Travel is meant to expand one’s horizons. In all ways, we experience the people, the place, their culture, clothing, food and customs. Then there is the unexpected moment when our spirits take flight and we soar beyond our own senses and imaginations. When this happens, a magical moment arrives and we have landed in a mysterious new land. Our everyday lives dissolve and we float, effortlessly, in a new current of life. This is a soul’s journey.
Interior moments such as these are very personal and their rewards provide insight into whom we are, where we are and where we want to go. When traveling with a group we must stay within reach of ourselves so as to not miss a moment such as this one I will share with you.
135 Steps to Lago Atitlán
Immersing myself into the cool morning waters of Lake Atitlán was a baptism of sorts.
A few brave souls had decided to descend to the Santa Catarina lakeshore after breakfast the next morning. I counted myself among the willing. How would the morning weather find me, like my favorite Spanish phrase, “Como amaniciste?” How did the dawn find you? From my hillside bedroom window I studied the lake’s surface at daybreak, alert for signs of discouragement. There were none. All was in alignment, but not so for my companions. I set out alone.
With sparse instructions to the lakeside private gate, my portal to this morning’s offering, I hoped to find assistance along the way. Perhaps it was my state of mind, perhaps luck, but a smiling Mayan face appeared on the road and the doors began to open, one by one. As the gate clanged shut, I looked out to the water’s edge below. I breathed fresh, moist air and carefully began the descent down a steep stone stairway which provided rest benches every 15 steps or so. At one turn I made use of a bench adorned with a bronzed plaque memorializing the death of a certain person and “those who were with him.” Hmm, I thought. Did he die right here? Climbing these very steps?
I continued down, 135 steps in all, to find a green grassy patch and a sombra and simple wooden chairs to the side. The grassy patch appeared to fall off into the lake, and I anticipated a hop into the water. As I grew nearer, three helpful stone steps to the water revealed themselves. I sat on top step, alone and pleased.
“Maria Candelaria” is a classic 1943 Mexican film, starring Dolores del Rio as a young peasant Indian flower grower, set in the Xochimilco transportation canals of 1909. To survive, Maria would load a tiny wooden canoe with her precious flowers and paddle to market in the heart of Mexico City, now the Zocolo.
As I became one with the water’s still surface, to my left, appearing around a point, came my Maria Candelaria of Lake Atitlán. A woman weaver was bringing her wares to market in the neighboring village of Panajachel. I sat there in a sort of reverie watching her canoe edge forward with every stroke of her paddle, noting the perfect directional bead she had drawn toward the wooden pier far off in the distance.
Once she was out of sight, I determined the time was right to immerse myself and that my baptism had begun. To the right of my three stone steps to the water sat a boathouse. With the rainy season in full force the lake’s water level had risen, and what appeared to once be a cement dock was completely submerged.
I was tempted to peel off my Speedo swimsuit and enjoy the caress of pure, clean water, but at the moment of reckoning I could hear the chatting of two young boys clearing an adjacent field. Hmmm, better not to lose the Speedo, I thought. Then, low flying ducks cleared the tops of the shoreline’s cattail reeds. Now, one foot was in the lake water, a little cool. Then two feet, calves, knees and then a push off from the steps and the briefest of chill overcame my skin and disappeared instantaneously. Without salt, lake water does not provide natural buoyancy, yet it was so deliciously soft, so irresistibly inviting, that I moved out deeper into the clear water. Breast stroking my way toward the cattails, I could now see the young boys working the field. One saw me and called out, “Su Bano?” Your bath? I answered, “Sí, claro que sí!”
I swam, I floated on my back, and I watched the sun’s golden morning rays dancing on the wooden boathouse. I heard sounds of yet other birds, I heard my own breathing and thought, “If I had my video camera, this moment would be worthy of a “Sunday Morning” closing segment on CBS. I weighed what my companions were having for breakfast with how this moment could be so incredibly perfect. I was grateful and in love with the universe, nature and the healing water of this crater-made lake. What more did I need?
How much time passed in this meditation, I’ll never know. Eventually I made my way back to the comforting lakeside steps. I returned to the top step and gave thanks for this morning. Before Lake Atitlán was ready to release me, in case I had missed something important, another moment appeared.
The submerged cement pier was now more visible than before. I could see through the water’s surface five, perhaps 12 feet below. At that depth, my eyes made out two submerged square cement shapes that by now appeared to be open doorways to my soul. The lake asked me, in its ever-quiet way, “Which door will you take? Which path will you travel? Where would you like to go, Cynthia?”
Cynthia Buzzard
