It has been quite lively here in town for some time now. We have just finished the week-long celebration that culminates in the annual festival for San Marcos (St. Mark?) on April 25 (Abril venti y cinqo). Someone with more journalistic acumen (and internet access) would now insert some background information regarding the history and rationale for the celebration, in order to ground this post and to further entice the reader. I hope that my wit will carry you through. For those that recognize that calendar day as a special one, well, you’re right, that is also the birth date of the infamous Esteban Gervais. As a side note, we have now witnessed two celebrations in our travels that land on April 25: San Marcos here in Gutemala and ANZAC day in Australia, both considered very important to their local cultures. Again, make what judgement you wish regarding coincidences.
The whole (small) town was abuzz for two weeks leading up to the festival – the first week was preparation and setup as stalls and vendors literally rolled into town and local workers hurried to finish a new amphitheatre in the town square. This was to be a place of great importance to the festival and the men and women worked tirelessly to get it completed, which they succeeded at. The following week was the festival, starting on Monday the 19th. Apparently each of the towns that surround Lake Atitlan (San Juan, San Pedro, Panahachel, Santa Cruz etc..) all have their own annual celebration and these festivals are all spaced out throughout the year. This allows the people from neighbouring villages around the lake to gather together frequently and have some fun. As it was San Marcos’ turn, people poured into the village each day, with the culmination on Sunday the 25th bringing the largest crowd. (For the record, we were in the forest for the 25th, which is a shame, but all was not lost and I had a great birthday regardless.) We were only able to witness the evenings of the 21st to 23rd in person, but the jubilance grew each day and I can imagine how grand a party was held here on my birthday.
The main street of the town was lined with stalls all week selling pizzas, tacos, churros, peanuts, cookies, cotton candy, and ice cream. We tried some of the fresh tacos and Robyn made herself sick on a microwaved churro. People were also able to take part in games of ‘chance’ such as kicking a ball to knock over bottles or throwing rings to try to win prizes. There were plenty of vendors selling clothes too, and Robyn and I wouldn’t help but chuckle when looking through the selection: everything was either American Eagle or Abercrombie or Diesel. I am sure the prices of these clothes were not even comparable to those that they’d fetch in North America, but it was interesting to see that this is what retailers found the local communities demanded.
Seeing these stalls had me take a closer look at the clothing of everyone around me and I came to an interesting observation: the foreigners (gringos), if they had been in the area for a long time and adopted one of these villages as their new home, typically dressed in very simple, loose clothing made of natural fibres with no logos to be seen. One could easily describe them as hippies but they dress in order to reflect their appreciation of a simpler life, a life that they likely feel is more in tune with the Guatemalan way of being. This is reinforced by the traditional local Mayan people who wear clothes that are very functional and natural but intricately ornate: clothes are made by hand and the multitude of colours serves to decorate their garb, as opposed to any brand or label. The interesting thing about this is that the younger generation of indigenous people are obviously demanding these American labels and brands, likely in an effort to be more ‘Westernized’. Images of cool are transmitted, regardless of the number of televisions in an area, and young people around the globe are being drawn into the race to attain it. To sum this all up in more simpler terms; it is fascinating to see foreigners flock to these remote Gutemalan villages to escape elements of the Western world while the youth of these secluded towns spend whatever money they can spare in order to grasp a small piece of the ‘American dream’.
There was also a Ferris wheel at the festival! While seeing it’s construction during the previous week, Robyn and I swore that we would not let the festival pass us be without taking a ride. Our excitement waned heavily, though, when we watched the apparatus in action – I am reasonably sure that this was the fastest moving, least structurally sound piece of amusement equipment I have ever seen. The screams of glee emanating from the young riders of the wheel could easily have been shrieks of terror from the parents that watched at the base of the ride. Nobody was ever hurt though. Somehow carnies, regardless of the market in which they operate, always seem to keep things running without problems. Go figure.
The week was punctuated daily by the loud banging of drum bands, who seemed to be in a constant state of warming up, or else the requirement in order to wield the loudest instruments is a deafness to tune. To be fair, though, there were a lot of young people who displayed a great deal of talent and dedication to their music. In fact, on Saturday morning (the 24th) we were held up from departing for the forest for 45 minutes because our driveway was the rallying point for a large parade of instruments that descended into town. Because there were a few different band groups they were able to march in unison but made no effort to all play as such. From what we heard from the locals, we also apparently missed out on the tour of the reigning beauty queens from all of the lake villages, but it was probably best for our relationship that we didn’t witness that.
