We returned from our hike to Taljumulco, the highest point in Central America and said our goodbyes. I needed to find a place to stay and after chatting with a girl from Vancouver, decided the hostel attached to Quetzal Trekkers, Casa Argentina, would do just fine. I was going to meet up with the Vancouver girl and her friend for wine later, but right now, I wanted some street food. Sundays in Xela there’s a market with lots of street food, so I headed out there with a French guy I’d just met named Sebastian. We also chatted with another Canadian named Andrea, this one from Peterborough, Ontario, who was likewise going to Blue Angel for some food, drink, Spanish study, and internet. So Sebastian and I wandered to the central square. I’ve said this already, but I love Xela at night. We came into the square where there was a clown show for the kids, beautiful churches all floodlit, lights everywhere, a market, live music, and plenty of street food. Pupusas, small taco-like bites of deliciousness, and the Guatemalan take on Loukoumades (nowhere near as good I’m afraid) were dinner and dessert and then we joined the girls at the Blue Angel for 10 Q wine and chatted. As we were getting ready to leave, I ran into somebody I hadn’t seen in over a year and didn’t expect to see again.
It’s not like we were close or even friends, but she did recognize and remember me. We had been on the same two-day slow boat from Thailand to Laos (and specifically Luang Prabang) and now here we were, in Guatemala, in the Blue Angel Cafe, sitting one table apart. I had, back then, wandered up and down the boat visiting with all the groups and remembered her and her boyfriend and an older man sitting near the front. We’d chatted for a couple hours on the boat and had also shared the minibus from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng. I’m not trying to attach undue significance to this, but the odds of running into the same person again like this are, to me, astronomical. In one of a zillion cafes in a small town in a small country in Central America. She was leaving for Antigua the next morning but we agreed to meet up there since I had to pass through in order to get south to El Salvador anyway. We finished up our conversation with Andrea and drifted off towards the hostel and the warmth of our beds. I knew it was going to be cold here but man, does it get chilly! I have only one sweater and two pairs of pants (one of which is pretty thin) plus a fleece, so I’m afraid that to non-backpackers I look like a one outfit man.
The next day was a day of recuperation from Tajulmulco and the general business of travelling. When everyday you’re travelling to new places, looking for places to eat, things to climb, photos to take, day in and day out for over a month straight, it can be wearying. Add to that trying to study Spanish, write a blog, and edit/select/caption photos not to mention rather regular socializing, and yeah, I was due. That said, I didn’t just sit around on my day off. First of all, I had to organize the hike up to Volcan Santa Maria for tomorrow, including getting information and hopefully company for the hike. The trail is pretty easy but a little planning goes a long way, and I was planning on going up without a guide. But when do busses start, what about taxis, how much, how long, trail markers, food, water, let’s just say there’s a big of planning. I must be tired as I write this, because everything is devolving into a list of seemingly simple activities. In addition to this planning, Sebastian and I planned to take a trip up to Fuentes Georgina, some hot springs near Xela to emphasise the relaxation part of the day.
We left at 2:00 for the hot springs, 50 Quetzales later, stopping in a small town en route to look around and take some photos. The hot springs were really misty and locals kept spitting in them, but otherwise they were great. Hot, relaxing, and varying in temperature as you neared the scalding hot water pouring off rocks as the back of the pool. We stayed, I met a fan of Frank Black and the Pixies and back we came for an early evening, or at least we tried, after a little 25 Q pizza+coke combo. I think Sebastian and I were asleep by 1:30 AM and we were needing to wake up by 4:30 to catch our 5 AM taxi to the mountain so we could hopefully ascend and beat the formation of clouds over the brilliant view of active volcano Santiaguito. It turned out I had a stomach ache and woke at 3:30 AM but a few pills and that was gone. We were in the taxi, on the way to pick up Shane (from the Tajulmulco hike), wondering if it were possible for the cab to go any slower. Finally, we set off on foot up the base of the mountain. The battle was joined.
The ascent was steeper than Tajulmulco but now that I was somewhat acclimatized (I still got a bit of a headache but nothing serious) it went much easier, too. It became obvious pretty quickly that there would be no morning break in the clouds and worse, no view down of fiery Santiaguito. You’ll have to look online to see what we would have seen with better weather, for when we got to the top, there was nothing to see but the ground below your feet and mist. Still, it was nice to get a morning walk in and as we waited at the top and chatted with some locals, we discovered that we had arrived on a day of ceremony for many, as they prayed for the new year. We were visiting with a small group of traditional Mayans while they waited for one of the younger ones to bring up the offerings from below and they invited us to not only observe their ceremony, but to take part. So sometimes you don’t get what you expect, but you have to be open to the fact that you may encounter something far more special.
First they stacked some incense-blocks and then scattered chocolate and other things on top. Then a small pyre of wood shavings and it was time to light the fire. With the wind, there was a lot of trouble lighting the fire, though eventually Shane and I managed to get it going for them, Shane blocking the wind and I fumbling with his lighter and the kindling. We were each given a different coloured candle, I a green one that symbolized the Earth, Shane a blue one for the sky, and Sebastian a yellow one for fertility. There was also red (blood), white (purity), and normally a black one (hair?). The ceremony switched back and forth from the local Mayan dialect to Spanish, I suspect for our benefit, and we were given energy from the fire, put our candles in, and we were even included in their prayers for safe travels and so on. As this was finishing, spots of sky began to open and offer glimpses of Xela below us. Powerful stuff.
We hung around the mountaintop for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, watching the clouds go by, snacking on our ham and cheese sandwiches and cookies, and hoping that the clouds below would also clear. Alas, no view of Santiaguito was offered but it was a great day nonetheless, and we enjoyed sitting so high and watching the weather form and break around us. We were back down and in Xela before we knew it, a quick 1:45 descent followed by an ice cream sandwich followed by a chicken bus back into town. We said goodbye to Shane on the bus and went back to the hostel where we met a couple Canadian girls from Vancouver and went out to dinner with them at a local-ish place. They were good fun and really friendly so the conversation moved easily over dinner. They went for a glass of wine with Sebastian at Blue Angel while I went back to the hostel to get warmer clothes and ended up visiting with Andrea for a bit. As such, I missed out on the wine when I met up with them at Blue Angel but that wasn’t a big problem. I hung out with Andrea some more and tried her homemade granola (delicious!) that she had made while we were up on the mountain, watched an old episode of House (she has a TV), and went to sleep.
