| The correct name of the town is Antigua Guatemala -- Old Guatemala. Two hundred years ago the kingdom of Guatemala extended from Chiapas, Mexico to Panama. The capital of this dream of a miniature Spain was today's Antigua. It was as important as Mexico City and Lima, Peru. It was nearly destroyed by earthquakes in l773 and the capital was moved to New Guatemala -- Guatemala City. Now the ancient capital languishes in a valley in the western highlands at five thousand feet, decorated by her baroque churches and mansions both in ruins and restored. Her fierce desire to live has been rewarded by the government, for in the twentieth century, Antigua Guatemala was deemed a national monument. This old Spanish town with its white walls and brick-red tile roofs is surrounded by coffee fincas (plantations) and watched over by three volcanos. The volcano Agua, which means water, sits at the south end, just six miles away. It's dormant now, but it devastated the town four hundred years ago when the water dammed up in its crater was released by an earthquake. To the west, farther away but clearly visible, are the two volcanos Acatenango and Fuego, which means fire. Fuego is still active. It smokes, rumbles, and shoots off fire and boulders. It's the subject of metaphors by the natives who live in sight of it. When the wind blows in Antigua's direction, it is covered in fine gritty ash that finds its way into ears, eyes, and even phonograph records and makes dusting a constant occupation. Antigua is a romantic place, and there's a saying that one will always return. Whenever a visitor leaves, the natives ask, "When are you coming back?" and when you do return, your heart recognizes Antigua more by her odors and sounds than by her lovely sights. The smell of burning pine, of roasting coffee beans, of mold and dampness, the particular sound of Guatemalan Spanish and the click and shh of the Mayan dialect Cakchiquel, even the sound of the newspaper salesman walking the streets calling, "La Prensa! El Gr�fico!" can make your heart ache. But the most poignant sound, one that reaches you in your gut, comes from the juke box. You pass a restaurant and hear those same songs you thought were unimportant. But now they bring back the taste of the beer you drank with friends, and you recall the impassioned conversations you had on the meaning of life. Those songs mix with the smell of corn being barbecued in the street by the Indian women, and when you put it in your mouth, its taste triggers the memory of the first time you tried it, and of the secret you shared with someone new, and your lips remember the taste of their kisses. You have to fall in love in Antigua. If someone asks you why you stay, you answer, "For the tranquility," but it's because of love, and when you return -- it's for the memories. The significance of the number of times the bells chime is a mystery. The count seems to have nothing to do with the hour but rather with the message. It's six o'clock. Time for Mass. The sun is going down. Ladina and Indian women with their children walk on the broken sidewalks up Quinta Avenida toward the church of La Merced. You are walking in the opposite direction. You break your stride on the sidewalk and step into the cobblestone street to let some women pass. You look up at the clock mounted atop El Arco, a two-hundred-year old arch which spans the whole street, and wonder if that clock ever told the correct time. Then you pause and admire the symmetry of the volcano Agua framed by the arch. There are no clouds, and the volcano looks close enough to touch. You continue toward your destination, passing wrought iron windows and huge wooden doors, called portones, which open wide enough to let a car pass through and be locked in. At last, you come to the doorway. The port�n is open and you walk in through the entrance hall and ultimately enter the dim spacious restaurant, El Comendador. Your eye scans the room. The ceiling is at least twenty feet high with enormous stained black wooden beams. In between them the ceiling is decorated with antique hand-painted tiles. On the walls hang a framed rubbing of a stela from Tikal, a brilliant red embroidered huipil (Indian woman's blouse) from nearby San Antonio Aguas Calientes, some baskets from Solol�, a piece of an antique cinch. From whose horse? The Commander? A small half-circle fountain is mounted on the back wall. A miniature rococo lion's mouth dribbles into an ornate basin below. Artists from all over the world are attracted to this creatively fertile place. Some say the energy comes from the volcanos. Others say the artistic inspiration comes from the indigenous people, the Maya. Their daily costumes are works of art, carefully woven and embroidered in brilliant colors. They are applied in ways painters understand, using the chiaroscuro or underpainting technique. The Indians are not only beautiful because of their wardrobe, the Maya are a physically beautiful people with thick black hair, always shiny, and reddish-brown skin with a satin sheen -- called moreno in Guatemala, canela (cinnamon) in Mexico, and they have large dark brown eyes. They are small people, many of the men not over five feet tall and the women even smaller. Their round faces, regardless of their circumstances, easily break into a smile, whether toothed or toothless. Guatemala is not only populated by painters and writers but by archaeologists and Peace Corps volunteers, by missionaries, people on grants studying (supposedly) sociology, weaving, nutrition, etc. One day you go out to lunch in a neighboring village, San Felipe. You order a typical dish, pepi�n, a spicy cross between a sauce and a soup. A piece of chicken on the bone and vegetables are submerged in it. Sabroso! There are jillions of flies. The waitress shows her regard for you by bringing a scented candle to ward them off. Then she sets some papers on fire on the concrete floor to drive them away. It works, but you get smoked too. The following day when the sun comes up you walk down Sexta Avenida. The streets haven't come to life yet. No cars. Just the sound of roosters crowing, invisible behind the walls, and the distant bell of La Merced chiming. You walk down to the mercado where the buses wait. The ayudantes are trying to solicit passengers. "Guate, Guate, Guatemala!" they sing. It makes you smile. The Indians have a fire going and coffee brewing. You don't know which is better, the smell of the pine burning or the brewing of Antigua coffee. El Volc�n de Fuego is making a show for the early morning risers -- black smoke is coming out. It's the first time you've seen it. In the clear morning it is spectacular. There are so many things to do in and around Antigua, you never get bored. You climb the volcanos, go to San Lorenzo El Tejar where you and yours have a soak in the hot springs. For twenty five cents you can soak in private for forty-five minutes. You study Spanish in Antigua and weaving in San Antonio Aguas Calientes. You tour all the colonial buildings, churches, convents, the monastery of La Recolecci�n. During Easter week (Semana Santa) you walk around all night to watch the townspeople at work creating the splendid dyed sawdust carpets in the streets. No Persian rug is more beautiful. Then the next day the procession comes through and tramples the artwork. But it is the act of creating the art that is important. Yes, you fall in love in Antigua and you fall in love with Antigua. Your passion heightens in Antigua. Maybe it's because of the volcanos. ***** |
| VACATION #12 THE BAROQUE TOWN OF ANTIGUA GUATEMALA |