Encounter at Santiago Atitlán

We were at a hotel at the edge of a lake in the middle of Guatemala. A family trip to the rain forests to escape Los Angeles’ tepid winter. A seven day trip across the country.

On this day we found ourselves on the shore of Lake Atitlán at the base of a nearby volcano and boarded a square raft with a mechanical motor and headed out to a village on the opposite coast at the base of another nearby volcano. Two days a week, this island opened itself to visitors, selling arts and crafts, and encouraging tourism.

In front of me was a young girl, a little shorter than myself. She spoke in rapid Spanish, excited with a wide grin that showed off her teeth. My Spanish being non-existent, I had no idea what she was saying. So she spoke to my father instead.

They had a small back and forth and then she grabbed my hand.

My father had a wry smile on his face. A genuine, fatherly, smile. A
rarity when it came to my dad.

“Go with her,” he said, “I’ll find you later?”

And so we left the bazaar, away from my mother, father and brother, into the village itself. We moved quickly, her hand clasped in mine, rushing to show me something. We arrived at a small home with a small wooden gate.

The young girl opened it and let me in, showing me things in her yard. A table. A chair. A rusted bike. She continued to speak excitedly, looking for me to respond, not reading the confusion on my face. I wanted to go back to my family, worried that they may not find me.

As that worry set in, I saw her wide eyes looking me over. I wanted to talk to her, to understand what was going on. But the linguistic barrier was clear, and eventually silence set in.

From a distance I heard my father yell “Kami! Where are you?”

So we followed his voice, eventually finding him. The young girl spoke to my dad.

“She says she’s never seen red hair like yours before. She wants you to stay here with her”

I looked at my dad, who again smiled wryly.

“Do you want to stay here with her?”

I was about to yell no, but my father cut me off and began talking to her again. Their conversation was animated, lasted for a moment, and resulted in her dejectedly walking away, waving a sad goodbye before disappearing back into the village.

“I told her you couldn’t stay. That you were too young…” he paused briefly, trying to suppress a laugh, “She asked how old you are. I told her you’re twelve.”

“Why was she upset?” I asked.

“She thought you were twenty and she wanted to marry you.”

“How old was she?”

“Nineteen,” he laughed.

Somewhere in Guatemala, on the coast of Lake Atitlan, in the village of Santiago, is a forty-nine year old pygmy woman that could have been my wife...