Swiss Coincidence

The day: Sunday, September 16, 2007

The time: 7:53am

The location: Locarno Train Station, Switzerland, in front of locked doors of tourist office

The scenario: Already explored Locarno, Lugano and Como to their foundations. Have to find something to do until the 4:58pm train to Interlaken.

The tourist information office is still closed. I study the photographs on its door: multiple angles of the Swiss Riviera on Lago Maggiore, Santuario della Madonna del Sasso, a few small waterfalls, smiling families on mountain biking trails, and a sole postcard picture of an old double-arched bridge over stunningly shallow emerald-green-colored water. I looked closer at the picture to find its source: Valle Verzasca.

At the ticket counter, I asked the friendly and patient middle-aged ticket agent how to get to Valle Verzasca.

"Where in Valle Verzasca?"

"The bridge in the picture."

"What bridge, what picture?"

"The nice one on the tourist information door." (I couldn't take it off the door because it was put on from the inside).

"Lady, tourist office not me! One bus Valle Verzasca 8:02. You want?"

"Yes!" It was 7:59. I bought a round-trip ticket. I also payed for a 4:58pm one-way ticket for Interlaken and quickly counted the contents of my wallet: 8 CHF. No time for ATM. "Where does it leave from?"

"There," he pointed behind me. "Run."

The bus traveled through typical small Swiss villages: white-walled, brown-roofed countryside houses, barns surrounded by rolling green hills, bus stops next to little churches with a hand-clock on the low turret. Twenty minutes later the view turned into a v-shaped valley and the road followed a small stream, almost dry, on the left side. Thick-leaved maple trees shaded the road from both sides and gave way to smaller evergreen trees that grew in abundance on the canyon walls. The bus made its first stop in the valley in front of a tunnel (typical of Swiss road construction in mountains and valleys) with a big sign that read "Benvenuto a Val Verzasca".  It took 23 minutes to get here. There were seven people on the bus, including me, and no one descended. There was no cute little bridge in sight, no hiking trail, no reason to get off. The bus continued through the tunnel and stopped on the other side.

Once again, no one got off, even though more opportunities presented themselves here. There was a lake where the v-shaped valley once was (apparently created by a dam I did not notice before) and a hiking trail next to it. The doors of the bus closed and the chance was missed to explore it further, but I began to devise a plan: I will continue with the bus to a stop that seems interesting and then return to the dam on foot.

Three people got off at the following stop (a red-painted wooden barn-turned restaurant overlooking the stream's entrance to the lake.) I thought about descending, but saw that the three people that stayed on the bus were prepared with big backpacks, tall hiking boots, two liters of water and hiking sticks, so I stayed with my small daypack and light hiking shoes. A few moments later we reached the bridge. I recognized it immediately and was the first off the bus. The hard-core hikers followed.

I made a mental note that it took almost 50 minutes to get here, the stop named Lavertezzo. It was close to 9am and I needed to be back in Locarno by 5pm. 8 hours is plenty of time to explore this bridge. I let the other folks lead the way. Two of them, an elderly couple probably in their eighties but looking as if they are sixty, quickly crossed the bridge and disappeared on the other side of the stream. They were most likely from the area and spent every Sunday trying to break their hiking record time from the previous Sunday. I'm fairly certain that their lunch break included a fresh baguette, Appenzeller cheese, a fresh sausage from the local  butcher and an apple. Another gentleman, probably 40 years old and looking more like 60, carrying the same lunch menu as the elderly couple plus a bottle of wine, took his time on the bridge, took some pictures, and walked slowly upstream.

Then it was my turn. I must admit that this was one of the most beautiful sites I have ever seen. Maybe because it was not planned or because it seemed to not be very well-known (after all, it was a Sunday and only 4 people came to see it) or because it really is that stunning, I decided to consider it as one of the top 10 places to visit, in case anyone ever asked me.

