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It wasn’t until I was in Guatemala learning Spanish and living in a homestay that it occurred to me coming to a country to learn their second language is a pretty strange thing to do. For most Guatemalans, Mayan is their first language. The language of home. Spanish is simply the language of school and business but in some areas isn’t spoken at all.

But that’s also why Guatemala is rated by those who know as a land where they speak Spanish more slowly and without inflection than most other Spanish-speaking destinations.

That’s rather like going to Quebec to learn English. I know, but it makes sense once you’ve heard Spaniards speak. Spaniards speak as if each conversation is their last before the world ends in the next 10 minutes. As for the South Americans, well …. Chileans drop letters. Argentineans use odd slang. In Cuba they have a funny accent. This process of elimination left just Peru and Guatemala and since I didn’t fancy climbing mountains, Peru was out. Guatemala was in.

The word ‘school’ had the same effect as ‘clean-up-your-room’ on my family. They didn’t want to know. But after three year’s night class and barely a Spanish word spoken (not the teacher’s fault), I was determined to go, without or without them. Besides, I had a friend’s recommendation for a great school and a welcoming family. Both of which I booked on the net.

Fortunately a photographer friend forgot how much he’d hated the institution and agreed to come, thinking no doubt of the country’s moniker as the Land of Eternal Spring. Such a romantic. I figured it was best not to tell him we’re there during the rainy season.

Best not to let him read Lonely Planet either. Muggings, rapes (less common than before – good news surely), bandits, car-jackings and bus hold-ups were mentioned. No. Land of Eternal Spring. Fabulous Mayan ruins. Brilliant slow-but-steady-Spanish. That’s our Guatemala.

And as luck would have it, those romantic epithets under-sell the country if anything. As soon as we clapped eyes on the glittering waters of Lake Atitlan ringed by mountains, forest and a smouldering volcano in the distance we were instant devotees. There were no speedboats corrugating the lake’s surface, no marinas and no high-rise apartments. Just the occasional ferry plying its way across the lake and a few tiny villages sprinkled around its base, one of which was our new base – San Pedro.

Although language schools are located throughout Guatemala, San Pedro is fast gaining a reputation as one of the best places to study. Frankly I think it is the best. Since the village owes a great deal of its income to language students and since most students stay with a family, a visitor is insulated by the goodwill of the villagers from the irritations that beset travellers elsewhere. No one hussles for money, tries the hard-sell, attempts a rip-off and at no time did I feel in danger. Lessons here are cheaper than many other towns and a homestay offers a ready-made family for those of us missing our own.

In some respects a much more agreeable family than our own. A Mum and Dad who cook and clean without complaint, a child who doesn’t answer back and all three willing to put up with and gently correct your limping attempts at their second language.

Our host parents, Rosa and Juan Gonzalez and their teenage son Abner were about half our size and by Guatemalan standards, middle-class which meant they had tiles on the floor and not dirt, a television, an education and a future. But other than a few plastic chairs to sit on, there was little comfort in the house.

Juan was a local primary teacher, who never stopped patiently teaching us even when he was off-duty. Rosa redefined multi-tasking. She took in students, sold dried maize grown on the family plot, made huge tiered cakes for special occasions, was a pillar of her church and cooked for us. It wasn’t her fault that I, famous indiscriminate omnivore, found the staple diet of refried beans and pungent corn tortillas virtually inedible. When he wasn’t sleeping, son Abner watched masses of sport on television, played football, sang in the church choir and helped around the house.

The family slept on the floor in one musty room together and rented out the remaining two bedrooms to us. Even so, Rosa said she was ‘very content’ and I believed her. Besides which she did have the good sense to rent out the noisiest bedrooms. The ones where you could smell the diesel fumes from passing trucks, hear the homeless dogs fighting all night and feel like you were in the front row of the Pentecostal church across the road with the loud hailer and three adherents.

And then wake to the sound of bombs exploding at 4am. This was in fact the sound of joy as San Pedro citizens lit basketball-sized firecrackers to celebrate their village’s annual festival. Or a death. Or a birth. Or perhaps just blowing their nose. At any rate the bombs never stopped, day or night.

