Ez and me, enjoying the view half way up the hill.

It’s a long walk up the hill on the road to Tzunana (Tsoo-nah-nah).  John lives at the very top.  Ezra says it’s a mountain, but really, it’s just a big hill at the foot of the mountain that runs along the lake, creating an impressive cliff view of the turquoise water below.

We met John on the boat headed to Panajachel last week.  He’s a jovial Canadian, in his sixties, who was delighted to tell us all about his recent purchase of a derelict RV in the Pasajcap community up the hill from us.

Pasajcap is a gated international community of mostly renters.  It seems nice enough.  We looked into renting there, but it’s not for us.  He and Gabe hit it off and we learned that it was his first day back on the lake in a year.  Like us, he fell in love and has returned.  He bought the RV to retire in next year.  Since the boat ride, Gabe has been pestering us to invite him to dinner.

Tony and I ran into John in the puebla this week when we walked in for veggies and water.  He was standing, with a pile of bags and a tense look, next to the tuk-tuk stand.  We chatted for a while and invited him to dinner.

“That would be GREAT… once I start feeling better.  I decided this morning that I had to take the boat over to the pharmacy, even if it killed me!  I got some antibiotics and I hope I’m feeling better soon.”

Poor fellow, he didn’t know not to drink the water out of his tap. Upon further investigation, he found that the sewer pipe for his camper simply dumped on the ground underneath the vehicle.  He was a little non-plussed.

The mountains are covered with bushes, eight feet tall, covered in these flowers

Hence the hike up the hill.  Gabe and Ez and I set off yesterday afternoon with a container of chicken and rice soup, a hot loaf of bread and a little jelly jar filled with some of our homemade yogurt on top of some local honey.  Hopefully the combination will help mend his insides.

Gabe and Ez didn’t make it.  Being boys, they were distracted by two blue green lizards that rustled in the brush next to the dirt road and soon they were scampering along the steep hillside trying to catch one.  It crossed my mind to say, “Don’t do that, you’ll fall on your face,” but I didn’t.

I had to walk back about twenty yards when I heard the heavy thump and Gabe hollering.  He was laying in the dust, face down.  A mayan fellow stepped around him without breaking his stride and continued up the hill.

The root won.  Gabe lost.  He scraped his head, his nose, gashed beneath his eye, split his lip, scraped his hands and his knee was bleeding badly.  He stood up, covered from head to toe in the silt like dust that coats everything in the dry season.  “Wow, Gabe, you look like you’ve been in a bar fight!” I joked.  He gave me the stink eye and grumbled, “You should see the other guy.”

Ezra was none to thrilled to have to escort his injured brother back down the hill to home.

I was happy enough to continue up the hill with my basket in silence.

Some of the flowers I picked

John was not home, which I took to be a good sign for his returning health.  The gardener went in search of “Ernesto” who turned out to be an older man with beautiful shoulder length grey hair and a dog named Elvis.  I handed the meal through the gap in the fence and he promised to deliver it to John’s trailer for me.  I worried about the hot bread and Elvis.

A blooming vine on one of the gates

I had a lovely, quiet walk back down the hill.  A truckload full of avocados in giant mesh bags with boys sitting on top of them roared past kicking up dust clouds behind them.  I picked flowers to fill my empty basket and walked slowly.  Quiet is a rare thing.