Had our hosts not generously provided our transportation, our safety would not have been so ensured, as we might have opted for one of the ubiquitous chicken buses. After our hosts told us about how the bus drivers, competing for business, try to beat each other from one stop to the next -- disregarding the no-passing lines on windy, hilly roads -- even we decided to splurge on the $6 tourist minibus to get from the lakeside city of Panajachel to Antigua, during our self-guided portion of the trip.
The SUV ride ended at a launch where we transferred to our second mode of transportation, our host's motorboat, to get to their lakeside retreat. The view from this craft was even more stunning, what with the lack of those ammunition-repellent lines. While our host was giving us a lift to Panajachel the next day, so we could catch the bus to Antigua, we swung by San Santiago de Atitlán, where a fisherman hopefully was bringing home his catch to fill one of the many morning oven fires that wafted a romantic haze over Volcán Tolimán in the distance.
We could catch glimpses of the volcano from our bus as we left Panajachel, but for some reason, the overall panorama wasn't nearly as appealing. When there wasn't a sign or a bush blocking the view, then there would be some man leaning over the guardrail, just in time to document an unflattering butt shot.
The sights provided by our hosts once stationary were extraordinary as well. Walking up bunches of terraced steps from the boat dock to the house balcony was well worth the quad burn. Even with the lake clouded over (anti-helicopter weather), it still lived up to Aldous Huxley's description: "on the limit of permissibly picturesque."
Later, the clouds that covered Volcán de Agua, which towers over the Antigua skyline, didn't permit as stunning a scene. And besides, the cost to get into the San Francisco ruins was the equivalent of 50 cents, more than the free workout at the lake, and not nearly as thigh-toning.
By evening at the lake, the clouds started to clear, unluckily just after sunset, but there was a nice afterglow, made even more impressionable by its reflection off our host's almost-infinity pool. Our hosts said they don't swim in the lake, because they believe it's polluted, but if you had this heated bath of tranquilty, would you?
The only water we saw at night in Antigua was from the fountain in the city's central park. Its basin does not afford calming vistas of the sunset, and as far as I know, it is not heated, but it does have some pretty interesting sculpted features, like the female figures with jets of water shooting from their nipples.
While we were at our host's lakehouse, we mainly just sat and looked around. To break up the monotony, we ate and drank. Nothing says high living like having drinks on a veranda that was featured in a coffee-table book about great Guatemalan architects. And to accommodate for all those balcony beers, the bathroom had not one, but two, toilet-paper holders, ensuring that the most important party staple is always in abundant supply.
Our hosts' tastes tilted toward the international: American barbequed chicken and Italian pressed paninis for meals and European new-age covers of classic rock ("Back in Black" by AC/DC and "Patience" by Guns 'n' Roses, to name a few) for music. We didn't get authentic Guatemalan food and entertainment until we reached Antigua, where Tim tried the traditional chicken stew called pepian while a duo strummed and crooned out ballads in Spanish.
So for a few days, we were "apaleando oro," or "beating gold," otherwise known as "rolling in dough." And although it was a little difficult to give up our instinctual independence while traveling, the free transportation, lodging and food made it a whole lot easier.
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