When I returned to West Virginia University in the fall of 1975, it was as coordinator of research for the department. I had been hired on a Benadum Foundation grant to facilitate proposal writing for grants of all kinds related to the study of technology and education. It was a daunting task, but I took it on as just another challenge.

Sometime after the Christmas holiday break into the second semester, I heard of one of our master's degree students, Gay, an avid weaver, planning a trip to Guatemala. As usual, she needed a number of people to sign up. I had a week's vacation and signed up. Another student, George, working on his doctorate, had also signed up. The others were from a weaving club from all over the country that Gay belonged to.

The trip was planned for March before the rainy season. But on February 4, 1976, a 7.5 earthquake struck Guatemala in the region we were going, killing a reported 23,000 and injuring 77,000. Many towns were devastated and the country was in emergency mode. The trip was called off.

But a year later, I don't remember the exact time anymore, but it was probably about June, the trip was back on. Once again, I signed up and George and Gay were now engaged to be married.

We got there by two flights. Our first flight was from Morgantown to Miami, via Pittsburgh. When we arrived, I stayed overnight sleeping on the floor in Gay's mother's apartment. I recall going out in the morning to the heat and humidity by the pool. There was a nest of green parrots in a palm tree by the pool. I was beginning to see exotic things already and eager to see more.

From Miami we had a flight directly to Guatemala City. I remember how sprawling and smoky it looked from the air as we landed at the airport. But before that, we could see in the distance the volcano, Volcán de Fuego (the fire), with lava flowing halfway down its side. A sight that I found fascinating and was cheerfully talking about it with two elderly women seatmates that had joined us in our group, when a man in the seat in front of us told me to "Shut up!"angrily. I guess he may have been hurt with his family or in his business because of that earthquake and volcanic activity. I may have brought back bad memories.

At the airport, we acquired an 11 passenger rented Toyota van for the week with George driving. After we left the airport, we were on a four-lane road going west directly into a mountain range. Along the way on either side were companies, many with recognizable names, that were strategically placed so that they could take advantage of Guatemalan labor and resources, while being close to the airport and out of the congested city to the north. It could have been an industrial row in any city or country. Our destination, Antigua, the old capital, was about 60 miles away.

Over the first range of Central American mountains, we descended into a valley that was home to this, clearly Spanish, tourist town that had been rebuilt from much damage the year before. To the south above the city loomed the Volcán de Agua (the water), an extinct volcano with water that gave it its name. The crater was said to contain a soccer field and a small chapel. The locals held the mountain as sacred, along with a hill on the northeast side of town that apparently was lined with candles and called, The Candelaira.

There was a square in the center of town where we got out of the van and walked around looking at various monuments like one interesting plaque that commemorated a thank you from the people of Guatemala to the people of California for introducing the avocado plant. Guacamole was available in all of the restaurants. 

Gay and George left us there to wait while they went to the local tourist office. Originally, we were to drive to the town of San Antonio, quite close to Fuego, to the family of the young woman that Gay knew that had an outdoor camping facility where we would stay, with meals for seven days, at only one dollar a day. It was in a corn stalk enclosure with outdoor showers and dining tables, all made of cornstalks. I was actually looking forward to it in such wonderful cool mountain weather with no insects.

Gay had been calling from the airport and not reaching the girl. When she came back from the tourist office we drove to a motel and she began talking to the management there. Time dragged on and it started to grow dark and we hadn't eaten anything. Some of our group started getting angry. Gay told them that these were gentle people and arguing would only make things worse.

Finally, we split up and George drove us to several locations to stay for the week. I ended up on the south side where the street ended at the base of Agua. As we drove there, we could clearly see the red lava flowing down the side of Fuego. That was the last time we saw the mountain erupting. I was glad that I got to see it. 

Our motel that night was a rather large rambling place that seemed to be of German origin. Two guys and I were placed in a second-floor suite that looked like it could handle several people. The balcony outside the door faced a jungle to the south. When we settled in, very tired by then, the jungle was alive with nighttime jungle sounds. Once inside though, sleep came easy.

