Rest by the Rhine

When we arrived at Logan for our flight home, we were asked if we wanted to take the following day's flight, for US$800's compensation. Work due the day after my return meant we declined, of course - not my first work-related adjustment, and not my last I suspect. Mary, never one for long rides in enclosed spaces, dreaded the 36-hour journey home. This mercifully included a 17-hour layover at Frankfurt-Hahn, where we got out to the city of Mainz by the Rhine River.

Below: Simply having a wonderful Christmas time, at the Mainz Christmas market.

Overcoming jet-lag flying halfway around the way from the west was always going to be a struggle. We hardly slept on the Boston leg, and barely completed the marathon between our gate and the airport exit at Frankfurt-Hahn with leaden eyelids. A wrong train in the right direction landed us briefly at a dark suburban station where a hooded figure, reeking of weed, stared menacingly at us. 

Mainz had always been a hub. The Romans enforced their watch on the Rhine from here. St Boniface, patron saint of Germany to whose tireless efforts the subsequent conversion of many German tribes can be attributed, was once bishop of Mainz. As the diocese grew, the Archbishop of Mainz eventually became from medieval times a key elector with a say in the nomination of the Holy Roman Emperor. From Mainz, Johannes Gutenberg helped usher modernity into Europe by inventing mechanical movable-type printing. Today the city remains an important port between Central Europe and the North Sea.

Below: St Boniface looks benevolently over the market square. His martyrdom is alluded to in the sword-pierced Bible which he holds. Attacked by the pagan Frisians on his final mission to what is today the Dutch coast, he strode forth with a Bible to meet his assailants and was promptly struck down.

Our start to the day was as uninspiring as the city's history was the polar opposite. An icy drizzle and empty streets in that lacklustre limbo between dark and day lent to the city a post-apocalyptic calm. As the city warmed up to what at first looked very much like a stillborn Saturday, we ducked into the MacDonald's right next to the city square for breakfast. We were easily the youngest patrons in a geriatric crowd of silver crowns. Breakfast exacerbated our drowsiness, however, and we dozed there unabashedly for a bit, cradling our heads uncomfortably in our own arms.

Below: Mainz wakes up to the weekend; the bottom-most picture shows the Proviant-Magazin, a military storehouse for the troops garrisoned in the city.

At ten, the vanguard of the weekend crowd started streaming into the square. We wearily shook off what sleep remained and followed the gathering throng to an adjacent Christmas market. There, amidst the clinking of beer mugs and aroma of burnt sausages (it was ten in the morning), Mary was revitalized. At least, until exhaustion overtook excitement as morning waned.

Below: Photo opportunities at the Christmas market before we were crowded out.

In between currywurst, mulled wine and handicraft stalls we found time to explore the city centre. This was dominated by the distinct sandstone spires of St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German monarchs were once crowned by the Archbishop of Mainz. The easy accessibility of Mainz meant photographers seemed to outnumber penitents in its cathedral, unlike many others we visited earlier in the trip.

Above: St Martin's Cathedral, where medieval German kings were once crowned.

Below: St Quintin's Church, site of Mainz's oldest documented parish.

As noon came and went, going nearly twenty-four hours without sleep took its toll. Settling on the pews of a Carmelite church on the northern edge of the city centre, we clasped our hands and dipped our heads together, falling serenely into prayer as deep as the slumber which succeeded it. It was a true Carmelite sanctuary, for nothing until our own subsequent embarrassment disturbed our contemplation.

Below: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, Jesus said, and I will give you rest. We obeyed, and slept prayerfully on the pews in this peaceful Carmelite church for an hour.

When we waded back into the weekend which was gathering pace outside our cloistered cerebration, we found the crowd augmented by football fans. Decked in the rival red and white of both 1. FSV Mainz 05 and VfB Stuttgart, both sets of fans exchanged tribal anthems in between liberal swills of beer. One Mainz fan, when we asked what his prediction for the match outcome, replied without a second thought, I'll be drunk by half-time. Seems nobody keeps score here.

Above: our clairvoyant Mainz supporter before the game began, who was very happy to talk to us, and as a result had to be dragged away by his friends to the stadium.

