Well, the last few days have been more tranquilo, since we decided to enjoy the geological splendor of the surrounding hillsides, cliffs and, of course the lake, and stopped worrying about from where or when the next hussler will pop out of the brambles. We also did a fair amount of meditation and soul searching, trying to think about why we came here in the first place, and remind ourselves of the few lessons already learned. Yesterday, with nearly empty pockets and a liter of agua, Heather and I set off in a easterly direction along a dirt road that, ultimately, turns to a narrow foot path. We winded along the steep hillsides, high above the waterline, past modest homes and farms with wicked views of the volcanos. And the ever present, or under construction, gringo houses that seem to defy gravity, multitired and glued to the sides of cliffs with what usually appears like a splendid little bay all to themselves. As we´ve said before, the disparity between the haves and have nots really are exagerated in the vacations spots, and stand out even more in a country like Guatemala. The first new village we came to, forgive me but I think it was called Tzunia or something, was nestled into the notch of a canyon, sitting a few hundred feet above the water, with stark and steep cliffs stretching probably another thousand feet above that. The women dress differently there compared to San Marcos, most with a black skirt and simple embroidered red blouse, topped off with a colorful head rap. We made our way up into the village and were gazed upon by the entire community. Heather tried a few Holas here, but it seemed like most people did not speak Spanish. By the lake, there were a few fisherman in their dugout canoes, and some women washing their clothes on the rocks, as is common here, flushing the soap out into the lake. The trail climbed vigorously from here, at times just a foot wide, and one could easily have slid down the hillside a halfmile. Needless to say, there were more stunning vistas and high moutain farms. It was somewhere along here that an idigenous woman and her little girl caught up to us and asked Heather for a quetzal. Now, my friend Derek might have said fuck off right there, but when the lady has a machete in her hand resting on her head and isn´t taking no for an answer, the simplest thing to do was for me to smile and fork over the quetzal, which I´d been saving for precisely that situation. They smiled and moved on, and believe it, we looked at each other and actually smiled too, thinking maybe this is more like a toll. Eventually, about a half mile from the village of our destination, Heather finally succombed to the heat, and we had to sit down in the shade for a while. We´d already run out of water, so she was bit washed out. She recovered nicely in the breeze, and then we made our way to the tiny village of Jabalito. It was amazing the place was still standing. There were signs of the tremendous mudslides and flooding from November´s hurricanes, the open remains of a church lay in the gulley pit of rocks. But of course, the town seemed be going about their usual business. With business including women carrying 60lb rocks on their backs with a small carrying strap pressed against their foreheads. Just a little to the east of the village we found Casa de Dos Mundos, the fancy hotel perched miraculously on the side of the cliff, built by people from Alaska. We finally settled down here for some great nachos and water. And then, eventually, sauntered to one of the cozy nooks by the lake where we rested from our journey and contemplated a swim in the choppy water. Two hours later, we took our last 20 quetzals and caught a tricky, wet boat ride back, which was probably over capacity by at least 10 passengers. Never a dull moment here.