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My time in East and South East Asia had come to an end. After the immersive experience in Japan and Korea, and the pleasantries of the Philippines, Malaysia and Singapore, I returned to the UK for a brief stop over and reset. In between dog walks and a severe binge watch of Would I Lie to You?, I returned to my scholar ways with a desire to become an erudite Spanish conversationist. The next few months would be spent in Latin America, with a predilection for several volcanic hikes. After a brief sojourn in LA, I continued my onward travels to Guatemala City. 

A big concern, for many, is the safety in South America. After I visited Colombia several years ago, I returned from the country struck with how proudly artistic, richly cultural, and friendly the locals were. Any mention of their cartel past, the infamous cartel leader, or even the well-known Netflix series Narcos, would draw frowns and frustrations from the locals, so eager to wash away the history that has for so long, tainted their reputation. 

It would therefore be rational, and wise, for me to consider my past experiences in the land of Latin America. Except, I am not rational, nor sensible, and I am super sensitive. An afternoon spent watching exciting Carnival videos in Rio later descended into pernicious stories of tourists getting drugged, and robbed, in Brazil. I blame the YouTube algorithm. The rabbit hole I was in, was so deep and dark, a specialist NAVY Seal team would have been required to rescue me. Now likely to be the most vigilant backpacker to travel these countries, I exchanged my Apple Watch for a Casio Digital watch, left behind any jewellery, and packed my bright red SOS whistle. 

Yet I decided to read one final article, which accentuated the safety tips to survive in these countries. If I’m honest, every tip is a basic guideline you would obey in your home country, and to be clear, almost every traveller encounters the region without problems. But two in particular, stood out. 

• Don’t look like a gringo/tourist. Blend in. 

Right, okay. Well, I don’t look like a traditional gringo, obviously. So that works in my favour.

• Don’t wear collared shirts. This makes you stick out as a tourist.

Oh dear god. Don’t wear collared shirts!? I looked inside my backpack. It was 85% collared shirts. Heck, I’m 85% collared myself. Moments later, almost uncanny, I reached the final pages of the book I was reading. A quote in the epilogue, stated “living in fear, is like not living at all.”

What a load of shit, I thought, as trembles passed down my collar and through my body.

After a turbulent flight, I arrived in the picturesque town of Antigua, the former colonial capital of Guatemala. Cobbled streets and Spanish-Baroque influenced edifices smothered the UNESCO World Heritage Site. Surrounding the town was Agua, Fuego, and Acatenango, three active volcanoes. The latter two were popular hikes amongst locals and tourists alike. However, Fuego, was not widely recommended due to the violent eruptions that occurred, following the tragedy of 2018, in which an eruption from the 3,763m volcano claimed the lives of hundreds of people. During my trip, from Japan to Guatemala, it was remarkable to understand how locals live in fear of their nature, but also respect. This ethos leads them to accept their fate, whether it be by natural disaster or else, and a refusal to relocate. 