The next morning, I ran around like a crazy man, trying to get everything together to mail my family their Christmas presents. I picked up the rest of the ingredients I was missing, including a box, and went to a local paper store to get wrapping paper and wrapped the box up neatly. Then, to the post office, where I was told that under no circumstances would they mail Rum. DHL, however, would, so I had to get a taxi to take me there (and wait to take me back). At DHL, however, there was only express shipping, which was more than double the cost of what I was sending home, but I bit the bullet after getting myself a 25% discount. Then they had computer problems. All said, it took a good three hours to get this thing mailed but finally it was on the way to Canada and I was on the way to Antigua with Sebastian. We arrived before 5:00, I without my iPod as it was lifted from my pocket (I felt its absence but thought nothing of it as I usually don’t keep anything in that pocket) and checked into Jungle Party again, where I Skyped Carmen (remember her?) and we met up for drinks. That is, after some amazing tacos at Rony’s (6th St), which are without a doubt the best tacos I’ve had on my trip so far.
We went for drinks at Riki’s, which is a pretty happening place on Wednesday nights for its live music and famous musicians. It was nice to be back somewhere familiar, where you know where to find good food, good drinks, and good times, not to mention hanging out with good people. Carmen convinced me to stay one more day in Antigua, though I was sort of burned out and this wasn’t a tough sell. We went to a local pool the next day and pretty much were the only people around, relaxing in the sun until about 1:00 when Sebastian had to go climb Pacaya. I, on the other hand, went with Carmen to her old project, a home for handicapped children, which put a damper on my spirits. Imagine a room with kids laying and occasionally writhing and moaning on mattresses on the floor. It was very upsetting, even though the kids were being treated well (and better than being on the streets, abandoned by their parents). I spent most of the afternoon afterwards hunting down a cheap replacement for my iPod, found one for about $30, and after another dinner at Riki’s, I was off on the next leg of my adventure: a trip to El Salvador.
I quickly loaded my pack with gear and refilled my water bottles (5 L in all) while everybody was loading their packs into the back of the pickup. We were setting off at 5:15 AM for the highest point in Central America, Tajulmulco, about three hours north of Xela close to the Mexican border. Quetzaltrekkers, the company I was travelling with, provided almost all of the gear including a backpack, so I stashed my own backpacks in their office along with valuables and we were off to catch a bus. The bus ride was to San Marcos, which in the morning sun felt a little like Kunming. I think this may be because it was a fairly large centre and Kunming was the last place I remember waking up on a bus and arriving at dawn. We had a nice breakfast (included) and grabbed another bus for a small town at the base of Tajulmulco, which isn’t just the highest point in Central America at 4220m (about 13,000 ft), but a dormant volcano. The highest I have ever been is 4670m in the Himalayas, and I had been more acclimatised by living at higher altitudes in Lijiang, Shangri-La, and finally near Dequin before doing this trekking. Here, I had just come from Lake Atitlan, which is maybe 1500m ASL to Xela at 2335m ASL the day before and so would be hiking at elevations almost 2km higher than I was acclimatized. I was a little worried about altitude sickness, but it hadn’t occurred to me until we were discussing it on the way there.
Speaking of on the way, I went to take a photo of the crowded chicken bus while en route. It was then I discovered my camera’s memory card was still in my netbook, as I had backed up my photos the night before. I effectively had no camera for this fairly epic trek. I was not impressed and bordered on distraught, though I tried to think that this would allow me to focus on just enjoying things. When I mentioned this plight to others in the hopes that they might be carrying an extra SD card, Sam told me he was a terrible photographer and I could use his card if I’d give him the photos after. This was unspeakably nice and I hope I got him some photos he is happy with. Our group, by the way, was nice and small. Myself, a Kiwi named Shane, and two Americans named Sam and Celina that may or may not have been together. We also had two guides, Scott and Sara, from Seattle and Ottawa respectively. The hike started on a dirt road through farmers’ fields, and we passed a few locals working and hauling wood while we made our way upwards towards the looming dome of Taj, which is what I’m calling it even though the ‘j’ in Spanish is an ‘h’. We could also see the distant mountain, which forms part of the border with Mexico.
As we climbed I was fine, the altitude not really getting to me aside from heavy breathing and a slowing pace. Celina was having difficulties, however, and popped some Motrin for her headache. We picnicked in an alpine meadow for lunch watching the clouds for below and eventually above as well. I began to notice the very beginnings of a headache myself, which worried me, but I didn’t take anything for it because I wanted to know if it got really bad. Headaches, stomach pain, dizziness, nausea, and of course shortness of breath are the body’s way of telling us we’re from the prairies and have no business scaling mountains. I wanted to know if I was about to die from it. We pressed on and as we were moving it disappeared, probably more forgotten than gone, into an alpine forest and into cloud and mist. Occasionally, the clouds would break above to offer some warming sun, but generally it was mist everywhere, which added an ethereal effect to the forest around us. We stopped at one point to watch a couple locals gathering wood by throwing a log on a rope around a branch, winding it around, and then pulling as hard as they could. The first few efforts it unwound and came screaming at them, but finally they managed to break the branch and send them on their butts.
By the time we reached our so-called base camp at about 4000m, my head was pounding pretty good and I had lost pretty much all my energy, collapsing on my backpack in a huff, both happy to be done for the day and utterly exhausted and out of breath. As we set up camp, my headache grew worse and I took two Tylenol to help combat it. We climbed further to a lookout to watch the sunset, which was both chilling and fantastic as the clouds whisked around our peak obscuring and then revealing amazing views. Back at the bottom, the camp stove was boiling water for hot chocolate. I could barely drink mine at this point and I tried to sit with the others around the stove but I just couldn’t, so I went and laid down in the tent thinking I was likely to throw up at any minute – a bad idea since dehydration is not good for altitude sickness. So I fought it and the growing fever, throwing off all my warm layers in the sleeping bag and feeling like a furnace. I actually fell asleep for a bit, the time being around 6:30. They woke me for dinner and I felt a bit better though I had no appetite whatsoever, which is yet another symptom of altitude sickness, though I still forced down about a spoonful of pasta before retiring to the tent again. I felt terrible and was pretty worried about my health since I know that altitude sickness can be fatal and I wasn’t sure how far along I was in that progression. Interestingly, although Celina had been having more problems than I had on the climb up, she now seemed fine. It’s a funny condition, this one. We climbed to a small rise to watch the sunset, which was less impressive than the clouds zipping around us, and went to bed.
