The coolest thing about Central America is that you don’t have to go very far or search very long for an extreme adventure. Take Antigua, Guatemala for example. As the colonial capital of Central America, Antigua has retained a remarkably European aesthetic and attitude. It was easily the most populated and "modern" city that we had seen in weeks. For the last days of our vacation, we wanted to splurge and be tourists for a change. Modern comforts included hot water, potable water, toilet seats, toilet paper, and stores with fixed prices. But don’t let the Spanish style architecture fool you. Just over the Casa Gobierno, only an hour outside of the centro was Volcan Pacaya, a live volcano. Naturally, this was something we had to do.
Getting to the site was just a matter of making a reservation with one of the many of travel agencies lining the cobblestone streets. There is a nominal park entry fee, but for a whopping $7 you get a guide to accompany you to the summit. For an extra $1, a small village child will sell you a walking stick. Incidentally, both of these expenses are money well spent. While the guide wasn’t particularly gregarious or eager to share tidbits of information, he was familiar with the geography and led us up the path of least resistance. That’s also where the walking sticks came in handy. That hike was tough. Now aside from short legs and a height disadvantage, I consider myself to have an above average level of fitness. Nevertheless, I found myself breathing heavily as we marched the steep uphill incline. I don’t handle elevation well, so the higher we rose, the more water I surreptitiously sipped from my Camelbak (on a sidenote, for a whopping low price of $31.13, it was one of the best travel investments I have ever made).
After an hour of huffing, puffing, and burning calves, we emerged at a beautiful “Sound of Music” like clearing. It was gorgeous – green grass, clear blue sky, fresh mountain air. The clear day gave us a great view of the volcano cone which was happily spewing smoke. Naturally, we took a plethora of group photos to commemorate our accomplishment. After a few fleeting minutes of glorious triumph, however, our guide interrupts our celebration to inform us that we have another hour to go. This portion of the hike would be the “hardest part.” Wha-buh-wha? Holy good God. It was at this point we lost a few members of our party who retreated back to the vans. I had half a mind to join, but I refused to be outdone by a pasty British guy with two bad knees and a stray dog who was hopping the rocks with disgusting ease (see below). Grudgingly, we re-laced our boots and continued.
The ground shifted dramatically as we neared the base of the lava flow, a dynamic land mass in a constant state of flux (it is an active volcano after all). The craggy terrain was filled with loose black rocks and jagged fissures custom-designed for twisting ankles and spraining knees. On top of that, the first time our walking sticks hit the black surface, the air was filled with a troubling, undeniably hollow sound. Essentially, we were walking on an oversized pumice stone. Needless to say, we tread lightly. It felt very Mad Max – a motley crew of international stragglers trekking through this post-apocalyptic barrenness. There were points where you could see random spurts of flame or feel heat radiating from the porous rock. The guidebook warned us to wear sturdy shoes with thick soles, since it was known to occasionally melt rubber.
Sure enough, when we finally reached the crater, there was the undeniable glow of molten lava. It was pretty remarkable (and humbling!) to be in the presence of one of the most primal, deadliest forces of nature – it’s fiery red glare defiant against the black rock, it’s slow, wicked crackle as it consumed yet another rock or boulder. So here we are, standing in the presence of a destructive, primordial ooze that has leveled civilizations. Besides snapping a cornucopia of pictures, we did the most natural thing. Like a 6-year old boy who found roadkill, we poked it with a stick. Additionally, in anticipation for this climactic moment, we had brought a bag of marshmallows. Nothing like processed corn syrup and gelatin to bring you closer to nature. Mmm… tastes like Earth’s core.
While roasting marshmallows on lava was certainly a memorable moment, I shudder to think about how inherently dangerous the entire activity was. Even in posing for a picture, Zack singed-off some of his body hair. If somebody were to injure themselves on the climb, or even worse in the lava crater (which happens occasionally), there was no telling how long it would take to get help. The guides were just local villagers who had not demonstrated the slightest hint of wilderness/first aid training. If we were lucky, one of them may have been carrying a cellphone.
I close with one final observation. In absolutely none of our adventures (swimming with sharks and stingrays, hiking with poisonous snakes and wild cats, spelunking through ancient Mayan burial grounds, and now prodding red-hot lava with wooden sticks) were we asked to sign any sort of waiver or medical release. Obviously, some of the more high-end institutions may have considered safety and liability (my dive shop included… I draw the line when it concerns oxygen), but we were knowingly “roughing it” in very poor, isolated areas. Although we both had the foresight to purchase traveler’s insurance beforehand, it was undeniable that an acutely high-level of risk was involved. I loved every minute of it, but yeah… Central America is pretty fucking extreme.
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