Whilst Acatenango remained active, it had not erupted since 1972, and was considered to be “asleep”. This was the popular volcano I had chosen to hike. The hike began after an hour-long shuttle to the base of the mountain, with a comical pitstop for the nervous hikers emptying their bladders on the side of highways due to the knock-on effects of altitude sickness tablets. It took four and a half hours to ascend to the base camp. The route upwards was broken by multiple but welcome breaks to help acclimatise to the altitude. Belligerent dogs circled the group, often causing wide-spread panic as the feral behaviour and fights caused several individuals to fall to the sooty earth. We reached base camp ahead of sunset, settling with pot noodle and herbal teas, and awaited for the masterpiece to form before us. At this point, I have almost run out of words to describe a sunset, but this was possibly one of the best. Over the early evening hours, the clear blue sky absconded, as though in a melting pot, with a painter’s brush stroking the newly formed colours of gold and crimson, delicately across the horizon. White clouds, positioned just below the mountain peaks, presented a feeling of elevation above the sky, doubling down as mirrors, reflecting the blazing inferno to the eternal heights above. However, this was not all that Mother Nature could offer. Fuego, poised magnificently above the clouds, released eruptions of lava every ten to fifteen minutes. The bursts of lava dazzled and danced in the air, before trickling down the volcano ridges. But soon after, Mother Nature showcased the dichotomy of her powers. Darkness greeted us with a piercing and unforgiving wind. Unable to remain outside, we returned to the cabins to spend the night. In each cabin, were two rows of bunks, with around ten people on each level. A torrid night that seemed to last perpetually, left every individual shivering and unable to sleep. A 4AM wake up call was met with grumbles, as the final hike, in the darkness, to the peak of Acatenango begun. The views offered at the top were fantastic alike, but the brutality of the coldness could not be forgotten. This mountain, that had once been our friend, was now our foe. With an urge to descend back to base camp, we started the journey back. Now Guatemala is not a country of sophisticated governmental departments and divisions. There is next to no red tape or regulation. It struck me how dangerous elements of this hike was, and the lack of helmets offered. This was exaggerated even more as an inevitable slip and tumble sent me falling down the mountain, crashing my elbow against the rocks. Unfortunately for me, this fall had occurred moments away from our base camp, and in front of a group circled around a camp fire, with spoons of porridge in their mouths. As I lay in the rocks, metres away from them, I let out the obligatory but very untrue “I’m okay!” and hobbled back to camp. 

I would label myself a novice hiker, but with a solid base of stamina and fitness. However, it was perhaps unwise for me to book another hike only 2 days later. The new hike to be, was a 3-day trek from the second largest city in Guatemala, known as Xela, to Lake Atitlan, a mere 48km away. What currently stood as an obstacle to a time of serenity and relaxation, was later to be viewed as one of the most memorable and enjoyable parts of my entire trip. The organisation, which admittedly I knew very little about, was called Quetzaltrekkers. Founded around 30 years ago, their mission was to support social projects for children in the area of Xela, through fundraising projects, such as multi-day hikes offered. A long and windy shuttle journey left me attending the pre-trek meeting the evening before, a few minutes late. 

“To be early is on time, to be on time is to be late, and to be late is unacceptable” I muttered, as I took my seat at the table. I glanced at the twelve individuals who would be playing a part to determine my fate of enjoyment over the next few days. I wished for just one poor soul to endure the arbitrary nature of my conversations. 

Day one begun with a neon lit chicken bus and a chorus of name games. The group, rather quickly formed a bond, and as we climbed our way through shaded forests and across scenic corn fields, I thought, this hike business isn’t so bad after all. After a day of trekking, we reached one of the local Mayan communities we would be residing at. I unclipped, and threw my 65L rucksack, weighted even further with a sleeping mat and sleeping bag, to the floor of the homestay. After enjoying a camomile tea, it was time to partner up, and experience a Temescal. A temscal is an ancient Mayan tradition, and translates to ‘the house of heat.’ It is best described as a hot, stone, hobbit styled sweat lodge, where one could bathe whilst simultaneously enjoying the benefits of a sauna. 

I knew immediately who I had to partner with. Normal Norman. Normal Norman was from Germany. He was a handsome man, with a twinkle in his eye and a heart of gold. But Normal Norman, who was a popular figure in camp, did not know how hilarious and amusing his unwitting nature was. After hours of conversations circling the topic of nudity (strange to hear, I know), we agreed to enter the temescal as she would want us to, bare and naked. The temescal was a few minutes walk away from the homestay, and in a curtained and wooden shack. Two temescals stood side by side, at about one and a half metres high. 

“Norman, should we have any protocols on how we should get naked, or any rules and general etiquette before we enter the-“

I was interrupted with a flash of a naked Norman sprinting past me and crouching to promptly enter the temscal. 

“Wait for me!” I squealed excitedly. 

Moments later I entered through the draped curtain door, and my vision was overwhelmed by darkness. 