I woke earlier than the others and when I stepped out on that balcony, I was amazed at the early morning cacophony coming from the jungle. Huge ravens flew over my head calling out a kind of grunting sound. I felt like Indiana Jones and was already loving it. Most of those sounds were birds. Each species having a different call providing them with a way of communicating in the dense foliage of the canopy.

We gathered together at a restaurant and had breakfast. I ordered huevos rancheros and received two eggs, over easy, black beans cooked into a paste, and covered with a spoonful of fresh cream. The beans were excellent and a much better choice than the usual US hashbrowns, waffles, or pancakes. I did get toast, but I believe it was made with corn flour rather than wheat toast.

Each Guatemalan town was host to an open market on given days of the week. The first market we went to was the one in Antigua. A large open area on the west side that had been empty was filled with all kinds of people selling all kinds of food and merchandise. Our group was most interested in woven articles. Well used American school buses accounted for the public transportation, bringing market goers from all over for about a penny a mile. I don't recall what that was in Guatemala quezals. Currency named after the national bird.

Guatemala had many small clans or tribes of people. Each one had their own weaving pattern like the Scottish plaids. And the men often wore skirts similar to Scottish kilts. Something that defied what I thought Central American men would wear. But there was also a plethora of colorful satin shirts from the American leisure suit craze, left over from tons of aid that came to Guatemala after the earthquake.

Unfortunately, the landscape was littered with plastic containers that replaced traditional clay pots almost everywhere. Also a left over from the well-intentioned aid of big brother up north. It was sad to see the old, biodegradable parts of village life become overrun with factory produced, nonbiodegradable implements of trash.

Fortunately, most of Antigua was neat and clean. During the day one could walk around the entire town with ease. Every block or so there would be a vacant lot littered with stonework and a plaque commemorating a church that stood there and the date of an earthquake that destroyed it… Some as early as the 1500s.

The streets were lined with walls of varying, brick, stone, adobe or concrete. During the day, walls would open up and one could peer inside to lovely courtyards with two-story, balconied residences all around the square enclosure. Often there were fountains in the middle of the courtyard, palm trees and fruit trees along with a garden. These were rather elite homes. It seemed like you had to be rich to live in Antigua. Always, hummingbirds flitting around sampling many different flowers.

Commercial businesses were hidden away behind the walls as well. There were no garish signs announcing them. It seemed that the whole town had been preserved in the old Spanish tradition as a reminder to tourists and to the country the way things used to be under colonial Spanish rule.

We piled into the van and drove off to San Antonio. Coming into the village down a long steep mountain road overshadowed by Feugo, the sides of the road were lined with beautiful woven products hanging the inhabitants were selling. When we got to the home of the girl we were looking for, we learned that she was in the United States. There was no staying there. 

When we got back to town, I was moved from the German motel to a strange, but very nice and very new, "Holiday Inn," once again hidden by a wall with only a garage door to an empty room and a door that led to another room, also empty. Upstairs, on the second floor, were rooms that were nicely outfitted with large beds, windows with turned bars of wood on the balcony and wool blankets for the chilly nights.

Every evening around 6 pm, a boy about 10 years old would come by and collect our rent for the night, as I recall, two dollars. The place was filled every night with tourists like us. One morning, I saw a green station wagon with license plates from the States. I learned that it was a Spanish teacher from an American high school who drove down through Mexico with her family. That's what that other room on the first floor was--a garage.

That evening began my exploration of restaurants around town. Usually it was in a hotel. One host in a hotel told us that all the plaster walls in the hotel came falling down in the earthquake. It was a major project to get the place rebuilt. Everywhere we went in town everything was rebuilt and looking old/new.

The cuisine was wonderful and everything tasted good. Especially the steak. For the price of one steak I was given two, as well as all the French fries I could eat. There were always sauces and guacamole. The steak was very lean and grass fed. I accepted the extra portions because all that walking made me very hungry. By the end of the week my pants were falling down. I never wore a belt. I had to pin them up.

Copyright © Ronald W. Hull

8/18/20