Semuc Champey
Look at any tourist brochure for Guatemala, or just search "Tours Guatemala" and you're liable to see images of shimmering, turquoise pools wrapped in the cloak of a cool, jungle setting. That would be Semuc Champey.
Formed by a limestone bridge, the terraced pools extend across a narrow valley, with the Cahabon river running directly underneath through a natural tunnel bored through the dike.
Getting to Semuc requires some pretty hard miles. To break up the drive, we stopped overnight at a small national park in Coban, then struck out early the next day. Three hours later we bumped our way to a small hotel/restaurant within walking distance from the pools.
The Cahabon river flowed by the hotel, and we washed off the dust from the drive with a short swim.
Semuc is quite popular with the backpacker crowd, who usually hole up in hostels in the nearby village of Lanquin and truck in for the day. Hoping to beat the crowds, we got up early the next morning and hiked to the site.
Unfortunately, a bus load of local kids apparently had the same plan. It took a lot of patience to get photos of the pools without swimmers in the frame.
After enjoying a refreshing dip, we walked up to the head of the pools where the rushing river disappeared into a cave. Although the river was fairly low, this being the dry season, the sight was still impressive.
In addition to the pools there is an extensive cave system nearby which you can explore. Since we had just come from the Calendaria caves, we decided to skip the tour and head back to Coban.
The Shadows of War
Acul is a small Ixil Mayan village not far from Nebaj in the central mountains of Guatemala. "Ground zero" during the Mayan Genocide in the 1980s, the area around Nebaj suffered some of the worst atrocities of the war.
Once just a hardcore backpacker's target destination, the region is starting to make its way onto more discerning travelers' "must see" lists. The mountainous area--"a little like Switzerland. minus the Alps" we were told--offered lots of opportunities for hikes in the countryside or overnight treks between more remote Ixil Mayan villages.
When I looked at the route Google maps had picked I was a bit surprised--the distance from Semuc Champey was only 87 miles, which meant an average speed of 17.4 miles per hour! With a fair portion of that on pavement at pretty decent speeds, we expected some really slow, really rough road ahead of us.
I guess that's just part of the "adventure" of overlanding: you just never know from one mile to the next what you are going to encounter. You can either shy away in fear, or "chin up" and deal with it. Deal with it we would.
From Coban we headed west. After passing through San Cristobal we began dropping down a steep, tortuous section of road. Here, landslides had stripped away much of the hillside, leaving a track which seemed more like an afterthought--barely a fingernail scratch in the precipitous side of the mountain.
Once back on the pavement we sped up a bit, but then faced some of the windiest and steepest grades we'd ever encountered on our trip. As we lugged up one side of a hill then rode brakes down the other, the estimated travel time started to make perfect sense.
Mid-afternoon, with still an hour to our final destination, we snaked our way down yet another steep grade into crowded, chaotic, and dusty Nebaj. Hammered from the drive thus far, we opted to spend the night in the parking lot of a hotel in the town center. We would push on to Acul in the morning.
Nebaj has a pleasant central plaza with a fairly plain, but beautiful church. Inside the church is a memorial to the bishop Juan Jose Gerardi, who fought for the human rights of the murdered Ixil, and who was then (surprise surprise!), murdered himself.
Nebaj also has a busy market on Thursdays and Sundays, and as it turned out, this was Thursday. Since we'd already visited many markets on the journey, we just skirted the edge--enough to feel the pulse of Ixil Mayan life.
The Ixil women are uniquely distinguished among other Mayan groups by their red-colored skirts. And while one might think that traditional dress is something for just the old folk, here the young women wore the brightly woven dresses with pride. Of course, teens being teens, the girls augmented the look with the tightest skirts imaginable, bright red lipstick, and shiny, black high heels, on which they tottered precariously across the rough, cobblestone streets.
From Nebaj we drove over more severe roads the final hour to Acul. Just outside of town we entered a beautiful valley, which, as promised, looked like something you'd find in an alpine setting in Switzerland.
We made camp at the Hacienda San Antonio, just outside of town, where we met our overland friends Karl and Leah, aka "Guided by Wolves" (it had been their recommendation a few days prior which had lured us to the area).
