Hola amigos! Welcome to Latin Destinations!
Lately, while DXing I have often found myself drawn to 2390.
Guatemalan La Voz de Atitlan has been putting in a signal here most
nights, at times good enough to rival stations on 60 meters.
Their programming is happy and festive; several nights I've
listened as long as 45 minutes. Of course many Latin stations
have festive programming, but La Voz de Atitlan's is different
because behind it is the rebirth of a town and a people. Not long
ago there was no festivity in the town of Santiago Atitlan.
Lake Atitlan is the heart of Guatemala's western highlands, home
to several million Mayan Indians. The lake is a beautiful blue
and is surrounded by lush vegetation and steep mountains,
including three volcanos practically on its banks. On the north
shore is Panajachel, an Indian village transformed into a tourist
mecca. Travelers, mainly European, from vagabonding 'hippies' to
wealthy jet-setters come here for the view, the climate, and the
wonderful Indian handicrafts. Although Lake Atitlan only measures
about 5x10 miles, its shores are dotted with villages of three
distinct Mayan tribes. On the west, north, and east banks are
Quiches and Cakchiquels, two of the largest Mayan groups, whose
lands stretch across much of central and western Guatemala. The
south shore is home to the tiny 27,000 member Tzutuhil group.
Their main town is Santiago Atitlan.
Since the early 1960s, a small scale guerilla war has been fought
in Guatemala's western highlands. At first it was just a few
bands of renegade Marxist army officers and college students. But
in the late 1970s their numbers were gradually enlarged as over a
thousand Mayans joined them. Thousands of soldiers were sent to
fight the guerillas and western Guatemala became a war zone. As
some Guatemalan generals have admitted, they considered it more
like occupying a foreign country than protecting part of their
own. The officers and most soldiers were ladinos and didn't trust
the Indians. Just the fact that the Indians spoke their own
languages, which the army couldn't understand, was seen as a
threat. The situation was made worse by rightwing extremists who
believed that the Catholic Church and other organizations working
to help the Mayans were agents of the guerillas. Across Guatemala
death squads began kidnapping and murdering Church and community
leaders.
On October 21, 1980, a batallion of soldiers arrived to garrison
Santiago Atitlan. Just after midnight on October 24, Gaspar
Culan, the manager of La Voz de Atitlan, was abducted from his
home by a group of masked men. A few days later his tortured body
was found along a roadside. On November 3, the soldiers raided
the station, destroying the studio equipment and files. In the
next few weeks nine other townspeople working with the Catholic
church in the radio station, health services, and other social
agencies were similarly killed.
On January 5, 1981, Father Stanley Rother, Santiago Atitlan's 46
year old priest from Okarche, Oklahoma wrote home to a friend,
In September Honduran schools took the customary week off to
celebrate independence day on September 15th. I took advantage of the
vacation to return to Guatemala, this time with three Peace Corps
friends. We made our way to Panajachel and with a few other tourists
there were enough this time for a launch to make the trip to Santiago
Atitlan. The town was quiet and the streets, buildings, and plaza
looked like any other town in Central America. The people, however,
were dressed in their own traditional colorful clothing. The women all
wore loose white pullover blouses heavily emroidered with the same
purple and red geometric pattern and long purple and black wrap-around
skirts. The men wore cheap polyester sports shirts and straw cowboy
hats, like most Central American peasants, but with loose calf length
white trousers with thick vertical maroon strips. This is the
traditional costume of the Tzutuhil people and it distinguishes them
from other Mayans.
Asking directions, I made my way to the radio station. A few
blocks behind the church, it was in a two story thick stone block
building. There was no sign. It was mid-morning, and no one was there
and the door locked. From a neighbor I found out the the afternoon
broadcast times were still in effect and that no one would arrive
until well after lunch. Unfortunately, my boat to Panajachel would
return before that. I contented myself with walking up the street to
their short antenna tower rising from the middle of a corn field. I
met my friends back in the plaza and we returned to Panajachel.
On our second day in town we went to the docks for the launch to
Santiago Atitlan. Three full launches made the trip. Unlike
Panajachel, Santiago didn't seem to have changed very much, but the
people were taking full advantage of the influx of tourists as dozens
of vendors sold local crafts to the visiting tourists at the wharf,
market, and central plaza. The town was noisy, happy, bustling, and
alive. Smiling children were playing in the cobblestone streets as
teenagers played basketball by the plaza, and there were people
everywhere.