I slept pretty well considering I had no pillow and was fully bundled in all my cold weather gear. I did wake up any number of times to take a look at the almost full moon (read: bathroom – I’d drank almost 4L of water that day) and discovered that Celina was now worse off than I was with severe cramps and everything that goes with it, not to mention nausea. When I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, I was fine aside from a slight headache which I took two Tylenols for again. In spite of this, we ascended to the top of Taj in pretty good time without needing torches thanks to the brilliant moon, all of us (including Celina though she was feeling terrible), with our sleeping mats and sleeping bags to sit in as we waited for sunrise. This was comfy, though as soon as the horizon started lighting, I couldn’t help but wander around looking for photos. Sunrise was among the most spectacular I have ever seen – I can’t think of a better one, but there have been many greats alongside it. We could see into Mexico. We could see all the way to Antigua, with distant Fuego erupting and sending a smoky finger into the sky. We couldn’t see the Pacific as it was hazy in that direction, but it was there. I took a lot of photos.
We descended around the old volcano crater, a beautiful walk back to base camp in the light of a new day. Breakfast, which I again stomached (still no appetite), looking over northern Guatemala, and our hike down which went pretty quickly to the bottom along a ridgeline that also offered spectacular views. Although the mist was ethereal yesterday, what it had been concealing was stunning. It really is a beautiful country and I reaffirmed that this hike had been worth all the altitude issues and heavy breathing, not to mention the detour from Atitlan and my path south to get here. My stomach served as an altimeter and I noticed my growing hunger with each step down the mountainside. When we reached the bottom, there was a very out-of-place skier-type restaurant waiting for us with shrimp tacos, sour oranges (lime on the outside, orange on the inside), rice, beans, soup, potatoes, and a virtual feast for 20 Q (although it was, again, include), not to mention juice. Hungry as I was, for the first time in Central America, I couldn’t finish. We stuffed ourselves, and so the irony of seeing a pig wandering down the street when we left was not lost on me. Two long bus rides back and a hike through Xela and we were back home.
I felt like I was in China again – it was difficult to get a straight answer from anybody. One travel agent had told me there were three chicken buses (full of locals and whatever they might bring with them, including, perhaps, chickens) that went to Xela directly: 7 AM, 8 AM, and 1 PM. However, when I showed up in the town centre an 7:50 the bus drivers claimed that his bus was not direct and whatsmore, it would be 15 Q to take the bus just 20 km to a transfer point (by way of example, the bus from Antigua, 2.5 hours away, cost 30 Q). Phil was with me (his bus left at 8:30) and neither of us believed them for a second. The driver and ‘director’ essentially drive for themselves, so their insistence that there was no direct bus until “much later”, like 1:00 struck me as false even though it did somewhat jive with the travel agent. I asked some other locals, most of whom said there was a direct bus now, at 8, there it is, or at least told me to ask the seemingly corrupt driver. Phil had to go so we said goodbye and I eventually gave in and hopped on the indirect and expensive bus. As we were driving away I saw in the rearview another bus pull up and asked the man beside me where that bus was heading. “Xela,” he answered, and I threw open the back gate of the bus and jumped.
I hadn’t paid for this bus yet so there was no need to fight to get my money back from the crooks (or at least liars), I just went out the back door, the bus finally stopped (after ignoring my requests to that effect), told him I was taking the direct bus, and walked away. It turned out that the Xela bus left at 8:30, which gave me a little time to read in peace before the bus filled. Sitting ahead was an older Italian doctor who seemed like a pretty nice guy and we chatted for a while on the road to Xela before getting caught up in scenery and trying in vain to get a good photo of the distant volcano that was erupting. The bus continued filling up and I began to think about how differently the filling patterns were here than home. At home, everyone will fill every available seat before starting to sit with strangers. This is a product, I think, of our desire for comfort, our distaste for imposition, and our attitude towards strangers. Here, on the other hand, they’ll think nothing of sitting next to you when there are several vacant seats still available. Earlier in my travels, I’d been immediately suspicious of this activity but I’ve come to accept it as standard. For example, there were empty seats behind me and yet a woman with a child sat beside the Italian, choosing to crowd three in a seat rather than take an empty spot. Interestingly, and perhaps it was my new “until El Salvador” beard, my seat remained empty for a long time, even as others were piling three in a seat. Hmm.
The trip to Xela was uneventful and after arriving, we had to maneuver on foot and fully laden through a crowded and narrow market often brought to a standstill by food carts too wide to manuever past each other. From there, a local bus to the centre. The Italian guy knew a cheap hotel, Horiani, with private rooms (and shared bath) for 35 Q/night. I did want to check out the Black Cat hostel, but it was full and I ended up at Horiani as well. Then I set out to find a trek to either Tajulmulco, a two-day hike to the highest point in Central America, or to Santa Maria, which offers great views of Santiaguito, an active volcano, erupting below. VERY unfortunately, I was a couple days too late for the full moon hike overnight, which I hear was incredible (obviously the volcano was glowing red and lighting the clouds and skies with fire) but I managed to find a two day trek leaving the next morning up Tajulmulco with Quetzal Trekkers. The neat thing about this organization is it’s entirely volunteer run, so all proceeds go towards a school that they’ve financed in the poorest section of the city. So I get to climb a volcano, and for a little more money, feel a little bit better about myself.
It so happened that the Guatemalan National Symphony was playing Christmas songs in the town square tonight so after a meeting to discuss the hike and get gear, I went and watched the symphony play along with a couple thousand people. The city is growing on me, I felt like I was back in Spain more than somewhere new, and I felt lucky to see the square in this way, unmolested by cars and major highways, just a good old public gathering place. By day it’s kind of dull and quiet but by night, she’s a beauty. I met up with an Irish guy named Brian and a Dutch girl named Visha (or similar) whom I’d met earlier and they had invited me to go for dinner with them. We went and had some traditional Guatemalan cuisine which was pretty good though a bit of a splurge. Chicken in a molle sauce, and two other dishes, and we all shared. From there, the restaurant owners (who’d kept the restaurant open late for us) sent us to a place with live music, where they sung English songs with half-correct lyrics. Then off to a salsa club, where it was basically Brian and I leaning against the bar and lamenting our lack of salsa prowess while some local swept Vishna around the dancefloor. She came back and seemed a little annoyed, as though we’d pulled her off the dance floor, and I offered to try with her, knowing it would be terrible. I definitely wasn’t great, but it was fun. At some point, that same local came to switch partners with me and I wound up dancing with a Canadian girl that was only a bit better than me. Still, I hate not being good at things. Salsa classes are on the list for somewhere.