But at first we were so tired we barely noticed. Anyway we had our studies to think about. Every day under an open-air thatched cabana in a lush garden at the San Pedro Spanish School, we sat with our teacher and tackled yet another four-hour lesson.

I know now that four hours one-on-one is far too long. But when we booked it sounded like the least we could do. One day into the course and I realized two hours was my limit. After that my brain turned to pulp and I regressed to learning the alphabet again. My companion completely gave up. He never quite recovered from that first four-hour day, instead opting to take his teacher to festivals, on walks and for visits to his family. Not the best way to embed the verb conjugations in the brain but building variety by leaving the classroom is a good idea to stave off boredom.

At least the rain was well behaved. It arrived without fail somewhere around two in the afternoon and was all over by six. Which is why I quickly shifted my lessons to the afternoon. The morning was always sunny.

As time wore on I observed that there are seven steps to learning a language. First comes enthusiasm which quickly morphs into depression, despair and then anger. Followed if you’re lucky by perseverance, acceptance and break-through. Anger arrives roughly on day three and as time wore on I learned to watch other students reach the same fuming impasse. It was almost reassuring.

I also saw that our careful preplanning was not the norm. Students frequently turned up unannounced yet started classes the next day. Guatemala has a reputation for having an abundance of cheap, good quality language schools and word of mouth about the best ones travels fast among travelers.

At San Pedro I learned it’s possible to study for a day, a week, a month. It’s up to you. You can alter your plans at any time. Four hours daily too much? Tell the supervisor and your hours will be reduced. Not learning anything? Want a different face? Or frankly, just don’t like your teacher? Tell the supervisor and a new teacher will appear pronto. No offence is taken. It happens all the time.

I noticed too that the serious students did their homework, stayed home, swotted their verbs and progressed faster.

To liven things up a little I taught my teacher, Bartolo, famous lines from television and film. Obviously “Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn” was first. Bartolo taught me the Spanish equivalent though I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth since it had something to do with a cucumber.

Unlike me, Bartolo was a quick learner and when I told him one day I had a headache he replied quick as Jack the electric rabbit, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

But at least I was speaking Spanish. A fortnight later and I was even understood occasionally by people not paid to be polite.

By this time we were well settled into the family. We’d taken them on a day trip up an extinct volcano. My friend had photographed almost every Gonzalez in San Pedro and charmed them all with a repertoire of sound effects. The trumpet was a favourite. I’d been dressed in traditional costume and taken to church for a three-hour Pentecostal service which mercifully involved two hours of singing.

I’d cooked for them and written the recipes in Spanish though I have to confess their impression of the West’s culinary arts will not be the best. Borscht was a hit but pumpkin soup nothing like the home-grown variety thanks to pale and watery pumpkins, the French toast fell apart (the cotton-wool bread at fault here) and pavlova, well, … I blame the baking tray. Or lack of. Instead the perfectly shiny and thick mixture was scooped onto the only alternative we could find - the base of a large cake tin. The pav rose impressively, clinging to the sides of the tin, but once out of the oven closer inspection revealed we’d baked a creditable sugary lid with nothing underneath. Abner loved it.

Sadly I hadn’t grown to love Rosa’s black refried beans, chicken and pungent corn tortillas but I had learned that unless I intended to starve I’d better eat them. On the plus side, I was losing weight.

After a fortnight we decided to do the wild thing and travel around using local transport. Madness. And not because of the bandits, bus-hold-ups or general thievery either. It was just tiring. After 10 days on the road we headed home to Mum. We could hardly wait. By this time we were cranky friends at best and I had the beginning of a fever.

The family hadn’t expected us again so when my friend announced our arrival with a trumpet solo and Rosa opened the door, she clapped her hands and her eyes grew moist. Juan said solemnly “Marco, Ibon (he never could say my name)” and Abner’s eyes shone. Outclassed only by the glitter in ours.

Four more days of refried beans, rice and chicken never looked so good.

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