Below: the tedium of a gloomy winter's day replaced by evening's bonhomie.

Our Carmelite interlude only lasted us until dusk, which came early amidst the winter chill. Our flight to Singapore was scheduled for ten, but at ten minutes past six we could not wait to jump on the train for the half-hour nap it offered until we arrived at the airport. We withdrew €80 at the airport before we left in the morning. By the grace of God it was just enough. Every last cent was spent - the left luggage, our train tickets, MacDonald's, currywurst, an acrylic Christmas tree and polar bear, a handful of pretty plates which caught Mary's fancy and three visits to the toilet.

I went twice.

Massachusetts Avenue

Our journey back to Boston was memorably torturous. Mary was gripped by both vomiting and a stomach upset as we transited in Atlanta. Suddenly, the three hours between flights seemed too short as we staggered feebly from one checkpoint to another. Our experience on the connecting flight tore to shreds Delta's confident assertion in its pre-flight video that they are the best in what they do. We were bounced brusquely from Delta's general enquiries desk when we requested for our seats to be closer to the bathrooms. The officer on duty was plainly more interested in her phone. On the Atlanta-Boston leg, however, we were fortunate to meet an attentive stewardess who assisted patiently with our every need. All we remembered of her older colleague next to her was her unprofessional remonstrations when we asked to dispose of our sick bag.

Below: Posing reflectively before the Civil War monument in Cambridge Common.

At the reception desk of Buckminster, I finally returned the bathtub plug which I had carried through half of Central America. I had mistaken it for yet another inconsequential domestic contraption from Daiso, brandishing it triumphantly in El Salvador when Mary asked for a S-hook. No epiphany could have been shinier than when Mary blandly asked how is that an S-hook?

Having finally checked into our room at close to 2 am, we stayed in it until a creeping hunger compelled us to forage outside well after sunset sixteen hours later. It left us with only the next day for sightseeing before we headed home. We were more interested in shopping though. secondhand books in my case and craft materials for Mary's. Google led us north of the Charles River. Both the bookstores and craft shops we wanted to visit were situated along that stretch of road between Porter and Harvard Squares known as Massachusetts Avenue, also where we conveniently did all our sightseeing.

Below: The Manichean duality of steely, snow-laden skies - slate to gaud and God.

A sprinkling of snow added a touch of magic to another gray winter's day when we arrived at Porter Square. There was little to see until we approached Harvard Square, save the brightly painted timber houses on many of the smaller lanes nearby. We took our only steps on the much-vaunted Freedom Trail near Cambridge Common where a certain General Washington took command of the American militia in 1775.

Below: Redcoat responses to Freedom Trail monuments.

And who could omit the agglomeration of almost artificially brilliant intelligence in the vicinity? As an undergraduate, I often found while walking between lessons whole parades of tourists in various statuesque poses. Five years on, camera and shopping in tow, amidst Harvard's domes and spires and scurrying students who paid little heed to us, I crossed a decisive divide. If the campuses were temples of learning, the bookshops scattered around Harvard Square were shrines of popular devotion - nowhere else could I have obtained Fernand Braudel's The Mediterranean World at US$15. My bibliophilic rampage subsequently left us having to balance the books on our return flight, especially with Lufthansa stringently policing their 23 kg per piece of check-in.

Above (top to bottom): A memorial persists in winter; Nerds should pause before heeding the siren's call of Harvard Book Store. Check your wallet, then your luggage allowance.

Below (top to bottom): Celebrating Christmas early with our adopted family; our only views of the Boston skyline were from the airport, on the first and the last days of our trip.

That last evening, we had dinner with Samuel in his room to avoid a repeat embarassment of us being mistaken for his parents. We only wished he was younger. At least I knew I wasn't getting any when I collapsed in a heap on the bed upon returning to Buckminster.

Packing had to wait.

Four Pieces of Panajachel

All and sundry passed through Panajachel towards the lake. Panajachel was the thin end of the funnel, where souls lingered before onward journeys to lakeside languor. Like Purgatory.

Below: Sunset on the promenade - pretty, but you can't see the flies.