Three options lay before me: 1) Return the bus route by foot. It would probably take two hours, and then what? Option 1 was out of the question. 2) Walk upstream like the middle-aged man. People always tell me I look older than I really am. Do I want to look like I'm 60 when I'm really 40? Option 2 was also out of the question. 3) Cross the bridge, follow the trail downstream and hope that it leads to the dam. I have 8 hours, one liter of water and two power bars. What is there to lose?
The trail started off as a very lovely stroll along the turquoise-colored water, but soon began climbing up the canyon wall. I followed. At a certain moment I passed a flowing water fountain that indicated that some sort of a civilization does exist there, though it might be invisible. And a little later I passed an abandoned cable structure to transport goods over the stream, which indicated that some sort of a civilization at least existed there in the past. The trail continued up the hill, getting farther away from the stream, sometimes passing very nice vistas of the valley below and what I hoped was not the dam in the far distance. I calculated that if I want to be in Locarno by 4:50pm, I have to be on a bus that leaves the dam by 4:20 at the latest, and since I do not know the bus schedule, I should arrive there 30 minutes in advance because it does not seem like bus frequency in the area is high. My calculation left me with only three hours to get to the dam, which seemed impossible from where I was. It was also too late to turn around.

Lost in thought (or maybe in the forest), I suddenly found myself in a cute little cliff-side town. The main street included a small white church, a closed souvenir shop, and little white houses with gray roofs, separated by narrow cobblestone pathways. I slowly walked through the town, studying the neighborhood, noticing how everything about it is white, pure and, in a way, perfect. So perfect, in fact, that nothing was missing - not even little front yards and flowerpots on windowpanes - expect people. Maybe this is why the town seemed so pure? I later found out that this town, called Corippo, is Switzerland's smallest municipality, with a population of 18 people.

I took my time walking through the town. First of all, I decided that no matter what I do, I am going to miss the train to Interlaken, so I might as well enjoy myself. Second of all, I wanted to see if someone actually lives there. It took me five minutes to cross the entire town in a leisurely pace without encountering a soul. 

Almost two hours later I walked into another town, Mergoscia (I saw the name on the bus stop, next to the church, which indicated that the next bus to pass there would be at 5:25pm). It was a bigger town, a lower one, a closer one to the dam. It was also a pretty town, with big houses and big back yards, each house competing with its neighbors for originality, each with a different color scheme and different flowers in the garden. A couple just returned home, parked their car in the driveway and looked at me strangely. I looked back and waved. They smiled back.

"How long does it take to walk to the dam?" I approached in English. 

Questioning gazes answered: "Italiano?" 

I pointed to the dam. "How far?"

"No, no."

I tried the question in French. No luck.

"Deutch?"

I tried in Hebrew. No luck. I tried Spanish without knowing the language. But all failed. I waved goodbye and walked away. About 1 hour was left. I started walking fast again. The view of the dam was very motivating. 

A few moments later, the town already behind me, a car approached and I stuck my thumb out without thinking. An old man who spoke three words of English motioned for me to jump in and dropped me off 4 minutes later right in front of the dam. A thick steep forest separated the road from the dam, but no trail was in sight. The man nodded and drove away. The time was 3:50pm and it seemed like the only way I could make it to the dam in time was through the thick forest. I stumbled inside, regained my balance, stumbled again, leaned over fallen trees and branches and made average progress. Then I saw a hat below me, and a head and shoulders and a whole person breathing heavily, slaloming uphill on a trail. He waved hello and passed. I waved back and pulled out a couple of twigs from my hair, then jumped on the trail and happily followed the more level ground to the concrete of the dam.
3:55pm. I speed-walked across the dam, slowing only to study the structure in the middle resembling a  platform for bungee jumping, and arrived at the bus stop on the other side ten minutes later (the dam is a kilometer long!) to find out that the next bus departs at 4:10pm! Perfect timing! I went into the souvenir shop to pass the time, learned that this was the site of the highest permanent bungee jump in the world (220m), made famous by James Bond in Golden Eye, was disappointed to hear that the jump was closed for the season (but also happy because I had no time nor money for it), and bought an ice cream cone that left me with 5 CHF. 

The bus arrived with an untypical tardiness of 7 minutes (I would have jumped from the dam without a cord thinking that the bus may have passed early, was it not for a family that was also waiting for it). 

At 4:55pm I entered the train to Interlaken and tried to catch my breath. It was not easy. I was going to Interlaken to meet with friends for a rafting trip the following day. We were all tourists in Switzerland and no one carried a cell phone. We decided to meet at a certain hotel, but did not make reservations because we were not sure if we would all get there the night before.