I said goodnight and goodbye to Visha and Brian, knowing I wouldn’t see them again as they were off to Mexico in the morning while I was heading south after a climb or two around Xela. Lots of water for altitude adjustment (and to balance the beer), I packed my things and settled for a few hours of sleep. I was supposed to wake up the next morning and be at Quetzal Trekkers by 4:45 AM. I say supposed to because when I woke up it was 5, I hurriedly put my stuff on, threw my packs on my back, and ran out the door, cursing myself the whole way. In a panic, I grabbed a taxi driver from the central park and he drove me to Quetzal Trekkers though I was sure I was too late. I buzzed the door and no answer. There was a truck with a man sleeping in it and I thought he might be waiting for them to leave but no answer and I was standing in the street with all my bags still in the idling taxi (which made me extra nervous) thinking I was going to have to walk back to my hotel, check back in, and bite the bullet. I had missed my trek. I buzzed again because somebody was supposed to come to the door (it was also a hostel) and maybe I could get in touch with them and meet up at the bus station. The door finally opened and there was Scott, one of the two guides, saying, “Dean! I’m glad you made it!”. I can sum up my response in one word: relief. I was off to climb the highest point in Central America.
We knew it before we went – every traveller was talking about it and warning those headed that way to be informed – but no trip to Guatemala is complete with a trip to Lake Atitlan, a high altitude lake whose shores are dotted with picturesque villages on steep mountain slopes all offering unique views on the three volcanoes that enclose the lake. And, due to an earthquake a few years ago that destroyed a sewage treatment facility, a lake that is now laden with the green algae-sludge that some know as cyanobacteria. You don’t want to drink, swim, or do much more than look at it now, which is really sad. The country is poor and reticent to spend the couple million repairing or replacing the facility so for the last few years this large lake has been home to an increasing amount of human waste, so perhaps it has been technically dirty for some time, but the bacteria bloom is quite recent. We arrived off the direct chicken bus from Antigua, 30 Q later, and had to pay another 25 Q to take the boat across. Being up close to the water and seeing the puke-green spray off the bow of the boat, we could see just how bad the situation was. We landed and then one of those annoying ‘I show you where to find hotel” people (the ones that insist on walking you the specific ones) took us to Hotel Buena Nueve.
It was fine there. A little out of the way but fine, especially for 30Q ($3.75) per night. Wandering around town we stumbled upon Amanda’s hostel, Zoola, which seemed pretty great and we arrived just as she finished her Spanish classes. Three of the El Retiro gang were back together again, and after wandering into and around town (and watching Che Part 1 at the Freedom bar with $1 Cuba Libres) we returned to hang out at the hostel and there was Jez. The four pack was back but unlike El Retiro, there was nothing going on here. The lake’s condition has hurt tourism pretty badly, which is sad for those who make a meagre living off of it (and believe me, San Pedro is so cheap that it’s VERY meagre) but I hope it presses the government to clean up the lake and fix the sewage plant. Even with the lake in its current condition, from afar it looks fine and it limits only lake activities like swimming, kayaking, and diving. The towns themselves are still pretty chill, friendly places to hang around with locals and fellow travellers amidst a pretty stunning backdrop. San Pedro La Laguna reminds me, for those who have been or at least for those who read my blog a year and a half ago, of Don Det in Laos. Bars with hammocks, movies, and cheap snacks, bakeries, dirt tracks through farmers’ fields, and water all around. I think it is a mistake to miss it, and of course the algae blooms and fades with climate and level of organic material/food in the water. There was a celebration the day before we left because the lake had grown noticeably cleaner.
Anyway, Phil and I also decided to recreate Dieter Libres after finding Quetzalteca rum in the market. I had to buy the limes from a restaurant, however as we’d neglected to get them early enough, but we were set and polished off the 500ml bottle pretty handily. After reuniting with Jez and a few others, we went out on the town trying to find a decent sized group of people to hang out with but in the end it was about six of us. Still, we had a pretty good night. The second day brought a little more exploration of the wild side of Lake Atitlan, wandering some of the aforementioned dirt tracks and trying to take a few good photos. We met with Amanda after her classes and she and I went for lunch while Phil went home and recovered from his hangover. I was craving fries and ordered some, forgetting that in Guatemala a plate of fries seems to take the better part of an hour. To be fair, the cut the potatoes and probably have to heat the oil from scratch, but it was longer than I felt like sitting around. There’s a pool here that’s sort of the drawing card for one of the bars and we were planning to sit around it in the sun, but in the afternoon it clouded over pretty badly and we nixed the plan, and practiced our Spanish instead.
Near to Lake Atitlan is a town called Chichicastenango, mostly known for its impressive Maya-filled markets on Thursdays and Sundays. That day, December 3, was a Thursday and Phil and I grabbed the morning bus to go and check it out. It was a worthwhile day trip for 60 Q ($7.50) as the markets had many things we had seen before but in much greater variety. I basically spent everything I’d brought with me though I think I managed to get some pretty good bargains. We returned that afternoon decided that it was to be our last day in San Pedro, even though this quiet little town both feels like it needs us and was, at the same time, growing on us. Unfortunately, I was pretty set on heading further west to Xela to do a bit of mountain climbing (the highest point in Central America is accessible from there, for example, not to mention another pretty spectacular climb to look down on an active volcano) and Phil was pretty set on getting to a beach as soon as possible. This would be, at least for now, our point of separation though I expect we’ll run into each other in El Salvador at some surf town. It was also Jez’s last night and we arranged to meet up at Zoola. We did meet up with Amanda, but Jez never showed. Oh well, I’m sure I’d be seeing him further along the Pan American highway too. Tomorrow, it’s just you and me again. Hope to see you on the bus.