While Theresa went to the market, I once more walked up the
street behind the church to La Voz de Atitlan. The station now
had a sign; a small piece of scrap board with the station name
roughly painted on it had been nailed to the wall over a window.
This time the door was open, so I walked in and introduced myself
to the manager, Juan Ajtzip and several announcers who were
talking inside. Although they were cordial to me, they were very
uncomfortable by my presence. They only talked when I asked
questions, but allowed me to take a few pictures of the studio,
and Sr. Ajtzip looked over the reception reports I had brought
for a few friends and dutifully signed and stamped the prepared
QSL cards accompanying them. They seemed anxious for me to leave,
so I only stayed a few minutes.
I found Theresa in the market and after taking a few pictures, we
went to sit in the plaza. Bill, a Canadian travel writer we had
met on the launch, joined us and the three of us decided to walk
down to a little restaurant near the dock for some lunch.
Finishing our meal, we happened to glance out the window and saw
all three launches well into the lake on their way back to
Panajachel. It was fifteen minutes before they were scheduled to
depart! Shocked we paid our bill and walked down to the dock
where we were told that the launches thought they had everyone
who was returning and had decided to leave early. I couldn't
believe it. Nothing in rural Latin America happens on time, let
alone early!
There was no other way out of town. Bill had planned to stay the
night and offered to show us to a little pension where he had
found a basic room for a dollar. Walking with him back up the
main street towards the plaza we noticed the gaiety of the
morning had totally disappeared. The town now seemed tight as a
drum. There was tension in everyone's face; not even the children
were smiling. Suddenly we heard some loud shouting from behind us
and turned to see a patrol of fully armed soldiers running our
way. We followed the example of a few townsmen and pressed
ourselves against the wall of a house along the street as the
soldiers passed. Nearing the plaza, another patrol charged by us
from a different direction. Soldiers were now posted in several
postions around the center of town. The teenagers had been kicked
off the basketball court where some off-duty soldiers were now
playing. We crossed the plaza and walked up a block to the
pension and got a room.
Bill took off to do some exploring and after a short rest we left
for a walk along the main street away from the plaza towards the
other side of town, following some native men carrying huge loads
of firewood on their backs. About a quarter mile outside town, we
left the road and walked down to the lake shore where some women
were washing clothes. Beyond us the town rose on a small hill
about 150 yards in from the lake. Between the lake and the town
was a marshy low area of gardens and reed beds. Continuing into
the marsh, we had to wind around and sometimes backtrack, but
there was always a mounded dirt path between the cabbages or
among the reeds. Occasionally we would come upon a peasant
working his garden and he would tip his hat and greet us. Among
the vegetables it wasn't as tense as in town. After walking
almost two hours, we neared the docks on the other side of town.
We cut up towards town in an alleyway between some houses. From
one house we could hear a woman crying hysterically, repeating
over and over "They took him away", while another woman
tried to comfort her. We continued on to the plaza and found a
small store to buy a can of tuna, hard rolls, and soft drinks to
have for supper in our room. It would get dark about 5:30 and
this was one town where we didn't want to be out in the streets
after dark.
Back at the patio of our rooming house we met Bill. Walking along
the lake on the far side of the docks, he had met a patrol of
soldiers who strip-searched him and interrogated him for twenty
minutes. Then, when things started to get really ugly, he told
the sergeant, "Look, I'm a travel writer. If you don't want
tourists to come here, I can write that in my articles." That
simple comment changed everything. The sergeant knew that the
last thing the Guatemalan government wanted was another drought
in the tourist industry like in the early 1980s. If he caused
that to happen, he would be in big trouble. The sergeant
apologized, helped our friend up, gave him back all his papers and
notebooks, and escorted him back to town. I wondered why we hadn't met
the same experience. We had passed several patrols in town at both
ends of our walk. Probably it was just that Bill had a beard, mid-
length hair and wore jeans. With me balding and in a pair or corduroys
and Theresa in a skirt, we probably looked more mainstream.
