Lords Of Atitlan

My photographic journey in Guatemala began roughly on the spot where I now sit writing, behind the Isla del Gato and its margins, Patopoc, looking out across the historic bay of Santiago Atitlán. On the opposite shore, I view the colossal cerro (bluff) Chutinamit guarding the entrance to Atitlán. It looms over the bay and passing launches but is itself dwarfed by volcán San Pedro (Chutchuk) towering in the background. Chutinamit was the traditional home of the Tzutujiles from their migration from Mexico in the 11th century B.C. until their relocation by the Spaniards to Santiago shortly after the Conquest.

Tall waves of giant sedge, or tul, engulf the isle and the shoreline: one continuous band of gold for the first foot above the water emerging into long verdant green shoots, again crowned in gold. Through the wave of water, tul, light, and reflection, dozens of fishermen in tiny dug-out cayucos ply the waters of the bay from its mouth to the town that literally means "end of the waters", Chacayá. The life of the fisherman is precarious, not only for the meager earnings, but because the waters of Nim Ya (Lake Atitlán) can turn from tranquility to tempest in a breath and most fishing takes place at night. I imagine that many mystical and metaphysical interpretations of the lake largely owe to the fisherman, heading out across the waters in the black of night, rowing back out of the mist at first dawn. Less dramatic, yet as plentiful, is land-based fishing all around the lake. Adults and children of either sex in almost equal numbers cast their nets and lines from small cliffs, the shoreline, docks or washing stones, or by simply wading out into the water.

That first day 4 ½ years ago, I walked down to the lake in the early morning glow. The lake was serene. It being December, the lower half of volcán San Pedro was golden with dried stalks and leaves from its countless milpas (slash-and-burn cornfields). Among the rushes, fishermen in cayucos sat hunched over their nets in the placid, reflective waters. The rising sun cast a reflection of the whole upon the bay: the fishermen; the golden cone of volcán San Pedro dappled with green from the tul encircling the isle and mainland; and golden spires of cut tul bound to dry stacked upright. Two men approached in cayucos to load the tul to transport to Atitlán, where it would be processed into petates, multi-purpose mats which serve as mattresses scattered on dirt floors in homes throughout the area. The men – Francisco and Diego – gave me permission to shoot, and I`ve been shooting ever since.