It took me three hours to devise the following action plan for my arrival in Interlaken: take taxi to ATM, eat (I only had an ice cream and two power bars the entire day and was ready to lose consciousness), find hotel, meet friends tomorrow if they are not at hotel. My plan, which I worked on for such a long time, was foiled the moment I stepped off the platform in Interlaken. In front of me was a Migros supermarket, and despite the late hour and dark skies, there was a certain aura drawing me in. 5 CHF would be enough to find something to place in my stomach until the resolution of all other issues. As I walked in I saw an ATM in front of me (I think there was also a spotlight above it and heavenly music playing behind it). I felt like I was on cloud nine and walked forward carefully (the world was spinning around me). I looked right and left as if I was crossing a road to double-check that I don't run over any pedestrians and caught a sight of my friends entering an elevator. I told myself that I was hallucinating, but my legs refused to believe the message. They ran to the elevator and pulled a successful Indiana Jones just as the doors closed. No need for food. No need for ATM. No need for taxi. No need for hotel. I'm saved! These great friends took me to their hotel (different than the one discussed because it did not have vacancy for everyone) and shared their dinner with me. I told the ATM to wait another day and easily fell asleep after 15 speedy hiking kilometers, three stressful hours on a train, and countless repeated coincidences that I deeply cherish to this day!

This very true story (no incidents added, no bus times exaggerated) is dedicated to these wonderful friends who were there for me at a moment of need and with whom I had a wonderful time trying to flip over rafts on the way from Thun to Bern. You all rock and I hope to return the favors one day!

Central America 2005

I have a photo album. Get it? An actual photo album with photos inside! It is the only photo album that I have, sitting on a shelf all by itself, feeling lonely because all of its friends are saved in many backup files on my computer and on the internet. Oh, 2005 seems so far away!

I landed in Cancun, Mexico on Sunday, March 13, 2005 with a Let's Go Central America guidebook that I bought at the airport minutes before boarding the plane and haven't opened since. It was my first real independent trip and I wanted to do it as blindly as possible so I can get a real experience out of it. Until today I don't know what exactly a "real experience" is. All that I knew about Central America was to name the countries in the region, the shots recommended by travel clinics to enter them, a brief history of the Aztecs and Mayans from history classes in high school, and that the official language was Spanish which I never bothered to learn. This great knowledge never attracted me to Central America as a travel destination, but I also wasn't against it. Basically, I landed there with no preconceived notions of how it would be and no expectations for the trip. Except Cancun. I heard that it became a huge American dance party full of drunk college students and chose to stay away.

I boarded a second-class bus to Merida. A friend of mine volunteered in the Peace Corps and invited me (willingly or unwillingly, I'm not sure to this day) to travel through Central America with her for two months at the end of her term. The bus entered Merida four hours later than the expected time of 8pm, which made for a very uncomfortable ride and an even more stressful midnight rush.

Midnight. Mexico. Deserted bus station. No friend. No phone number to call. No phone. Foreign language. Taxi. TAXI!!!

"Hotel!"

"Que?"

"Go!"

"Okay"

First lesson learned: First class buses = express with second-class comfort; Second class buses = stopping at least twice in every town along the way. To make a long story short, by noon the next day my friend and I were already hugging and exchanging stories (I don't remember how I tracked her down - or did she track me down?) She came to the lobby of my overpriced hotel with a fat Lonely Planet guidebook with colored bookmarks sticking out from all sides of it and highlighted passages inside as if she was preparing for the most important school presentation of her life. She certainly did her homework while I didn't even know about the difference in bus classes. Five minutes into our "how are you"s and she was already frustrated. I was indifferent. Her frustration grew deeper. The tour begins.

One week later we successfully passed San Cristobal and crossed the border to Guatemala. During that week we visited the first highlighted sections in my friend's book: the ruins at Palenque and  the cascades of Agua Azul. Both sites are nice for novice ruin enthusiasts and first-time waterfall viewers. In San Cristobal, we split up only once because my friend wanted to see museums and I wanted to horseback ride. It was one of my favorite days for two reasons: 1) Esther and her daughter (who ran the horseback business) let me taste the wonders of an orange with salt and chili; 2) after the ride, I stumbled into a church where Mayan and Christian beliefs intermingle. As I walked in, a strong incense hit me. Smoke from the candles in front of framed pictures of saints gave the place a mysterious feel  and the floor was covered with pine needles threatening to catch fire at any moment. I learned that the Mayans believe that the Earth is a cube surrounded by water and held up on four posts and that the moon is the mother of the sun. I also learned that pictures are forbidden to be taken because they steal the soul of the object being photographed. I returned late in the day to recount these experiences to my friend and to prove to her that good days can be spontaneous. She, in return, showed me as much enthusiasm about her planned day. Although I still believe that my day was better.

