On the eve of hiking Guatemala’s third highest peak, Acatenango, I found myself at a bar asking some backpackers for advice. The group laughed, their advice was not to go to the bar the night before a hike, but one woman earnestly warned, “Bring a hat and wear layers. It’s cold up there.”
I had chosen, like many backpackers, to forgo a comfortable night in one of Antigua’s affordable hostels to sleep on the side of this nearby volcano. The attraction is not so much the hike up the black, igneous slopes, but the view. At night, you can look across the valley at Volcán de Fuego, an active volcano, and watch glowing, red lava spew into the black Guatemalan sky. Fireworks.
Twenty-four hours later, I am huddled around a fire with five other backpackers shivering with regret at not having packed more clothes, warmer clothes, anything to keep my blood hot through the night. The wind whips across the tree-bare slope drowning out conversation as we glance from our sputtering campfire over to the distant hell of Fuego’s bursting red peak. Echoes of eruptions reverberate across the valley like a thunderous belly laugh—Fuego mocking the gringo for his stupidity.
One of my fellow hikers, an Austrian, breaks the ice. He holds a bottle the size of his hand. We recognize it immediately. Quetzalteca.
Anyone who has traveled in Guatemala knows Quetzalteca. It is ubiquitous, cheap, and strong. With a traditionally dressed indigenous woman welcoming you on its logo, Quetzalteca acts as Guatemala’s unofficial national drink.
The largest distillery in Guatemala (owner of Zacapa and Botran Rum for those familiar with Guatemalan rums) distills Quetzalteca from cane sugar and bottles it at 36 ABV. In Latin America, this proof distinguishes Quetzalteca as aguardiente, a general term in Spanish for liquor distilled from fruit or cane sugar, which translates as agua-water and ardiente-burning. At less than 2 USD a bottle, my backpacker’s budget had familiarized me with the sharp, sweet burning and the head-swimming warmth that makes Quetzalteca famous.
We pass the bottle around the fire, swigging happily and reveling in the burning sensation that the liquor gives the throat. Soon, we are laughing at the wind and our bodies warm up to the idea of sleeping on the side of this volcano. We look from the fiery peak of Fuego to the clear bottle glimmering red in our campfire. Between the six of us, we finish two little bottles. I turn my back to the eruptions of Fuego. My head pulsating from aguardiente, fire water, I crawl into my tent.
If you ever hike Acatenango, or any mountain in Guatemala, pack a hat—and a little bottle of Quetzalteca.
The Art of Drinking, originally published as a Latin poem by Vincent Obsopoeus in 1536, guides the modern reader in virtuous intoxication. How do we drink in public? With friends? At home?
Don’t drink cologne! Just know that other people used to. In fact, the original eau de cologne was sold as a medicine to be ingested. Throughout the history of modern toilet waters, Europeans and Americans have drank them for medicinal, cosmetic, and intoxicating effects. From freshening the breath, to satisfying an addiction on a budget, toilet waters have a long history as a drink.
Huapilla is a drink fermented from the fruit of the Bromelia pinguin plant, a relative of the pineapple. It is a daily refreshment in the Huasteca region of Mexico, particularly in the city of Tampico. But, with hot weather and thirsty customers, competition in the market is fierce and vendors sell huapilla in a variety of ways. Nevertheless, it is still the same refreshing beverage that Tampico is known for.
Originally, the city opted for creek water to avoid the Monongahela, but growing populations eventually pushed them back to the large river.