One cannot always have too much of a good thing. Time reveals all things which are not of God in their rancid nakedness. The transit from Jaibalito to Panajachel took one from the masterful composure of Monet to the distressing grostesque of Goya. Jaibalito existed in permanent portraiture. Panajachel, on the other hand, was restive, refractory blur - an endless parade of tooting tuk-tuks and harlequin souvenir stalls. It was all the more remarkable for its almost comically startling contrast. We share four observations from our short stint in Panajachel.

Below: tuk-tuks, souvenirs and the basis of the entire lacustrine ecology - tourists.

1. No, I don't want no scruple

We already recounted how a tout attempted brazenly to rip us off before our boat ride to Jaibalito. The boatsman who stood next to him all the while, and who we saw was a very helpful man, did not even bat an eyelid. Living off the alluvial bounty of gringos that enrich these shores has become established fact.

Below: while some have no scruples, others have no scraps.

Frequent shoppers would know how quoted prices are almost always wildly inflated. The knives are always out - but we didn't expect to have slashed the price of one particularly colourful tablerunner down to an eighth of what was quoted. Mary thought me too timid a bargainer. She expected, probably rightly, that if we had held on to our guns we would be able to purchase the piece at half the price we paid for it.

Below: the Tinamit Maya, an outdoor crafts market where guile is as valuable a resource as the greenback.

2. Fever pitch

The shopping in Panajachel fascinated us - not so much for the range of products on offer but for the lengths to which many merchants tried to sell their wares. A ceramic chess set pitting feathered Mayan warriors against burnished Spanish foes caught our eye, though eventually we were unwilling to pay the US$70 demanded for it. With a glint in his eye, the determined shopowner tried to barter the chess set for my watch. We weren't sure if it was an elaborate joke.

So shop encounters invariably become attritional battle of wits. Sometimes the zeal to sell drives out all the wit in a shopowner. I was entranced by a painted sculpture of a Mayan warrior. The shopowner sensed my approbation, and disregarding Mary's disapproval stepped brusquely between Mary and I to commence his sales pitch. Within minutes we left without buying.

Mary shrugged off any further entreaty on my part to turn back. Well, he couldn't locate the neck that turned the head, she snorted. Ultimately, our over-enthusiastic shopowner was spurned because he failed to win over my chief negotiator.

Below: behold, the neck which turns my head.

3. The commodification of just about everything

Mayan culture has received a considerable boost from the revenue brought to Atitlan by growing tourist interest and numbers. While this has sustained a cultural revival from the dark days of the civil war, the new value which the country has just begun to appreciate in its native people also bestows upon all things - even humanity - a price tag. Shoeshine boys, who I thought I'd only see in period dramas, patrol the streets with eyes glued to the ground. They saw only shoes, not those who wore them. My flip-flops disappointed a handful who immediately turned away to look for more polished customers.

Below (from top to bottom): Setting up shop before the heavenly gate - what are souls worth?; so I'm spurned for more polished customers by shoeshine boys, I wonder why.

4. Jenna's menagerie

At a neat little corner of Panajachel, Jenna runs a Bed and Breakfast together with her workshop and gallery where she displays both her own artwork and others' on consignment. A refurbished yurt in the yard provided a touch of luxury, though we opted for simple, cosy and inexpensive rooms where creaking floorboards announced every single movement. She has also raised an unlikely company of two cats and three dogs, the curious rapport between them the source of much fascination.

Below: Samson, one of Jenna's delightful duo of cats. I must emphasise that no animals were hurt in the photography below.

After Panajachel, we had an additional day in Antigua before flying back to Boston. It was our last new stop in Latin America. We had our fair share of the good, the bad and the funny. We may shake our heads and wag our fingers at deeds of questionable morality. But who are we to complain? The plain and simple truth is, we paid to come. We chose to come.

The Most Beautiful Lake In The World

Such was the claim made of Lago de Atitlan by Aldous Huxley. In Beyond the Mexique Bay, the writer compared Atitlan to the famous Lake Como in the Italian Lake District, which already touches on the limit of permissably picturesque, adding of Atitlan that it is Como with additional embellishments of several immense volcanoes. It really is too much of a good thing. Enough said?