Luckily I had stuck my ICF-7600D in the camera case that morning.
We passed the evening talking, listening to AFRTS and RCI, and
eating our tuna and rolls and some fruit Bill had brought. The
next morning the roosters woke us around dawn and Theresa and I
walked down to the lake. The view was magical. In the chilly
morning air, thick fog was rising from the water and just a few
yards from shore we could see the shadowy outlines of fishermen
standing in their one-man dugout canoes, slowly poling themselves
through the water. Three boys, ages 6,7, and 8, joined us and
began asking all the usual questions about that distant land of
Los Estados Unidos. Suddenly a helicopter passed overhead
and the boys froze in terror. "What's wrong with the
helicopter?" we asked. "They bring more soldiers,"
stammered one of the boys. Although the town still seemed tense,
the tension gradually disappeared as 10:00 and the arrival of the
tourist launches approached. When the boats arrived, it was like
a festival once more. Perhaps not so much for us, however. We had
seen the other side of Santiago Atitlan. This time we were down
at the docks an hour before the scheduled departure.
Back home in Ohio about a month later, Theresa and I were stunned
to hear a report from Santiago Atitlan on NPR's Morning
Edition. About the end of November someone had anonymously
begun circulating a death list of about 100 citizens through the
town. In December, fourteen people, including the mayor's sister,
were kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. Immediately we both
remembered the woman crying "They took him away." Who had
taken whom away, we wondered. Had we heard the aftermath of a
kidnapping? I thought back to the unease at which I had been
received at La Voz de Atitlan. I now realized that the
unexplained visit of a foreigner might draw unwanted attention to
the station. Could Se¤or Ajtzip or one of his colleagues have
been among the dead as a result of my visit? For two years, I
could only pray not.
On New Year's Eve, 1989, La Voz de Atitlan was heard by myself
and a number of other DXers staying on past midnight, local time.
After that they began making occasional early evening broadcasts.
Dxers heard them and wrote. QSL reports in DX bulletins of La Voz
de Atitlan mentioned Juan Ajtzip as the veri-signer. I was
relieved; surely if the manager had't been killed, the less
important announcers would have been spared, too.
The next day government officials hurried out from the capital.
Upon arrival they were presented with petitions signed by over
20,000 names - almost the entire population of Santiago Atitlan
and the nearby rural areas - demanding the withdrawal of the army
from their town. The event drew international attention and the
Guatemalan government had little choice if it didn't want to
damage its tourism industry again. The army was withdrawn from
the Santiago Atitlan area.
Now the streets of Santiago Atitlan are patrolled by villagers
armed with sticks and whistles. Crime of all types has all but
disappeared and not a shot has been fired in the town since the
army left. The townspeople make it clear that neither the army
nor the guerillas are welcome; they only want to live in peace.
When a platoon of soldiers tried to reoccupy the town they were
quietly turned away by several hundred citizens. As to La Voz de
Atitlan, it's back to its old schedule of more than twelve years
ago, signing on at 1100 or 1200 in the morning and staying on
well into the evening. And every broadcast sounds joyous. I know
it will be a long time before I tire of listening to this
station. Hasta luego!
This article is copyright 1993 by Don Moore. It may not
be printed in any publication without written permission.
Permission is granted for all interested readers to share and
pass on the ASCII text file of this article or to print it out
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Clandestine Radio
A DXer's Visit to Santiago Atitlan, Guatemala
By Don Moore
Guatemala is an ethnically divided nation. About half the people
are Mayans, and the other half ladino, a local term for
people of mixed Spanish and Indian ancestry. Ladinos live in
eastern Guatemala, the southern coast, Guatemala City, and the
main towns of western Guatemala. The Mayans live primarily in
rural areas and small towns in western and central Guatemala. The
relationship between ladinos and Mayans is roughly analgous to
that between blacks and whites in the U.S. south eighty years
ago. Anything that is done to improve the lives and rights of the
Mayans is seen as a threat to the domiance of the ladino power
structure. Things have been pretty quiet here the past couple of
weeks until just last Saturday night. Probably the most sought
after catechist has been staying here in the rectory off and on,
and almost constantly of late. He had been eating and sleeping
here, and usually visiting his wife and two kids in late
afternoon. He had a key to the house and was approaching Saturday
night about 7:45, he was intercepted by a group of four
kidnappers. Three apparently tried to grab him at the far side of
the church. He got to within fifteen feet of the door and was
holding on to the bannister and yelling for help ... I was
listening to music but also heard the noise, and by the time I
realized what was happening, grabbed a jacket and got outside,
they had taken him down the front steps of the church and were
putting him in a waiting car. In the process they had broken the
bannister where the rectory porch joins the church, and I just
stood there waiting to jump down to help, but knowing that I
would be killed or taken along also. The car sped off with him
yelling for help but no one was able to do so.
