Atitlán November 12, 2021
“It really is too much of a good thing.”
Aldous Huxley, at Lake Atitlán, 1934
Lake Atitlán is considered the jewel of Guatemala’s volcanic region. Of the country’s 37 volcanos, 4 of them line the shore of the lake, each reaching heights of about 10,000 feet. The lake itself is just over 5000 feet in elevation and reaches depths in excess of a thousand feet. It is, in fact, the remains of a caldera formed after a magnificent eruption some hundred thousand years ago. No one was around to witness this, of course, but other eruptions are more memorable for old-timers, most especially the 1976 eruption of nearby Fuego Volcano, which shook the earth and caused the lake to drop 6 feet in a matter of days. It is believed the event fractured the crust, and many feared the lake might drain entirely through the crack.
We reach San Marcos after a half-hour water taxi from the main settlement of Panajachel. The collectivo ride costs 25 Quetzales, making it affordable for the many working Maya that travel from village to village. It is a tight squeeze on the boat, but the sun is shining on the cloud-tipped San Pedro Volcano, where backpackers regularly make the climb. Immediately I notice similarities with San Cristobal; chiefly, there is the cultural juxtaposition of poor indigenous locals and comparatively wealthy free spirits, mostly, it seems, from the United States and Europe. English is the lingua franca here. I have not heard so many familiar words in a group setting for months.
San Marcos is one of a dozen villages on the lakeshore and a favorite for cosmic seekers, self-described healers, flower children, and “teachers” who received their master credentials from an all-inclusive retreat in Tulum. I realize my pedagogical bias, but a few thoughtless science-like buzzwords such as “quantum” and “harmonic frequency” do not amount to expertise, nor does wearing a rainbow costume resembling a drifting jester from a renaissance fair.
My anonymous source is leery of the northerners here, as she probably should be, yet she discovers that Guatemalans treat her with an equal suspicion. Mexico is not seen as being kind to its southern neighbor, enforcing draconian immigration rules, effectively militarizing its border against a diaspora that is beyond Guatemala’s control. “I love Mexico,” says one local, “but they won’t let me in because they’re afraid I won’t leave.” As a point of stark contrast, I had no trouble crossing into Guatemala, and I was automatically granted a 3-month visa to stay, even though I announced that I would be here for only a few days. The double standards are so glaring as to seem cruel.
For those living on Lake Atitlán, migration crises are far from their worries. Most have no wish to leave. And why should they? This place is a sanctuary—lush, bountiful, and relatively protected from the madness and violence of the outside world. The happy hippies who arrive, certified as Covid-free, come with Yanqui dollars, bare feet, and vegan appetites, with harmless quests like finding the right crystals for their vibrational journey to the center of consciousness, or whatever. They say they have found paradise, but I suspect they are just referring to the weather, which suits their airy wardrobe.
Closer to earth, the mayor of San Marcos has a plan to build a new water treatment plant that will send treated effluent into the lake, and the residents have mobilized in opposition. They are satisfied with their individual septic tanks and do not wish anything to bring harm to the lake. Memories are still bitter about the introduction of a non-native bass to the lake a few years ago, in an attempt to draw wealthy anglers to the country, which only managed to eradicate most of the other fish species in the lake. Hundreds of protesters are gathered today with signs in the center of town, listening and chanting in solidarity—Jamás Será Vencido!
Meanwhile, the Eastern-sounding chants emanating from the garden next to my rented room speaks incessantly to a different type of solidarity, one with the universe, at least as presented by the annoying barefoot teachers. To remove the droning ear worm, I take to the thin alleyways of San Marcos after dark, stumbling over the begging dogs and Maya drunkards, increasingly lost in the maze of herbal shops, hostels, and dense foliage that climb the hillside from the lake shore. There is no discernible destination, even if I could properly see the path ahead. Enlightenment might be an improvement, but my headlamp is dead, as is the end of this particular path.