The farm had been homesteaded by two Italian brothers, who brought with them their passion for making cheese. One of the brothers, we would later learn, figured into the events of the Mayan Genocide in the early 1980s.
Unfortunately, the farm also raised fighting roosters--some 500 of them. The birds seemed oblivious to the rules of day or night, as their crowing echoed almost constantly, regardless of the hour. One would think that after a couple days listening to their racket you wouldn't notice it, but I found that even when the roosters were momentarily silent I could still hear them--a ghost chorus reverberating incessantly in my head.
When we pulled in to the Hacienda San Antonio we were escorted into a field below the farm. A public works project was underway and a large ditch was being dug, not just across the driveway to the main house, but all along the valley floor.
The project was to install a new sewer line to the nearby community of Acul. According to the foreman, the villagers were providing the labor free-of-charge. He told us that six teams of fifty men donated one day per week to the three-month project.
When a van of tourists needed to drive across the ditch, no one seemed perturbed--the group simply slapped together a plank bridge so the van could cross. With a bit of faith and encouragement, the driver was soon on the other side.
As mentioned earlier, the Mayan Genocide was the result of a US-sponsored effort to stem the spread of "communist" philosophy in Central America. I can't say how an all-volunteer public work project figures into a capitalist mindset, but it was pleasing to see that a community can coalesce to provide what the government can't, or more likely, won't.
While we were impressed with the extent of the project and the duty-bound workers, we were uncertain how all the homes in Acul would ever be connected. When we toured the village a day later we saw open sewage running down some of the streets. Hopefully the civil engineer had some plan to get everyone on line.
The next morning we took a stroll through the valley and up into the hills. After dropping off our laundry at a lavanderia in town (machine wash, line dry), we headed up the road to Xexuxcab (pronounced shesh-oosh-COB). Along the way we picked up a few fellow hikers, first a man and his two year old child, then a young chap with a beautiful Doberman pup.
Both of our fellow hikers seemed happy to share the trail, and as we walked, we talked--and got the standard set of questions: Where are you from? (United States). What are you doing? (paseando). Are you married? (Yes). Are you catolico? (No). Are you evangelico? (No) . Batisto? (No).
As you might guess, much of Guatemala is quite religious, and evangelicals have a large presence, at about 40% of the population. In fact, Rioss Montt, the murderous dictator who inflicted the genocide on the Mayan people in the 1980s was a devout evangelist and personal friend of Pat Robertson and other evangelical leaders in the US. Even the rabidly anti-communist Ronald Reagan was one of Montt's most prominent admirers.
The rise of evangelism in Guatemala is not surprising. The anti-communist government of the 1980s saw the Catholic priests and their liberation theology as anathema to the ability of the oligarchs to maintain control over the exploited peasant population. Because Catholics were seen as supportive of the revolutionary movement, to avoid being exterminated, becoming evangelical was a means for survival. And of course, in the religious "vacuum" created by the assassination of the priests and their congregations, evangelism had a fertile field in which to grow. Today, every village we visited in our travels had at least one evangelical church.
Acul was one of the villages targeted for extermination during the campaign. The army had sent in a number of soldiers dressed as guerrillas, claiming to be members of the EGP, the group which controlled the remote hills in the area. Villagers, being villagers, gave them food. The next day the army returned in uniform, rounded up anyone who had assisted the fake guerrillas, and executed them on the spot. Then they burned the village.
Somehow the Italian immigrant who owned the Hacienda San Antonio had caught wind of the impending operation. With only hours to spare, he drove into town, loaded up his truck with all his farm workers, and escaped the onslaught. After the war, the family returned to reclaim their business. Many of the original workers are still with the farm today.
Of course, many others weren't so lucky. We heard the story of one woman who had escaped into the hills, then, afraid to return, continued to live off the land for nearly ten years before returning.
In spite of the horrific suffering these people have faced, like elsewhere in Latin America, we found today's inhabitants of the rural valley to be happy, generous people. Everyone we met seemed truly genuine and they gladly welcomed us into their villages. And how often do you find citizens willing to give up a day's labor every week for three months to come together for the good of the community?
While people like Rioss Montt can make one hope there really is a hell, it only takes a short stroll through an Ixil Mayan village to restore one's faith in humanity.