If Antigua is Guatemala's beating tourist heart, then the accompanying cliche is that Lago de Atitlan is the shiny jewel in its crown. The lake was a scenic three-hour ride over winding mountain roads and rugged terrain, with vistas of green valleys and golden fields of ripening maize. People visit to lounge around (as we unexpectedly spent the whole time doing), climb volcanoes (which we meant to do but couldn't) and dive (not an option). There are 12 major settlements around the lake, just as many, it is said, as there were apostles. Our destination was Jaibalito, a tiny Kakchiquel Mayan village clinging on to a steep rocky hillside on the lake's northern shore.

Below: Scenes on the road - roadside souvenir stalls and our fill of volcano views - though these were taken when we were going back towards Antigua after my Atitlan spell. People, Guatemalans in fact, do actually buy these twig reindeer (massed to the right of the picture just below). The sight of wooden antlers wedged between blurred bodies on many passing motorcycles was not uncommon.

Most tourist shuttles terminate at the town of Panajachel (Pa-na-ah-chel, most accurately pronounced like a mighty sneeze), on the northeastern shore, from which lancha (speedboats) routes radiate to the many towns and villages scattered around the lake. We got off at the public docks, and half-expected to witness the inevitable carnage which ensues when zebras and wildebeests gather on the steep banks of the Mara River and crocodilian shadows lurk purposefully beneath its gray waters. The nightmare didn't materialise, there were berths enough for four boats, and passengers waited patiently inside. We were very nearly conned, though, by a tout who quoted us three times the regular fare to the docks at Jaibalito.

Below: Mary attempts to blend in on the lancha from Panajachel.

It was a smooth twenty-minute ride to the dock of La Casa del Mundo where we would stay for two nights. We were amongst the last passengers, and it being market day also the seats behind were occupied by the resplendence of Mayan women with their miscellaneous ware scattered around - large plastic pitchers, cartons of soft drink and brightly dyed fabric in contrastingly drab bags. The women conversed softly in their Mayan tongue, one of over twenty within a language family that didn't sound like anything I've heard before. Each uttered syllable was a brick in a wall before which I stood beside incomprehension.

La Casa del Mundo was built into a cliffside just east of the actual village of Jaibalito. Several flights of stone steps led us up to first the reception and then our room just above it. This was the room that was smaller than the bathroom in Chez Daniel. The view, however, brooked no comparison. From bed and balcony, we were met with each waking gaze with grace, majesty and power - the slumbering giants of Toliman and San Pedro above the shimmering water of Atitlan.

Below (top to bottom): La Casa del Mundo's private dock, launching pad for boat and bum alike; balconies rarely get any better than this.

Wide, breezy verandahs under leafy shade, equipped invitingly with deck chairs, hammocks and plenty of sunshine, screamed out for guests to simply do nothing. Which we did. There was one tiny spot of bother, though it still afforded us some mirth. The wind on Atitlan tends to pick up towards mid-day, and whilst we were there impish noontime easterlies whipped up an unruly broth close to shore which defied our efforts to keep ourselves dry.

Below: Fun in the sun, right by wind and water. It might not be noticeable, but the hammock in the second photograph below was wet too.

Being away from the hullabaloo in the populous areas of the lake does have its downside. While the small cafe on site serves a decent range of affordable options, dinner was an expensive communal affair. At US$16 a head, I expected something better than vegetables bruschetta. The closest alternative was a five-minute tramp to the waterfront Club Ven Aca just next to the village. I suppose you can't have both world-beating vistas and food at the same time without having to fork out wallet-beating prices.

Below (top to bottom): Portraits of a day - Morning reveals, Afternoon ravishes, Evenings refreshes and Night reposes.

And so indolence gnawed away at the hours. One night passed, then two, and the rest of our lives was placed firmly before us once more. Paradise on earth always has an expiry date, for erosive time leaves nothing unscathed. We caught a lancha back to Panajachel, our rucksacks and hearts heavier with each step hence which would bring us closer to home.

