Zunil, Guatemala. November 22, 2009.
Business and pleasure. Out of Quetzaltenango, a twisting road cuts east through a pass and links up with the Pacific highway at the agricultural village, Zunil. It was a spur-of-the-moment visit for me. I wasn't expecting the frenetic afternoon I wandered into.
Zunil saves its bottom land for growing and builds its breeze-block dwellings, many unpainted, up the steep surrounding hillsides. Quetzaltenango was clear and bright, but here the clouds were drifting down the hillsides, filling the air with fog. It would have felt gloomy if not for the buzz of market day on the bridge and the bright Latino music wafting down from above.
The bus stops at the near end of the bridge pictured above, so the first thing I had to do was thread my way through the jam of farm trucks and vegetable peddlers taking up every square inch of bridge deck that wasn't allotted for vehicle passage. The powerful smell of green onions was almost tear-inducing.
I made it to the other side dodging trucks and stepping over the biggest carrots you ever saw. The final section of the bridge was reserved for flowers, with great floral piles, mostly white, but every other color as well, spread on blankets. The pictures I have didn't seem to make this final cut.
After the bridge, I walked a block, turned right, and followed a curving road uphill to the blinding white church. The roadways of Zunil are paved with large blocks of stone, roughly cut into cubes, the spaces left by the irregular work filled with shards and slivers. One wants to proceed gingerly on rubber tires. For newcomers, even walking requires special care.
The village is small, but they were thinking big for the fiesta, as the stacks of PA speakers will attest. I caught a set by a pink-jacketed Marimba orchestra playing pounding traditional Latin numbers. The marimba is very popular in this country - this band had two large versions of the instrument, one on each side of the drummer, manned by three players each. The darkness of the stage and contrasty conditions left me with no defining pictures of the performance.
The main square in front of the church was being filled by whole families of local folk pouring down the narrow alleys. At times, this whole roadway was jammed with fiesta-goers, but I liked this less populated photo the best.
A brass band took up station a block above the square to serenade the marchers. It may not look like it, but these guys could really rock out. There's something infectious about tuba-as-bass in the open air. That trumpet player giving me the evil eye is also glancing back at me in the top picture. Maybe he was offended by my picture taking or maybe that's his music face. The smoke in the background is from strings of firecrackers.
I stayed until a gaggle of Europeans showed up shooting flash pictures. My status as token Norteno had expired, I figure. The dour-looking peanut seller turned out to be a good-humored gentleman. He sold me a newspaper cone filled with the roasted legumes, then I re-crossed the bridge and rode back to Xela.