I won’t sugar coat it; the ride from Semuc Champey to Coban was... not nice. The views were spectacular, the sun was shining, but with a bit too much to drink the night before many of us were not feeling particularly up for twisting and turning in the sun. I focused on the view and was, perhaps luckily, the first one to find the washrooms at the gas station outside Coban. After that, a Snickers bar, a bag of popcorn (I was craving something salty), and a Gatorade and I was 100%. Feeling great and, like everyone, with two seats to myself, this was better than I could’ve hoped for considering the sardine can we rode in on. Not to mention that I didn’t have to pay a cent for it. I think the driver and I may have been the only ones awake for much of the beautiful drive towards Antigua. We passed through busy Guatemala City in the day and it looked decent enough, but I’ve heard enough stories about the nighttime to know better. We definitely didn’t dally and soon were on a random street in Antigua wondering which way to go. Jez (our English friend) and Jaelle (the Israeli day bartender at El Retiro) were going to Jungle Party, so we went too, found it to be fine (a bit pricey, but not if you factor in breakfast) and we had ourselves a spot in Antigua. The next step was to find a school where we could study Spanish for a week or two.
Arriving, as Phil and I seem prone to, on a Sunday has its ups and downs. On the plus side, you definitely aren’t missing anything exciting while you sit on a bus. On the other hand, everything is closed. We wandered towards Sevilla, a school that had been recommended by our roommates at El Retiro. It was closed but the doors were open because the director’s family was having an event unbeknownst to us. The director still took the time to chat with us and give us a price, and he also grabbed a relative who was a doctor to have a look at Phil’s ear. I thought this was pretty nice but Phil had picked up a bad vibe because the director was very anxious to get us committed to starting school in the morning and both of us felt uncomfortable not having shopped around or checked prices. Being Sunday, it turned out that there were street vendors aplenty so we ate quite well (I had a few chorizo tortillas, some hot fruit punch, and enjoyed both thoroughly). And it’s a good thing, because we needed that sustenance to find our way back to the hostel. No exaggeration, it probably took us an hour and a half for what should’ve been a 5 minute walk. Everything looks the same as it is, especially at night, and it didn’t help that many of our navigational landmarks were duplicated in the exact same style elsewhere. At one point, we later discovered, we’d stood 15m from the hostel without realizing it and setting off again in an entirely wrong direction thanks to the guidance of a local Tourist Police. He probably had a good laugh. It also didn’t help that the hostel is entirely unmarked, with only a red rope to signify its existence.
We eventually returned to the hostel and watched Catch Me If You Can with some of the other rather quiet backpackers before turning in. The next morning, after a hearty breakfast, Phil and I set out again, first to the ATM and then to do some more school hunting. The ATMs here, it turns out, not only charge you from $3-$5 per transaction, but they rob you blind on the exchange rate. Quetzales for US dollars are currently 8.24:1. The US dollar is pretty much on par with the Canadian dollar at the moment, and yet the exchange rate they give you is at or below 7.5:1. Meaning, taking out $100 in Q costs $9 in currency exchange plus the ATM fee. Ouch. The next stop was finding a school. Phil was dead-set against Sevilla and I felt a bit endebted but otherwise indifferent, and in any case I wanted to check out the options and prices, so we wandered through any number of schools. The two that most appealed to us were San Jose, which has an absolutely edenic setting in a verdant courtyard with fountains and so on, and Ixchel, where Phil’s friend had studied, which also had a decent setting and most importantly, someone we felt was there to make sure we were happy with our program. The price at Ixchel was a bit high, but San Jose didn’t provide a homestay option and seemed a bit, perhaps, stodgy. By the end of a day of hunting, we discovered that we could study at San Jose for $90 and get the homestay elsewhere (stay with a local family, and three meals six days of seven) for $60. We took that back to Ixchel where we managed to get them down to $100 for the school (4 hours, 5 days) and $70 for the homestay. Having pushed as hard as we could, we knew that was their lowest offer, but we did manage to convince them to throw in a free day of study at the beach IF they had three others going. I only report these numbers because when we were trying to research elsewhere on the net we found nobody quoting prices they paid. And I’ll add, for the record, that you can definitely study cheaper but we were comfortable here and bit the bullet. You win, Aliz, you win.
It was our last night at the hostel and we met some cool people on a tight timetable and managed to convince them to visit Semuc Champey, which wasn’t hard once Phil and I got reminiscing. And the next day, school was in. We started everyday at 9 AM and would finish at 1 PM, which would give us afternoons and evenings free (aside from homework) to explore Antigua. Each student has a separate teacher and I managed to get Luis, who is probably one of the best teachers they have not only from my own experience but also according to the receptionist (Aliz) and the family we stayed with. We have a little palapa with a whiteboard and a desk and spend some time conversing and practicing speech and the rest working on grammar and vocabulary. The first day started with a conversation which, I think, was mostly to gauge my level of comprehension. My “Learn Spanish in 20 Days” book clearly paid off as I was able to hold a grammatically barren conversation and, at the very least, skip some basics. Luis was great. He didn’t waste my time doing things I could do on my own at home, we would only work on, say, conjugating ‘ir’ verbs until he was satisfied I understood the concept and then we’d move on. Our conversations were a lot of fun, too, he has a great sense of humour and we joked all sorts of things. One day he brought a 40-page tome of “vulgarities” in Spanish for me to have a peek at. Now that’s education! I realize now, at the end of the week, he was letting a lot of terrible grammar slip until I had learned the rules to speak better. Obviously it’s better to let me practice using words and putting together sentences solely in the present tense than nitpicking about things I don’t understand.
Anyway, the school was great. The teachers were all friendly and seemed quite qualified, and we got what we’d wanted, which was some basics in Spanish. I think that a few things could be done to facilitate mingling between the students and encouraging social programs. They have lots of activities but nobody ever goes on them, it seems. Free but unadvertised was a 5.2 on the Richeter Scale earthquake after classes, though we had no idea it was happening. Of course activities are secondary and anyway, we had our hands full studying. Our homestay was, though not in the safest feeling area, equally great. We had a wonderful family with great food and they were always trying to continue our education at the dinner table, not to mention more joking around. Llourda made some great food and was always happy to accommodate – how her spine is still straight after all that bending-over-backwards I’ll never know. Marla (her aunt) teaches Spanish and was happy to turn her grammatical knowledge loose on us all hours of day and night. And Hugo, Llourda’s husband, was a riot. The man cracked us up consistently, which is no mean feat considering that he would often have to explain, word-by-word, his jokes. That we’d still be laughing afterwards is impressive.
