With such a gloomy landscape outside the graffiti-covered walls of the dirty terminal, I approach two backpackers who quietly try to find comfort on the worn out navy blue plastic benches and who confirm that a transfer to Antigua at 07:00 am has been prearranged for them.
Once their driver disrupt the somnolence of the building by calling all of his ‘pre booked passengers’ in the typically loud Latin American way, I bag myself and my Chinese travel companion an immediate transfer out of the Guatemalan capital.

What I see through the misty window when leaving the city centre, is a concrete jungle that extends over steep mountain ridges which cut a very narrow valley whilst within its boundaries, a constant race through congested avenues over flooded with loud colourful ‘chichen buses’ and road-unworthy cars takes place.
On every sidewalk, street vendors fight for their own space in the Guatemalan battle and set up precarious shacks selling every possible item imaginable to morning commuters at a time in which a hazy sun rises over the sinuous motorways.
Shortly after crowning the top of the narrow valley, a a kamikaze-style descent through what I can only describe as the ‘longest roller-coaster highway I’ve seen in my life’ finally lands us in Antigua Guatemala.
In a matter of seconds, the chaos of the Guatemalan capital is replaced by a landscape of colonial low rising houses whilst the minibus’ suspension struggles to cope with rows and rows of stone-layered streets.

Antigua Guatemala looks like the perfect postcard town. A hideaway from the bustling chaos of the capital in which ancient architectural jewels lay in rows of wide streets organised in a perfect square grid around a main square and, almost like an imaginary children storybook, surveilled by two tall entities: The Volcan de Agua (Volcano of Water) and the Volcan de Fuego (Volcano of Fire).

I avoid the ‘party hostels’ and book myself in at the Three Monkeys Hostel, a large red-bricked colonial house. One word: peace.
Despite arriving very early and our rooms not being ready, we are invited to use the facilities (read lay on a hammock and sleep) and, without sounding cliche, to ‘feel at home’.

The constant moving around of the past days has me craving for some proper rest, something that probably makes me appreciate the quaintness of this venue a little more than expected.
The pleasure of relaxed hours laying on colorful hammocks watching people come and go, the copious sips of excellent and free Guatemalan coffee fetched from the home-like kitchen or the sunny bare concrete terrace in which I  spend hours laying shirtless on, enjoying the cold mountain sunshine whilst looking at the Volcan de Fuego mischievously releasing smoke trails behind the inactive and pristine Volcan de Agua.

Antigua Guatemala (literally Ancient Guatemala) served as the capital of the Spanish Colony of Guatemala which covered a territory between the Mexican state of Chiapas and current Panama.
The city was completely destroyed by the powerful San Miguel and Santa Maria earthquakes in 1717, thus the capital was subsequently moved to where it lies now, some 40 kilometers away.

It is said that Antigua Guatemala in the times of its maximum splendour, was one of the three prettiest cities in the Spanish Indies, a statement that could still be argued until now and a thought that crosses every visiting person’s mind whilst sight tries to take every single colorful facade in, hearing invigorates at the sound of small stone-carved fountains splashing towards the blue skies and smell rejoices with the aromas of freshly cut watermelons and mangoes sold everywhere across the street.
In this city, the whitewashed cathedral stands proudly overlooking at the main square, rebuilt in a simple architectural style after learning the lessons of past natural catastrophes.
Derelict thick walls that once proudly worked as sanctuaries of Catholic faith have now been overgrown by bushes and weed, a testimony of a colonial past that still haunts the present (and the future) of this idyllic town village at every corner.

In Antigua, there is no concrete plan of what to see or what to visit, but instead, a number of days are spent with regular visits to the local market for sumptuous breakfasts of fresh vegetables and omelettes crowned with the ‘oh-so-good’ white local cheese, followed by long strolls through stone-layered streets and crafted archways (for sunshine protection), morning naps, afternoon naps and recurrent visits to the Central American food joint just two houses down the road from the hostel for cheap and rich pupusas and tacos.
A visit to Antigua would not be complete without a hike up the hill in which a cross has been planted as a symbol of strong religious ties, in a spot from which the square grid that defines the town down below seems to merge with the pristine Volcan de Agua, momentarily covered by a dense late afternoon fog.

Antigua is the place in which my Chinese travel companion sets course North to Mexico and the place in which the wonders of backpacking open new possibilities, new people, new random conversations which range from discussing the selection of hostels in Toronto, to which country has the best seafood in South America, or a long afternoon laying on hammocks, sipping on strong coffee and listening to the heartbreaking stories experienced whilst volunteering in the Guatemalan countryside by a blond British girl.

Much needed laundry was done and energies were replenished with, surprisingly, the simple pleasures of a set routine (and copious amounts of naps).
A few mornings later, I set course South East, sharing a white minivan packed with spoiled (and somehow obnoxious) young backpackers for a grueling five-hour journey descending from the fresh mountains to the ‘Hot dry belt’ region, reaching the border town of Hachadura shortly after midday.

A queue is formed just outside of the white van at the Guatemalan side where our passports are stamped and we are waved out of the country.
Shortly after crossing an empty bridge, a friendly border policeman wearing a spotless blue-white uniform salutes me, checks for previous stamps on my passport and, despite the 39 degrees Celsius temperature blasting outside of his well-lit counter, welcomes me to the Republic of El Salvador, the smallest country in Central America.