The following morning we were happily welcomed at the Mexican-Guatemalan border  (it was closed the day before and the day after due to "civil unrest"). Soon we were drowning in the bright colors of  the famous Chichicastenango market and immersing ourselves in the culture around Lago de Atitlan. We quickly zoomed passed Antigua and Guatemala City and experienced the "chicken bus" that guidebooks require all tourists to try. Four features generally define a chicken bus: 1) No rules; 2) Door open so passengers can board and jump off while the bus is in movement; 3) Passengers must be flexible enough to sit on top of the back support with the head turned and folded at 90 degrees, hands spread out to the sides, and legs - well, you might as well leave them on the roof with the rest of the bags and groceries; 4) Chickens allowed.
Continuing northward, we stopped in the natural pools of Semuc Champey and opened our mouths in awe to the grandeur of Tikal, the greatest Mayan ruin in all of Central America. You can read so much about it in books, see so much of it on the Discovery Channel, but nothing compares to actually standing there and feeling the power of history beneath your feet (or above you, for that matter). Tikal itself is a bit out of the way, but the stop there is definitely worth it.

Let's fast-forward now to Costa Rica, one month later (after 10 days diving in Utila, Honduras in search of whale sharks that were encountered by other divers on the day that we left; a rafting trip where our boat forcibly capsized and the guide stressed out and yelled out, "Holy s***, this never happened to me!!!"; a week in El Salvador that we mostly spent on buses trying to get to the beach only to chicken out of learning how to surf and then turning right back around and making the entire way back; two weeks in Nicaragua with a moonlight hike to the top of a fuming dormant volcano near Leon, birdwatching in a forest with no birds, volunteering for a day on Finca Magdalena on Isla de Ometepe learning to separate good coffee beans from bad ones, a canopy tour with un-thrilling ziplines near Granada, and a bus ride dodging burning tires through the recently reopened main streets of Managua after some typical rioting.)

I finally read the chapter on Costa Rica upon our arrival but was disappointed to see that it is so expensive, especially when compared to the standards I got used to. So we agreed on the don't-miss basics: the closest beach on the Pacific coast, Monteverde for the animal and birdwatching, and Arenal for the volcano. The beach was wonderful (we dove next to friendly white-fin sharks). Monteverde was disappointing because it looked so similar to the ziplining forest of Nicaragua but more touristy and more expensive (at least we spotted some quetzals and a sloth, which made up for everything). Arenal was inspiring. Every night the volcano spilled lava over its sides and lit up the skies. It was such a beautiful recurring act of nature that I decided to stay there to pass the remainder of my trip (which I cut short by one week because I was tired, greedy about money, and eager to go home and share my experiences with family and friends.) My friend continued to the Atlantic side to follow sea turtles on their egg-nesting migrations while I went to develop my four rolls of film and place them carefully in an album.

Overall I summarize the trip as very productive, full of unexpected situations, new encounters and interesting activities. I came into Central America with no expectations and left it as the same person that I was. Plus a photo album.

Memoirs of Guatemala: The lifestyle, the countryside and the volcano

Author's Note:

I wrote this a few years ago with the hopes of sending it to be published in a travel magazine -- and I never sent it. Instead, I saved it on a floppy disk and forgot all about it. Until today. I found the floppy and checked what was on it. Now it is finally published -- on my blog!

A few years ago, I became fed up with the direction my life was taking and decided that it was time for a change. As many westernized citizens do, instead of addressing the problem and looking for a solution, I decided to run away from it and hope that the solution would find me. I decided to visit a third-world country that was bound to open my eyes to the amenities I take for granted in my own home. The country I chose was Guatemala. My destination: a small southern town by the name of Ipala. I was to go there with a friend in order to visit her friend, an affiliate of the Peace Corps and director of an outdoor education center in town.

Ipala was my only real chance to immerse myself in another culture – a genuine culture – that has not yet been tainted by tourism. This was not an attraction that the indigenous population altered in order to accommodate wannabe anthropologists. Mayan descendants would not be running around barefoot, sewing table embroideries, and wearing traditional costumes just so tourists can point and stare and throw a quetzal into their cup. This was going to be a town where people work for a living at westernized jobs, have TV’s in their homes, wear jeans, and shop at large supermarkets. This is what I longed to see: current human interactions amidst a developing third-world country (who’s the anthropologist wannabe now?).