Then I realized that I had just witnessed a
kidnapping of someone that we had gotten to know and love and was
unable to do anything about it. They had his mouth covered, but I
can still hear his muffled screams for help ... He was 30 years
old, left a wife and two boys, ages 3 and 1. May he rest in
peace!
This made 11 members of the church community that had been
kidnapped and killed, including health workers and radio staff,
leaving 8 widows and 32 children. Not long afterward guerillas
attacked an army convoy in the area and in retaliation 17 townspeople
were randomly picked up and killed. Father Stanley learned that he was
also targeted for death and left the country a few days later. On
April 11, he returned to minister to his parish once again. On July 28
nuns discovered his bullet-filled body in the rectory. He was the
ninth priest slain in Guatemala in twelve months. The army claimed
that the killings were the work of guerillas, but witnesses often
recognized the kidnappers as soldiers. Besides, it was pointed out,
for guerillas to be able to regularly sneak by an entire batallion of
soldiers to carry out these acts, the batallion would have to be a
bunch of Keystone Cops. Visits to Atitlan
As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Honduras, I traveled alone to
Guatemala during my school's semester break in June, 1983. I made
Panajachel my base for visiting the nearby highlands. The town had
been bustling with tourists in the 1970s, but news of Central
America's guerilla wars had dried up most tourism. I attempted to take
the motorlaunch across the lake to Santiago Atitlan, but there was
only one other tourist to join me, so the launches wouldn't run. The
next day I left Panajacel for Nahuala, home of Catholic station La Voz
de Nahuala. There I learned that La Voz de Atitlan had returned to the
air on May 1, 1982, but was only permitted to broadcast for two hours
in mid-afternoon. Return to Santiago Atitlan
In December, 1987 Theresa and I took advantage of a month long
semester break during grad school for a trip through the Yucatan,
Belize and Guatemala and once again we made our way to Lake Atitlan.
Panajachel didn't seem like the same town. Guatemala now had a freely
elected government for the first time in over 30 years and the
guerillas had been pushed back in many areas. Guatemala was once again
considered safe for tourists and Panajachel was full of Europeans and
even some Americans. Prices had gone up considerably from a few years
before when hotels and restaurants were begging for customers. Now it
was difficult to find a room. THE FINAL STRAW
The evening of December 1, 1990 started like all too many other
evenings in Santiago Atitlan. A group of armed soldiers dressed in
civilian clothes went drinking in a downtown cantina. Once they were
drunk the officer among them led the group to the house of a
shopkeeper and they began pounding on the door, trying to knock it
down. Inside, the man's terrified family began screaming. At this
moment, something changed in Santiago Atitlan. Hearing the screams,
the man's neighbors poured out into the streets, scaring the small
band of soldiers away. Other neighbors ran to the plaza and began
ringing the church bell. Almost the entire town left their homes and
gathered in the plaza. For a few hours everyone discussed what had
happened to their town and what they should do. Perhaps they were just
gatheing their courage for what they were about to do. At 4 a.m. the
soldiers were awakened by 2,500 shouting people marching up the road
towards their encampment. The crowd stopped outside the barb wire
fence and a few chosen leaders demanded that the army let them
live in peace. Then a couple of unruly crowd members threw some
rocks. The army opened fire. Eleven were killed, including three
children, and seventeen wounded. The crowd retreated back to town
and the batallion stayed in their base. References
Review of International Broadcasting #49 (March, 1981).
The New York Times 7/29/81; 8/15/81; 2/17/88; 12/3/90;
12/12/91.
Association of North American Radio Clubs
DXer of the Year for 1995.