“Norman, I can’t see anything!” I whispered. 

Fortunately the darkness was countered by the moon light sky, shining through the sky roof. I studied the moon, bright and round, and it was what appeared, to be a full moon. I crouched and continued to enter the temescal, and as I did, I drifted closer and closer to the full moon, which was now, bigger and brighter than ever before. I stopped and quizzed myself. Why would an ancient, traditional temscal, have a modern day sky roof. And then it hit me. I looked up and there was no sky roof but Norman’s bare round buttocks almost swaying softly side to side, inches away from my face. 

“NORMAN!” I screamed. 

Chaos followed. Like a tormented game of musical chairs, we circled the cramped and bricked sauna, bathing ourselves to remove the dust from the trails. Our 20 minute allocated time had come to an end, and after three attempts to grab the correct faucet, I left the temscal as pale as a ghost.  

Another tough sleepless night on the cold, and hard floor left me yearning for my pillow spray, an unashamed luxury of home life. The day endured consisted of crossing refreshing rivers and patterned crop fields. Jokes and thoughtful conversations amongst the group truly made each day’s journey thoroughly entertaining as well as pleasant. Before nightfall, we reached the second homestay of our trip, hosted by Don Pedro. After a group of hikers were robbed by criminals years prior, Don Pedro had decided to host such groups in the comforts of his casa. Sitting around a camp fire, burning marshmallows and playing teasing games of truth or lies, not only revealed one member of the group as a once Only Fans participator, but showcased the benefits of a cosmopolitan society. Having only known each other for 2 days, the group of twelve were inseparable, and almost sad to acknowledge it was our last spent evening together. I was surrounded by intelligent to be doctors, selfless health and support workers, studious teachers, amongst others. Openly aware my career in Finance is not impacting a positive change in the world in a way I would hope, the others inspired me of the wonderful individuals and communities, importantly so, as it is easy to focus on the desolation of modern society. Acutely aware, I would not quit and become a volunteer, perhaps in my own selfish ways of wishing for a certain lifestyle, I would always do by best to be the best person I could be, and certainly spending time with groups such as these, only helps to polish that good nature I wish to have. After a few too many beers, we took to bed, for what was to be an early start the next morning. 

The next morning is not correct. We were awoken at 3AM. To begin our hike to see the sunrise overlooking Lake Atitlan. 3AM. That is considered the same evening, rather than the next day. 4AM, at a push, is the boundary for the change of guards. I huffed and puffed with Clifford, the big red (dog) New Yorker, as we grumbled our way to the mirador (scenic point). Accompanying us with this stretch, were two police officers, as it was deemed unsafe for us to depart alone. We arrived at the mirador, and settled in one long row, snaking down the hillside top. Like prey, devoured by vipers, we were smothered within our sleeping bags, staring at the star-ridden sky. 

“Look at that shooting star!” I gushed. 

“I think that’s a satellite, no?”

Silence.

We waited what felt like 5 hours for the sun to rise, perhaps due to the early nature of our decision to embark to the mountain at, I repeat, 3AM. I proceeded to listen to the soft blues song of ‘Will the sun ever rise again?’ by Johnny Blue Skies. And as the sun edged its way above the surrounding mountains, it felt as a group, we could really remain here forever. Sharing homemade banana cake and teas, not one soul wished to move. But as Nelly Fertado once sung, all good things must come to an end. The final half day was finished with a final stretch to San Pedro, a base at the lake, an invigorating swim, and a final lunch. 

Saying our goodbyes was difficult, and as ever, my sensitivity makes it hard to say goodbye to place, people and moments. But memories are important and I was thankful for the week just gone. My first week in Guatemala offered stunning views, wonderful food, and the most perfect company. And to circle back on the opening chapters of this writing, the Guatemalans I had met, were one of the most friendly people I had met, in any country. Always with a smile on their faces and a welcoming nature, they were immensely proud of what their country had to offer.