
Guatemala. It still seems real. I can still smell it, the hint of pinesmoke in the air, the sweetness of the high altitude oxygen. I loved being in a country that seemed in a way unconscious of tourism. It was such a contrast to the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, where Bill and I spent a wonderful ten days last March. There, everyone's sort of laying for you; everyone has an angle, and they're looking, for the most part, to separate you from your pesos. In Guatemala, we were ignored, or gazed at curiously, or engaged on a friendly level, but not as potential prospects. It was great.
There was this feeling that the Mayan culture was not just being preserved as a curiosity for tourists, but that it reigns supreme, and is healthy and ongoing. People weren't dressing up for show; they dress like this all the time. I would love to have a closet full of huipils and skirts like these.

Here are some coffee buyers in a village along Lake Atitlan.

And here's a cemetery in a mountain village. The dead remain part of everyday life; there's a lot of attention paid to lighting candles and replacing flowers on the gaily painted aboveground tombs. I'd like to be here on the Day of the Dead!

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