The more I learned about Ipala, the more reasons I found to go there: lying on the base of a dormant volcano, the town attracts tourists from Guatemala and El Salvador, who come to conquer the peak of the volcano and bathe in its crater-lake. The summit is one of the two cloud forests in Guatemala, and it is also one of seven such ecosystems in the world. Our visit also coincided with Semana Santa, the week after Easter and the most important holiday in the Americas. I was eager to be part of the celebrations that would undoubtedly be happening while we were there.

From the moment we stepped off the chicken bus in Ipala, I realized what was missing in my life: complications. My life was just too simple, and I needed the obstacles that I was about to get. I turned to my friend and asked, “Do you know how to get to your friend’s house from here?”

“How should I know?” She turned to me. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with her for a few days.” The phone card wasn’t working properly.

“Does she know we’re coming?”

“I hope so.”

“So what now?”

“Let’s try to call her again.”

Oh, good idea. Let’s just take a little spin here at the one-pole bus terminal, which is surrounded by middle-aged drunk men, who are whistling at us by the way, and try to find a phone. Better yet, let’s pretend like we’re lost and ask one of these drunk men what to do.

“Perdon,” my friend turned to an old, barefooted, drunken man whose eyes lit up in a winning gaze toward the rest of the men. “We’re lost and looking for a phone to call our friend who lives here.” The man pointed in a certain direction and mumbled something.

We walked in that direction for about a mile, arguing incessantly if we should head left or right, until we miraculously reached a pay phone. Only then did we realize that Guatemalan pay phones work on phone cards only, and that there was no store in the area selling them. Completely lost and out of clever ideas we stood next to the phone and stared off into space. Suddenly a twelve-year-old girl approached us.

“Who are you and what are you doing in Ipala?” She asked in Spanish.

My friend explained in broken Spanish that we have a friend here, but we don’t know where she lives. “Her name is Ana Rodriguez and she is the director of ADISO, the Outdoor Education center in town.”

“Oh, I know Ana! She’s my neighbor!” the girl answered. She then proceeded to give my friend detailed directions to her house: “walk four blocks this way, turn right at the house with the yellow door, continue straight, turn left, then right again at the house with the red flowers….” And then she disappeared. Having no other option but to trust the young girl, we followed what we remembered  and understood from the directions that she had given us.

The streets were deserted. We passed house after house with open windows and kids looking outside,  maybe in envy or maybe just to point at the strange site of two gringas in their town. At around four o’clock in the afternoon, we passed a cantina full of men who stopped their chatter all at once (for a second it seemed as if the radio had also stopped playing), and looked at us with questioning stares.

Not far from there, we spotted a mother and three small children playing outside of their house. “Perdon, do you know where Ana Rodriguez lives?” (asked in Spanish)

“Yeah, right next door. Everybody knows that. Are you friends from America?” (my friend later translated this for me)

At Ana’s house, the windows were also to let the afternoon breeze in. Oddly, no one was looking out of them. Instead, they were busy watching Guatemalan MTV on a black-and-white screen that was blaring music all the way to the neighbor’s yard. Our knock did not disturb them. In fact, it did not seem like anyone even noticed it. A few moments later, a woman came to the door, welcomed us, and motioned us to follow her.

She led us through the small and dark living room, where we politely said hello to the three teenagers watching television, into a large patio in her u-shaped home. To our left was a master bedroom, which had a dark curtain in the doorway, and to our right was green grass, with a few clotheslines and an orange tree in the center. We followed the woman down the patio into a second bedroom that had a white curtain for a door. This room, in contrast to the rest of the house, looked very bright and lively. Struggling to make space for my backpack on the floor, I looked around the small room. It had two single beds in the far corners, each covered by a pink comforter and some stuffed animals. Between the beds was a CD player and a neat pile of music, and in the other side of the room was a computer with dial-up internet connection.

Guiding us back to the patio, our new mother offered us something to drink. But there was something that I needed to take care of first. Using the only words I knew in Spanish, I declined the drink, and asked, “Donde esta el banos?” The woman smiled understandingly and pointed at three wooden doors facing the patio. I laughed in uneasiness and started walking slowly toward the doors, hoping that maybe she would change her mind. In front of me stood what looked like three decaying wooden port-a-potties. I drew in a big breath and walked into the middle stall. Once inside, I was surprised to find a porcelain toilet, granted it was a little chipped, but completely clean and adorned with air fresheners, toilet paper, and a plant – you know, the usual toilet things. This provided me with a little more comfort about what was about to occur, although it did not help much knowing that the lock on the door was broken and that the 12-inch gap underneath it did not protect against peekers and eavesdroppers.

