Bkicjs (I was trying to type something else and missed the keys.)

San Pedro La Laguna Travel Blog

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Bkicjs (I was trying to type something else and missed the keys. This title seems somehow more appropriate.)

Fine as wine, I'm aged a quarter century. To celebrate, I've buzzed my hair back to 1/4 inch, paying an outrageous Q$25 (US$3.50) for the 5-minute shearing, but at least I'm free of the fledgling mullet that always sprouts as my hair grows thicker and longer, the only consistency as my headtop shrub blooms with cowlicks and curls.

Transportion in San Pedro has improved significantly since I arrived in October, steady construction transforming the rainy season's rocky-river-roads to level cement pathways. With the road running in front of Mama Meli's house recently reopened, the town has inherited unexpected gifts: Free Speedbum(p)s! Specifically, the unconscious alcoholics, splayed across the road just down the hill from the church, in front of El Rinconcito.

Last Friday Ricardo and I trekked the lakeshore, skirting water, scaling rocks and mounds of tide-deposited basura, working around obstacles from crops to cows, on the way to San Marcos La Laguna. We strayed from the road after warnings from numerous Chapins that we, tall, pasty extranjeros, are walking targets for the machete-wielding ladrones in less foreigner-friendly San Pablo La Laguna.

Closer to San Marcos, the lakeside is suddenly peppered with massive estates resting a half football-field's length back from the shore in perfectly maintained, flower-, tree- and fountain-filled yards. These foreigner spectacles are offensive, flaunting wealth greater than neighboring townships possess collectively, and these private residences have hogged the beachfront, rendering Atitlàn almost inaccessible to actual Atitlànians.

Worst of all, the white invaders are hippies of the fruitiest sort. San Marcos is a town populated by dreadlocked backpackers practicing every sort of "art" and "technique" except basic hygiene. Alternative practices run the gamut of "seriously, you're an idiot" from spirituality-on-superhippy-steroids yoga to ESP. We chatted up a space cadet couple who were renting a room in their lakeside castle a kilometer shy of San Marcos, interrupting their -- and this is not a joke -- "Cranial Mayan Massage" session when we appeared. "We practice alternative sciences," they droned. "I do a little mind reading," informed the woman, amongst a litany of other "sciences" I can't remember for the vomit and laughter I was struggling to surpress. We agreed to wait fifteen minutes for the "cranial massage" to end so the guy could accompany us to town, but for all their practiced powers the pair was unable to detect our deception. The moment the resumed chanting and rubbing we dipped, impervious to the "ancient energy fields" running directly from the mountain through the property into the lake, tractor beams to filthy rich foreign loonies.

We caught the last daily lancha back to San Pedro, and I hummed Death By Stereo's "Hippie Holocaust" as we skipped across the choppy waters. After dinner Ricardo and I enjoyed a light cocktail of mota and rum, then embarked on an entirely stereotypical mota-affected evening. Our every lazy movement was dictated by munchies, intentions frequently derailed by hysterical fits of laughter, as we proceeded to patrol back-and-forth the town central strip, zombie-stalking snacks, making laps to re-up the moment we'd licked the last crumbs or flecks of icing from our hands. In between we were accosted by an unusually hilarious array of english-butchering drunks and a guy -- who may not have been especially poor -- who asked for (and received) bites of our food. How I wish I'd been eating carrots instead of coconut cake...
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