The Mayan Villages

Sebastian took his machete from its leather holder and checked the blade.

This was the start of our hike from Casa Del Mundo to the surrounding Mayan villages. Sebastian, the son of the owner of Casa Del Mundo, is in his mid 20s, with curly black hair, and bearing a strong resemblance to my good mate Grant.

We had learned from various sources that some of the hiking paths were favourite haunts for muggers. As we hiked up the hillside, Sebastian hacked away at undergrowth encroaching over the path, but I suspect the machete was there primarily for its deterrent effect.

The hike itself was a good couple of hours’ exercise, with the path constantly switching back on itself and steep enough to engage some otherwise underused leg muscles. Despite the steepness, most of the land is farmed, which gives the side of the hills a patchwork effect depending on the crops planted. Land is owned individually and a particular type of palm is used to designate boundaries. The steepest slopes were planted with corn and maize, while the flatter parts were planted with coffee in the undergrowth.

Falcons floated in the updraft, watching us as we climbed further until we arrived at a small village called Laguna Seca. Laguna Seca means “dry lagoon”, which is a nifty piece of marketing for what could have equally been dubbed “nice patch of grass”. The village consisted of no more than a dozen little buildings and a nice patch of grass. We met some of the more inquisitive locals - the village dogs, turkeys and baby goats. A Mayan girl, in colourful traditional dress, peaked behind a doorway at Reecey. Three young boys up a tree watched us from their prime position. A farmer took a break from hanging up Christmas lights.

We left Laguna Seca… and returned 10 minutes to collect the forgotten machete. Our tour took us to Solola, a pretty market town overlooking the lake. It was here where I first met Pollo Campero, the popular, forever-smiling, sombrero-wearing chicken, famous for his array of chicken burgers and chicken pieces. (Reecey had a cup of fruit from the markets, but was seduced by Pollo Campero a couple of days’ later).

From Solola, we caught a chicken bus (no relation to Pollo Campero) to Panajachel. The chicken buses are ex-school buses so brightly and colourfully painted that they would not be out of place in a circus. Sebastian told us that they had been souped up with new engines to cope with the Guatemalan hillsides, but it was more than the brakes we were interested in.