A few moments later I was ready to flush. I pressed on the handle, but nothing happened. I pressed again. Nothing. I jiggled the handle and tried a third, fourth, and fifth time. I gave up and carefully opened the door to find my friend having the same problem in the next stall. We decided to give the toilets a rest and hope that no one goes in until we figure out the problem.

Moments later, a familiar face walked into the house. Ana came home from work and we could finally start talking in English! After a polite small-talk about our travels, I averted everyone’s attention back to the toilets. Ana laughed. I guess she was ready for this. She walked to a huge barrel full of water, filled up a bucket, and emptied its contents into the toilet bowl. Just in the neck of time, the toilet flushed, and I clapped my hands in relief.

Ana explained that most houses in Guatemala have no running water. Instead, their plumbing consists of a pipe that is pointed toward two huge barrels. Every Monday morning, the pipe fills the barrels, and the new water is rationed throughout the week. This water is used for drinking, flushing toilets, washing dishes, doing laundry, and taking showers.

“Now, are you hungry?” Well, of course. I always am. “We made lots of corn tortillas, rice, and beans especially for you.” Oh, brother.

“Is that what you usually have for dinner?” I asked, trying to be offered something a little more appetizing.

“No, we have corn tortillas, beans, and sour cream.”

“And for breakfast?”

“Well, we have cereal, but usually we eat tortillas and beans.”

“Which is your favorite meal?”

“All of them!”

For the record, I did not go to Central America for the food. Those of you that know me intimately may be shocked to hear that in Central America I was actually trying to avoid food more than I was trying to eat it. At Ana’s house, I was left with a big predicament. I could kindly refuse their food and kiss their great hospitality goodbye; or I could pretend to enjoy myself. Seeing that I was to spend at least four days here, I decided to go with the latter option.

At ten o’clock at night we heard loud music coming from outside of the house. It took me a few moments to realize it was the procession for Semana Santa. It was the first of seven such processions that had so intrigued me to visit Ipala in the first place. I was curious to see what this small town could do to celebrate their most important holiday. What they came up with was quite innovative: leading the procession was a rusty bicycle that was towing and powering a generator. Stretching from the generator was a long cord, held by three children, that connected to a lighted float of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The float was carried between the shoulders of six men, and looked as unstable as the statues balancing on it. Following the float were almost two thousand singing people, all dressed in their best church clothes. Ana and her family stepped outside to join them while my friend and I, exhausted from the ordeals of the day, strung up hammocks in the garden and went to sleep, lulled by the out-of-tune melodies of Ipala’s residents.

The following morning we were awakened at five o’clock in order to hike up Volcan Ipala – the second reason I was so intrigued to visit Ipala. We went to Ana’s office in ADISO (the Eastern Guatemalan Sustainable Development Association) to join a group of high school students with whom we would hike to the top of the volcano. This particular group, with aid and instruction from Peace Corps and Earth Corps volunteers, helped build an interpretive trail around the volcano’s rim.

On the way to the summit are strewn a number of houses whose families earn their living by collecting park fees and opening their kitchens to hikers and park rangers. They gave my friend and I, apparently the guests of honor, a very warm reception by serving us their best delicacies: The stomach of a chicken, its liver, feet, and undeveloped embryos. After this appetizing meal, we continued up the trail to the crater, swam in its freezing lake and enjoyed a piece of the still-undisturbed nature I so cherish.

I could continue to bore you with little details of my trip to Ipala, Guatemala, but I think you get the gist of it. This is a very simple town, whose residents lead very simple lives. However, to a stranger from the developed world, daily tasks could seem very complicated. We have been taking our inventions for granted. We have running water, flush toilets, and supermarkets full of foreign delicacies. It was beautiful to see how the residents of Ipala embrace change as much as they embrace tradition: They have internet access, but stay in their parents’ house until marriage; they watch MTV, but milk their own cows; and they take a shower with Pantene Pro-V, but have to pour water over their heads with a bucket in order to get the shampoo out.

If you’d like to learn more about this lifestyle, or how to hand-wash your clothes on a wavy concrete surface, you should take a trip to Ipala, Guatemala. While there, you can volunteer with the Peace Corps, hike up a dormant volcano, and swim in a chilly crater lake. You can also participate in the many celebrations that are put on during the summer months. Or you could move to upstate Maine, where you can live with the previously-discussed minor complications even in the winter months.

Crater lake at the summit of Volcan Ipala.