No synopsis of the festival would be complete, though, without an account of the bombs. These began to explode down at the waterfront during the evening of the first day of the festival. When our group heard the first ones we all looked at each other and didn’t know whether to run for cover or look for fireworks. Fortunately(?) we didn’t need to do either. Described to us as simply ‘bombas’, they were fireworks, but unlike anything I’ve seen or heard in my life. When lit they emit a low, powerful thump as the firework is launched into the air, which we learned to use as a gauge for the level of violence we were about to endure. Two seconds after ignition the bomb would burst in the air, but not in a shower of brilliant colours and geometrics, but simply as an extremely loud BANG that resembled a cannon blast. Because of the proximity to the town, these things would shake the room slightly and resonate within our chests. It was an odd was to celebrate, but who are we to tell them how to do it? These displays of joy were made more perplexing by the schedule in which they’d be ignited: they seemed to follow no pattern and no time of the day or night was safe from their intrusion. We heard four of them explode within two minutes, and also we’d go hours without hearing one. We were also woken up more than a few times by ‘bombas’ signifying the significance of 3:37am on April 21st or 12:15am on the 23rd. What started out as a quirky means of celebrating quickly became a source of frustration, but we seemed to be the ones who noticed them, let alone minded their existence.
While in the forest on the 25th, the bombs were the only reminder of the festival taking place in the town below us, but that didn’t stop us from celebrating my birthday. We have been sticking to a very simple, very healthy diet during this expedition which severely limits our refined sugar intake. I have really been enjoying the food and how I feel as a result, for what it’s worth. Despite the intended diet our group leaders Brooke and Anjeli bought for us some marshmallows and popcorn to cook over the campfire in celebration of my birthday. They did not disclose this until after dinner, and were met with a chorus of cheers from us all. The marshmallows were strange in that they were multi-coloured and only seemed to expand when heated, but we still managed to eat the whole bag. It was a simple way to celebrate my 28th, but it was perfect for the occasion. Unfortunately our collective stomachs did not share our enthusiasm for the party and we all felt terrible while going to bed and during the next morning. I had not taken full stock of how well my body had been feeling until I was subjected to the pains caused by the sugars, which was a clear representation to me of how much refined foods can negatively affect the body. Regardless, the discomfort passed and I would likely do it again in a heartbeat if I had to do it over.
Between the festival, the campfire, and all of the well wishing I sensed from around the world, I can honestly say that this was one of the most memorable and happy birthdays I’ve ever had.
The whole (small) town was abuzz for two weeks leading up to the festival – the first week was preparation and setup as stalls and vendors literally rolled into town and local workers hurried to finish a new amphitheatre in the town square. This was to be a place of great importance to the festival and the men and women worked tirelessly to get it completed, which they succeeded at. The following week was the festival, starting on Monday the 19th. Apparently each of the towns that surround Lake Atitlan (San Juan, San Pedro, Panahachel, Santa Cruz etc..) all have their own annual celebration and these festivals are all spaced out throughout the year. This allows the people from neighbouring villages around the lake to gather together frequently and have some fun. As it was San Marcos’ turn, people poured into the village each day, with the culmination on Sunday the 25th bringing the largest crowd. (For the record, we were in the forest for the 25th, which is a shame, but all was not lost and I had a great birthday regardless.) We were only able to witness the evenings of the 21st to 23rd in person, but the jubilance grew each day and I can imagine how grand a party was held here on my birthday.
The main street of the town was lined with stalls all week selling pizzas, tacos, churros, peanuts, cookies, cotton candy, and ice cream. We tried some of the fresh tacos and Robyn made herself sick on a microwaved churro. People were also able to take part in games of ‘chance’ such as kicking a ball to knock over bottles or throwing rings to try to win prizes. There were plenty of vendors selling clothes too, and Robyn and I wouldn’t help but chuckle when looking through the selection: everything was either American Eagle or Abercrombie or Diesel. I am sure the prices of these clothes were not even comparable to those that they’d fetch in North America, but it was interesting to see that this is what retailers found the local communities demanded.