As well, we shared the house with six Koreans. I was reticent at first, as I imagined a situation where they’d all talk amongst themselves and we’d be left out, but this was not the case at all. They were boisterous (especially Chino... por FAH-vor!), friendly, and spoke Spanish as much as possible. Some were pretty quiet, definitely, and Pablo was borderline antisocial as he was struggling to finish a book that was to be published in South Korea, but we had a lot of fun with them. Sure, they ate like it was a street cart in Shanghai, by which I mean loudly, but different culture, different habits, and they were too nice to get annoyed. We went out with Helen one night to Riki’s, a little bar where the sole remaining member of the Buena Vista Social club still croons and drums as people everywhere salsa, and she was far more entertaining than I’d expected since she was quite quiet around the dinner table. We went with Chino another night and bought five litres of beer then sat around the table joking. Phil and I lost it when we were being taught that muy mono is a way of saying ‘cute’ and Fabian was trying very hard to keep up pouring through the dictionary like a mad man. You may have had to been there or at least know Fabian, but the sheer concentration on his face as he pieced together and said to Hugo, “Tu.... es.... (long pause) mono” which translates to “You ... are a... (long pause) monkey.” The timing was just right as Hugo paused then gave a dismissive “Nnnnnno.” Yeah, I guess you had to be there but man did we laugh. Not at Fabian, of course, for in truth our Spanish is probably less than his, but because of the effort and Hugo’s response.
In the evenings and afternoons, we’d wander the streets and explore a bit, or we’d stay in and study, trying to balance being a visitor and working. On the weekend, the Koreans were gone to Tikal (and we missed them) and Phil and I climbed Pacaya Volcano, an active volcano not too distant from Antigua. For security and simplicity, we went with a group which meant 15 of us slogging along uphill at a rather slow pace. I would’ve been more annoyed except that my stomach was not exactly loving life and my own pace wouldn’t have been much faster. We left Antigua at 2 PM. Or more correctly, we were picked up at 2 PM, left around 3, and arrived around 4:30. We should’ve bought marshmallows or at least a stick but sadly we didn’t. We set off with the group making our way first through forest, always with a spectacular view of clouds below and Volcan de Agua looming in the distance like Mount Doom. Eventually we reached the black cinder top, ash and sharp-as-nails rock and pebbles which were more tricky to climb. Soon, we noticed that the rocks we were walking on were giving off a pretty impressive amount of heat. And then, over the rise, a river of molten lava spurting out the middle of a rock and flowing down the mountainside. Obviously lava is hot, but the amount of heat it was radiating was incredible. Trying to get close enough for a photo meant enduring air that was probably around 60 C – just hot enough to not immediately withdraw. This was from a distance of maybe 5 metres away. Closer than that was not bearable, certainly not long enough to take a proper photo. Some people had sticks that were spontaneously combusting without ever touching the lava. Others, marshmallows. I wanted to buy a marshmallow from a girl that had a bag but without a stick it was pretty futile. So we watched, postured for photos, and waited to hear “Pantera!” meaning our group was going down.
The descent was at dusk and passed into night. Having a headlamp is definitely recommended. We saw some people just beginning the hike up, presumably to stay the night and see what would’ve been a fantastic sunrise. I’m sure the lava would’ve been incredible in the dead of night, too, and maybe they were going to get closer to the top than we did. Pacaya, it seems, is more safe than we’d originally thought but what can you do? We went out that night to Monoloco which is a bit more pricey but we were talked into staying by a fellow Canadian at the bar that is opening up a very cool-sounding surf hotel/hostel called “The Salty Beaver” in Sapiaco. He offered us a lift down there but we’d then miss Atitlan and Xela, not to mention Phil’s ears prohibit water for a week or so more. There was also another character that was quite drunk and mostly funny though toward the end annoying “I’m a surfer!” he’d exclaim and then show us a tattoo. Sure, fine, great. “Don’t laugh, I’m American” he’d then say in a very broken English which, to be fair to us, is kind of funny. “Peeets-boorg!” And eventually he was escorted from the bar as the belligerence:humour ratio grew too high.
Sunday was market day and Phil and I strolled around looking at various crafts, shirts, and so on. I bought a sweater for Xela (turns out it gets quite chilly at night) for 60Q ($7) and Phil bought a bunnyhug and a few other things as well. 5:30, the Riders were in the Grey Cup game and we were determined to find it but destined to be disappointed. American satellite will show Women’s College Volleyball, Billiards, Lawn Bowling, and worse but we couldn’t even find mention of the Grey Cup. ESPN, you’ve just made the list. Don’t laugh, DirectTV. You’re on it, too. We seriously searched for an hour, flipping through satellite channels in the six-or-so bars that have satellite in town. Dejected, we grabbed some street food, amazed at the number of people in the streets and not knowing it was a Christmas celebration in the Central Square. So we returned home to keep an eye on the game via a really slow internet connection, gave up assuming we’d won with so little time left in the fourth quarter, only to discover the final score. Montreal won and I can’t imagine how mad I would’ve been to watch this, especially a penalty for too many players on the field. To quote Phil, though it’s hard to get the intonation quite right in writing, “Really?”
Our last day of school came and went in a flash. We said our farewells, stopped by the post office to mail our first round of postcards, and came home for lunch with the Koreans now returned. It was a lot of fun to have them back, and they were happy to be here, seemingly having been starved and abused on their weekend trip to Tikal and Rio Dulce. After dinner, we invited everybody out for a drink including the newly arrived American professor and Aussie chica. To show you how cool a family they were, Hugo and Llourda even came out with us for beer and tequila. And schenanigans. It was a really fun night and I was surprised how quickly I had become attached to them all. As always with travel, you have to try to appreciate that you were fortunate enough to meet (much less spend a week with) such great people rather than dwell on the fact that you probably will never see them again. Antigua would be a great memory, but still more great places, people, and stories lie on the road ahead. Next stop, Lake Atitlan.
Phil and I almost slept in and missed our taxi to the bus station, but we did wake up and were just walking out the door when Sergio (who owns the tour company) pulled up in his golden chariot. Well, the gold was rusting and the chariot was a Toyota, but it got us to the bus station with plenty of time to spare. Which was lucky because contrary to what we’d been told, the shuttle didn’t just fit 8 people; There were probably about 12 seats including the driver, and only three left when we arrived. Having seats full didn’t stop them, however. Not even close. By the time we left Flores, that van had 24 people in it. We were crammed like sardines, some people had to sit on the floor, others stood hunched, and even sitting was not pleasant. The ride was five hours of Asian-style hell (this is an experience very common over there) before we arrived in Coban. From there, a short walk to find the other bus station in which they attempted to really gouge us and succeeded in partially gouging us and a mediocre lunch before the fun began. The road to Lanquin, a small town outside Semuc Champey, is 61 km long and takes two hours. The reason is a combination of a narrow, windy, hilly road and, I suspect, the fact that the scenery is so beautiful that even the driver can’t help but drive slowly and stare.