Five Arresting Volcano Views in Antigua

Antigua's beauty lies on its southern horizons - a landscape of exquisite simplicity. Three volcanoes loom like silent sentinels over the town. Agua (Water) stands aloof on the left, while Fuego (Fire) huddles behind Acatenango to the right. Agua and Fuego have temperaments as dissimilar as their names. Fuego counts amongst one of the most active volcanoes in Central America, frequently spewing small but observable amounts of ash and lava. Agua, on the other hand, is almost ominously calm with no recorded eruptions. The 1541 mud flows which claimed the life of Antigua's governess originated from a breach in the lake which once stood upon its crater, and which gave Agua its present name.

Agua, the nearest and most visible of the three volcanoes, also functions like a giant compass. Except in this case true north is south. Amongst Daniel's directions to get from anywhere in town to Chez Daniel was the rather quaint instruction to start by walking with your nose towards the big volcano. Having been assured that it was near impossible to get lost in Antigua, we could therefore devote the rest of the day to savouring the volcano views on every turn. In this post, we show you where to get the best.

Below: Mary goes public with her opinions of volcanoes.

1. Tenedor del Cerro

Meaning Fork on a Hill, we would never have heard of this place if not for Howard's recommendation. And what a recommendation. Owned by the Hotel Casa Santo Domingo, the compound contains a restaurant, several art galleries, an aviary and an outdoor conference centre. Its hilltop location offers sweeping views of the Panchoy Valley, Antigua's three volcanoes and their orbiting vultures - the best of any vantage point still within easy reach of the town centre.

Hotel Casa Santo Domingo runs a complimentary shuttle from the hotel. This was like those garishly painted hop-on hop-off trams one sees in zoos, except ours was fashioned from a lorry. In fact, I'm not sure if Mary enjoyed the ride more than the views from the top. Walk through the restaurant to get to the terrace for least obstructed views of the volcanoes. The food isn't half bad too - Mary loved the sirloin.

Above (top to bottom): Manicured views of maleficence, from left to right - Agua, Fuego and Acatenango; Fuego's day eruptions are less spectacular than its night ones, but no less impressive.

Below (top to bottom): Tenedor del Cerro's life-like wallpaper on a glass sliding door which can be moved to reveal the exact same vista; a black vulture surveys its surroundings.

2. Casa Santa Domingo

While you are waiting for the shuttle for the Tenedor del Cerro, why not take a little walk round the sumptuous grounds of the Hotel Casa Santo Domingo. Once, it was one of the richest monasteries in the New World, its grounds even containing an artificial lake for boating and fishing. These grounds today house a five-star hotel, a museum, a lonely macaw and possibly the poshest bus stop in all of Central America.

Below (top to bottom): enjoying the views while waiting for our shuttle, wondering why people ever charge for wifi; marionettes ponder Christ.

3. El Tanque de la Union

Just a block south of the Parque Central is a choice rest stop in the middle of town. A place in colonial times for woman to literally wash their dirty laundry in public, the adjacent plaza and its graceful yellow arches today are a popular meeting point for guatemaltecos. And on a clear day, the still water honours Agua's near-perfect profile with a second symmetry.

4. Arco de Santa Catalina

The defining landmark of Antigua, many come to admire Agua beneath its gilded arch, and to enjoy a fleeting moment of Man's hubristic subordination of Gaia. The arch was first built as a passageway for nuns of the Santa Catalina convent to cross the street to a school opposite without literally stepping out of cloister (ie. being seen on the street).

Reflecting the precinct's position as the tourist heart of Antigua, handicraft shops also line the street running beneath the arch. The pick of the bunch is Nim Pot, a treasure trove of Guatemalan handicrafts from traditional Mayan costumes to wooden effigies of Guatemalan saints. Peddlers patrolling the street outside offer similar wares - shawls, table runners, doormats. Prices are negotiable, though their persistence seem not to be (word of fairness: they still aren't pushy).

5. Your hotel terrace

If your hotel has a terrace, chances are it has an unobstructed view of Agua. Chances also are, at the end of a day's walking, another sight of Agua lording it over every landmark is the last thing on your mind. However, it does offer the luxury of an unhurried appreciation, when you feel like it.

Below: How much of Agua is revealed depends on prevailing conditions. In all our time in Guatemala, we were very fortunate to experience our only cloudy day just as we were preparing to head to the airport.

Remember one thing though, the terracotta tiles on the roof will not bear your weight.