Seeing these stalls had me take a closer look at the clothing of everyone around me and I came to an interesting observation: the foreigners (gringos), if they had been in the area for a long time and adopted one of these villages as their new home, typically dressed in very simple, loose clothing made of natural fibres with no logos to be seen. One could easily describe them as hippies but they dress in order to reflect their appreciation of a simpler life, a life that they likely feel is more in tune with the Guatemalan way of being. This is reinforced by the traditional local Mayan people who wear clothes that are very functional and natural but intricately ornate: clothes are made by hand and the multitude of colours serves to decorate their garb, as opposed to any brand or label. The interesting thing about this is that the younger generation of indigenous people are obviously demanding these American labels and brands, likely in an effort to be more ‘Westernized’. Images of cool are transmitted, regardless of the number of televisions in an area, and young people around the globe are being drawn into the race to attain it. To sum this all up in more simpler terms; it is fascinating to see foreigners flock to these remote Gutemalan villages to escape elements of the Western world while the youth of these secluded towns spend whatever money they can spare in order to grasp a small piece of the ‘American dream’.
There was also a Ferris wheel at the festival! While seeing it’s construction during the previous week, Robyn and I swore that we would not let the festival pass us be without taking a ride. Our excitement waned heavily, though, when we watched the apparatus in action – I am reasonably sure that this was the fastest moving, least structurally sound piece of amusement equipment I have ever seen. The screams of glee emanating from the young riders of the wheel could easily have been shrieks of terror from the parents that watched at the base of the ride. Nobody was ever hurt though. Somehow carnies, regardless of the market in which they operate, always seem to keep things running without problems. Go figure.
The week was punctuated daily by the loud banging of drum bands, who seemed to be in a constant state of warming up, or else the requirement in order to wield the loudest instruments is a deafness to tune. To be fair, though, there were a lot of young people who displayed a great deal of talent and dedication to their music. In fact, on Saturday morning (the 24th) we were held up from departing for the forest for 45 minutes because our driveway was the rallying point for a large parade of instruments that descended into town. Because there were a few different band groups they were able to march in unison but made no effort to all play as such. From what we heard from the locals, we also apparently missed out on the tour of the reigning beauty queens from all of the lake villages, but it was probably best for our relationship that we didn’t witness that.
No synopsis of the festival would be complete, though, without an account of the bombs. These began to explode down at the waterfront during the evening of the first day of the festival. When our group heard the first ones we all looked at each other and didn’t know whether to run for cover or look for fireworks. Fortunately(?) we didn’t need to do either. Described to us as simply ‘bombas’, they were fireworks, but unlike anything I’ve seen or heard in my life. When lit they emit a low, powerful thump as the firework is launched into the air, which we learned to use as a gauge for the level of violence we were about to endure. Two seconds after ignition the bomb would burst in the air, but not in a shower of brilliant colours and geometrics, but simply as an extremely loud BANG that resembled a cannon blast. Because of the proximity to the town, these things would shake the room slightly and resonate within our chests. It was an odd was to celebrate, but who are we to tell them how to do it? These displays of joy were made more perplexing by the schedule in which they’d be ignited: they seemed to follow no pattern and no time of the day or night was safe from their intrusion. We heard four of them explode within two minutes, and also we’d go hours without hearing one. We were also woken up more than a few times by ‘bombas’ signifying the significance of 3:37am on April 21st or 12:15am on the 23rd. What started out as a quirky means of celebrating quickly became a source of frustration, but we seemed to be the ones who noticed them, let alone minded their existence.
While in the forest on the 25th, the bombs were the only reminder of the festival taking place in the town below us, but that didn’t stop us from celebrating my birthday. We have been sticking to a very simple, very healthy diet during this expedition which severely limits our refined sugar intake. I have really been enjoying the food and how I feel as a result, for what it’s worth. Despite the intended diet our group leaders Brooke and Anjeli bought for us some marshmallows and popcorn to cook over the campfire in celebration of my birthday. They did not disclose this until after dinner, and were met with a chorus of cheers from us all. The marshmallows were strange in that they were multi-coloured and only seemed to expand when heated, but we still managed to eat the whole bag. It was a simple way to celebrate my 28th, but it was perfect for the occasion. Unfortunately our collective stomachs did not share our enthusiasm for the party and we all felt terrible while going to bed and during the next morning. I had not taken full stock of how well my body had been feeling until I was subjected to the pains caused by the sugars, which was a clear representation to me of how much refined foods can negatively affect the body. Regardless, the discomfort passed and I would likely do it again in a heartbeat if I had to do it over.
Between the festival, the campfire, and all of the well wishing I sensed from around the world, I can honestly say that this was one of the most memorable and happy birthdays I’ve ever had.
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