We arrived in the town very happy. I had no idea that Guatemala was this beautiful. We were surrounded on all sides by lush green mountains in a small village. They call it Guatemala’s green heart and I have no reason to dispute it. The people, though occasionally wary, are not hostile and in some cases downright friendly. It might not seem like the attitudes of strangers makes a big difference, but we felt immeasurably better here than we had in Flores from nothing more than people returning our hellos, nodding, maybe even smiling, and occasionally even greeting us themselves. A little boy came up to us and led us to El Retiro, the hostel we were hoping to stay at, without us asking and with no ulterior motive aside from perhaps practicing his English. Very friendly. And the hostel! El Retiro was the best place we’d been so far and we knew that before we’d even checked in. There’s a small stone path leading down through the grass and flowers past some small palapas (huts with thatch roofs) to la palapa grande where you check in. It’s right on a rather fast flowing river which has a rope strung across it to hold on to and float, has a free sauna, internet, hot showers, and small 4-person dorms. The cost? 25 Q or $3/night, at least until the last night when it went up to 35 Q for the beginning of the high season. Muy baracha!
By the time we arove, it was about 3 PM. That gave us enough time to throw on our trunks and jump in the river. It was very cold but refreshing. We got talking with one of the bartenders, a Canadian named Roberto, who let us know that in honour of the hostel having a guest named Dieter – which was also the name of the other bartender – they were doing 2-for-1 Dieter Libres all night. Two Dieters, two-for-one. Makes sense to me. And the drinks were doubles, too. Priced at 15 Q ($2), you can’t beat this price. That night was a big BBQ but it was 50Q ($8.50) so we gave that a pass and headed up into the village for a local meal. We were plenty full with decent food and an ice cold coke in a bottle for half that price, which, if you want to understand it in backpacker terms, means that by walking to town we’d saved enough to pay for our stay that night.
Or to almost pay for four double Dieter Libres later that evening. We met Dieter, the bartender, and he is probably the most fun person in this country. I’m pretty confident in that assertion even knowing this is only my second stop, because he is simply that crazy. And the Dieter Libres, which, as you probably guessed, is just a Cuba Libre, were delicious. I’ve had them back home and hated them, and I now realize that this is because we don’t use good rum. I always thought Bacardi was pretty good but now that I’ve been here in the Caribbean, I realize how great rum can be (we were drinking Quetzalteco, btw). We sat next to a really loud (but good fun) woman from California (the travellers’ state, it seems) and her daughter as well as our new neighbours, Jez (short for Jeremy) and Amanda from England and Vancouver Island respectively. Stories were told and we all had a great time visiting.
The reason everybody comes here is Semuc Champey, a village 12 km further along the road, or more specifically, a collection of waterfalls near there. If you can picture it, there is a fairly powerful river the flows under a really huge limestone bridge. Some of the water, however, runs along the top of the bridge, forming lots of small waterfalls and pools along the way that are great for swimming, jumping, and oohing-and-ahhing. We did the tour through our hostel for 150Q ($19) which is pretty fair considering a return trip is 30, admission is 50, and you need a guide to go in the caves anyway. Yes, the tour includes a small candle-lit tour through some caves where you climb a waterfall, do a jump and swim and wander along in the dark. It was really slow going but good fun. Rachel, a girl from New York that was staying in our dorm room, was at the front with me on the way back and we put out our candles and made our way back well ahead of the pack in the dark – after the waterfall descent of course. That was kind of cool, it gave you an idea of how much it would suck to actually be in a cave with no light trying to find a way out. You hear a dull roar but how BIG is that waterfall? Nevermind how you’re going to get down. We had the advantage of having already been through this part of the cave and knowing but it was still easy to get a little worried.
After the cave, we wandered upstream and, after a few jumps off a river swing, we came upon a scene that I can only describe as perfect. Idyllic, edenic, tranquil, and, somehow, special. This was the exit of the underground river, a cave mouth topped with green grass, swaying ferns and dotted with palms. This was also the place that the pools that make up Semuc Champey flow back into the river, spreading across the green crown into two or three waterfalls and also creating a curtain of water dripping down. I have to be this descriptive because unfortunately, my camera was still in the small office where we’d left our things to go in the cave. The only one with a camera was Phil with his increasingly popular waterproof Olympus and the lighting didn’t really cooperate. I think I would’ve come all this way just to see this one place and feel what I did when we came around that corner. But this was an afterthought, a place to climb into the top of the cave mouth and jump 20 ft into the raging water below. Of course I did it (though I passed on the taller 12m/35 ft jump) and the water is moving so fast that your legs are being swept downstream before your whole body has even entered the water. What a rush.
Phil had landed really sideways on the river swing and gotten dizzy but to his credit he “manned up” which we’ve become fond of saying to egg each other on (thanks Chris Potrykus) and did this jump anyway. He was in pretty bad shape and I had to hold him on the log where we were all sitting until he recovered. He couldn’t hear out of it for a while and felt fluid coming out of it which apparently relates back to a childhood injury, but pretty scary stuff. From there, at last, we finally went to Semuc Champey, making our way up a hill to El Mirador (the viewpoint) before descending to the pools. They were beautiful turquoise, with plenty of pools that we basically had it to ourselves, even if there were quite a few of us. This was the reason we’d travelled two hours along a bumpy, windy road to an out of the way village, and it was worth it without equivocation. But what I do want to say is that even though Semuc itself is awesome, everything else here from the road in to the friendly village to the amazing hostel to the river to the caves, waterfalls, and spectacular setting makes a good experience an unforgettable one. Oh, and the really cheap drinks. We LOVED this place.
