Guatemala is my Tanzania of Central America. Not so much because of their shared obsession with fried chicken (which is massive). Nor because everyone here also assumes that New Zealand is part of Europe (which they do until, grudgingly I point out our proximity to Australia, which, shudder, is usually taken as ´part of Australia´). Nor because you get addressed as "Hello banana!" or "Hello taxi!" (which mankes me feel as if I could be strolling the streets of Tanga). But, because Guatemaltecas are the friendliest, more genuinely nice people I think I have ever met. It am particularly amazed that, even here in San Pedro, where tourists are far from a rarity, people not only greet you as you pass them, but seem genuinely interested in how you are and what you think of their town.

Its the start of week 4 here and my Spanish is trucking along. Currently enjoying the thrills of the imperfect subjunctive, which, thanks to my lovely teacher Juanita, seems to be much less hideous than what I found with French. I have proudly finished my first book in Spanish, 'El Principito' (although the French guy next to me on the bus did not seem to impressed at my choice of language to read it in). I thought I was quite clever striking up conversations in Spanish with anyone I met yesterday when I ventured across the lake to Panajachel, another town sharing in the stunning lakeside-mountain surrounded-green hills scenery... until, I asked the guy making my coffee what the name of the song was that was playing, as I wanted to buy a CD to keep listening to Spanish when I am back in NZ, only to have him point out that he is unsure of the name, as its in Italian... oops!

I am reminded again about the random assortment of people you meet while travelling. I love it! From the 'mature backpackers' who stroll around in their khaki trousers, floppy beige hats and vests with enough pockets to confuse a truckload of pickpockets to those coming here to partake in 'rebirthing sessions' (which I still don´t quite understand). At my school there is a guy who has ridden his motorbike down from Alaska, a cyclist who has come all the way from Arazona, another cyclist who has stopped off on his way from Canada to Argentina, 18 year old gap-year goers, 60 year old 'I think Spanish might be a good way to start my retirement' students and me, neither a long distance cyclist nor a 60 year old nor about to be reborn.

I am staying with a wonderful host family: Pablo, Maria and their two kids, Juan and Jessica. The kids are hilarious and keep me practicing at all times, with the usual tendency to ask questions about everything, to the point where I feel somewhat like a vocal diary set in the present - "I am now walking to my room" "I am brushing my teeth" "I am not sure why I am wearing these pants, maybe because they are the only ones I have..." You get the point. Monday to Friday I have 4 hours of class in the morning. The school is set right next to the lake and each teacher-student pair has a little cabana to work in. I blame any blank moments (there are many) on the amazing views from my desk - volcanos topped with mist, fisherman out on the lake, coffee beans being laid out to dry.

While travelling around here, with the smiling locals, the numerous other travellers here to visit or to study, the peaceful surroundings, the abundant cheap and delicious food, the cafes with real cappucinos, it is often easy to ignore what is beyond the surface. They showed a film at the school the other night: Innocent Voices. A film portraying the horrors of the civil war in El Salvador in the 1980s. It was intense. A truely amazing film; incredibly talented actors, incredibly beautiful music, an incredibly moving ture story line and, incredibly sad. I returned to my host family after attempted to pull myself together (not that easy following a film about 11 year old kids being stolen to fight for the army, or being shot for attempting to leave) and sat down to have dinner with my host mother, Maria. It was a massive wake up call. She asked me what I thought of the film. I explained how I found it not only sad, but almost difficult to believe and definitely difficult to imagine (one of the numerous reasons why we are so lucky to grow up in New Zealand). This lead on to a discussion of the civil war of Guatemala. As I sat there, listening to her story, her father being taken away, soldiers banging on the door demanding food and shooting any resisters, of curfews and constant fear, I was sharply reminded of the importance of scratching beneath the surface of the places we have the oportunity to visit. Yes, Guatemala is an amazing tourist destination. Its beautiful, has abundant activities to keep even the most 'do-er' of travellers entertained and has a fascinating history (why else do people flock to Mayan ruins or roam the ancient streets of Antigua?). But how much of this history do we really try to learn about? It is always so much easier to not listen to stories like Maria's. They are excruciatingly painful to hear and to attempt to imagine. But like was said at the memorial museum I vistited in Rwanda, it is crucial that we know, so that people like you and me, if there is a next time, will not stand by and watch it happen.