story? It should move like a road trip: start somewhere and get somewhere.  “I used to…and now I…” she kept repeating.  She decries adverbs, and interpretive language.  We were prompted to add more descriptions, edit out needless dialogue and never to underestimate the intelligence of our reader by explaining everything.  It was a tough lesson.  Some were told to start completely over.  I’d been confident in my essay but it didn’t survive her scrutiny.  “I’m giving you such a hard time! But that’s because I know you can do better.”  She was right.  I worked hard on the rewrite and the story is much better.  (see  finished essay “Solo Para Conocer” in another blog post.)

                It’s clear that Joyce has a genuine reverence for the culture.   Everyone who works at Casa Paloma is local and paid well.  “I don’t want to pay the people here as bargain basement workers but I couldn’t have built this place in the US.” she said. Each day began with a description of its significance on the Mayan calendar.  There was a cacao ceremony and a shaman’s ritual about choosing happiness.  Local women gave us massages. We toured a nearby town to learn about medicinal herbs, bee keeping, coffee roasting, dying and weaving.   A fisherman paddled by to talk about his life and the changing ecology of the lake. 

Rosa fed us sumptuously
and taught us about cacao. 

                I spent each day absorbed in stories:  the trajectory of my life upon returning to Lake Atitlan, the intimate insights from the other essays, the mystical Mayan customs, the history and nature that surrounded us.  Joyce has built such a remarkable place. It’s clear to see why so many who come call the retreat one of the most meaningful weeks of their writing lives.

If You Go:

https://casapalomaretreat.com/

 

The view from my casita.