I’d been talking to one of the guys that works at the hostel and he mentioned that a family he was friends with had a great restaurant up the road about 3 k, and we could get a free ride there from some other locals that are friends of theirs too. So we went and asked them and they were more than happy to throw us in the back of their truck and take us to dinner. It was a long and dark 3km but in spite of a little fear Amanda was feeling (especially after passing a slaughterhouse) we were loving it. How awesome is it to get a ride to a little family’s restaurant that is definitely not on the tourist trail? We got there and were even more delighted that their kids took a liking to us. Somehow, I’ve ended up doing most of the talking in Spanish for us, although I think that at least Amanda’s Spanish is just as good as mine. So in particular I made a friend in little Antony. Dinner was great, too, a beef steak with a few sides and homemade picante that was so good that I put far too much on. When we finished our 20 Q meal, they happily returned us to our hostel and Antony came along for the ride, too. That night was meant to be quiet but it didn’t last long. Dieter came and sat with us, after all. And then I introduced everybody, including the four Danes sitting next to us, to the song Roxanne. And then the Jenga came out. That pretty much sealed the deal for everybody, but especially Amanda since she, after instituting a rule that you must stand on one leg for your turn, was bested by her own fiendishness and sent the tower tumbling. That meant three shots of tequila and she went from sober to almost instantly drunk which is quite obvious because her voice goes up in pitch two octaves.
The next day was a designated day of rest, not because we needed it, but because our location and the abundance of hammocks demanded it. In fact, I’m writing this right now swinging slightly in a hammock in the shade with the river providing that oddly soothing white noise below. I’ve decided that every task is better in a hammock, but especially using my netbook. And even after a day of ‘chilling’ by the water with another girl named Lauren from Canada that we met the night prior and a couple from Holland, we were agreed to stay yet another night here for more of the same. By we, I mean Amanda, Jez, Phil, and myself, as they’ve become a permanent part of our coterie. Jez and I walked into town after enough of the 'relaxing' life and ran across some sort of local party and then some very friendly kids that acted as personal language tutors while I hunted the best photo spots. Eventually, Jez and I returned home and we all went out for dinner again to that same restaurant, this time with Dieter, Lauren, and her boyfriend Dustin. She was a vegetarian and we knew from the previous night that they had no vegetarian food, which I had told her earlier in the day and reminded her about again when I found out that they had changed their mind to come.
There were three choices for dinner that night. Chicken Milanes which I guess was a breaded breast, Roast Chicken, and a Chicken “Mix” which had pork and beef as well. That was all we could distill from her descriptions. My Spanish still isn’t great but even with local guru Dieter there, we couldn’t exactly get an accurate description. I had thought I was getting a stirfry but it was a kebab, a skewer of meats, tomato, and onion and was easily the best of the three options. The beef in particular was so good I had to share a little just to brag to the others how wise I had been in my random choice. But, of course, Lauren threw a fit when she asked for a vegetarian meal and was offered ‘ensalada’. "I guess I’ll just walk home then. Or maybe they can give me a ride. You guys do what you have to do." That sort of thing. I was deeply embarrassed and even more annoyed because we'd warned her. Twice. She kept saying no and looking like she was about to cry while the woman was offering to make her stewed veggies or any number of custom dishes. “No, I’ll go.” “It’s very delicious, I make it with a cream sauce...” “Oh no, that’s fine. Just drive me home.” “Tell me what you want to eat and I will make it” “Oh no, that’s OK.” And so on until she finally gave in and sat back down proving that even as unthinking as she was, she had managed to embarrass herself.
If I seem harsh, remember that not only was she TOLD that they don’t have any vegetarian food, but she insisted on coming. And then on attempting to guilt trip us and her boyfriend into leaving with her. And on asking for a free ride there and back to boot. I can only think that she had hoped to make some sort of economic point at our expense, to prove to the restaurant that they should have vegetarian food by losing all of our business. But there is no way I would’ve got up to leave with her and even her boyfriend was feeling the same. Anyway, moving on from that little vent session, dinner was great and Antony was hilarious. He definitely has a crush on Amanda (he’s 7, by the way) and, for example, brought her a napkin to wrap around her cold beer and keep her hand warm, brought her bananas, ran around the yard only to return and ask if she wanted him to do it again, and sat there staring at her. At the end of the night, he got a box and tried to give her most of his toy soldiers, the rest of which he wanted me to have along with a Canadian flag for the soldiers to plant. I had to politely tell him the Canadian flag was for him to remember us but he wanted me to have it and the soldiers too. I kept one little guy in the end and maybe I’ll take pictures of him in exotic places and send them to him.
I definitely didn’t want to party that night. But – you guessed it – we did anyway. It was ladies night, we still had Deiter with us, and we should’ve known it was going to get sloppy. Phil was given a bra and two t-shirts to stuff it with, I was given a hat, a flower, and a very shiny gold shirt, and Jez got a spaghetti strap number with a wig. This was about the craziest/most fun night we had, with people dancing in the rafters, falling asleep beside the river, attempting Michael Jackson moves (me, yup, it was bad), and more. On top of all that, it was an Australian guy named Guy’s birthday and that sealed the deal for the night. Him wearing a skirt didn’t help matters, but it was pretty funny to see him going around to the girls, tapping them politely on the shoulder, and then flashing them. Their reactions varied from horror to big grins. And we were happy we’d stayed another night, because the next morning was a little shaky for most (I actually was pretty okay considering, but Jez was... not).
Our final day here was still more relaxing, and I used it to study my Spanish more. We had lunch with a couple Dutch girls, one of whom was deaf and anybody who thinks I’m brave traveling alone or in this part of the world should have met her. We got some sun by the river, and went into town that evening for a delicious stewed beef dinner. I had gotten chatting with the owner of the hostel that day and he needed his website updated, so I did that for him in the evening – it took about 20 minutes – and he paid for my shuttle to Antigua in return (100Q). Nice. I really really didn’t want to go out this evening but I did have to say goodbye to Dieter and Amanda, who was staying here longer and rafting to Rio Dulce (which sounds like a great trip but not in the right direction). And I ended up dancing on one leg behind the bar with Anna, a 6’4 German girl that has been bartending here for a couple weeks. The staff are great and are a big reason this place is so awesome. Particularly, I will miss Deiter, that crazy little Guatemalan that we partied with all the time, and it’s too bad we didn’t get to know Anna earlier. But off to other places and other faces.
Phil and I were three miles from the border of Belize and Guatemala, with a vengeful sun beating down on us and the air feeling like a convection oven. We were leaving the town of Succotz fully loaded with our backpacks and planning to walk to the border and (hopefully) grab a local “chicken” bus on the Guatemala side into the town of Flores. This we would use as our base for exploring Flores and surrounding towns as well as a trip up to the legendary Mayan ruins of Tikal further north. There was nothing to do but start walking, but it didn’t take many steps to realize it was going to be a miserable hike in this heat and so laden. A taxi offered us a ride for $5 Belize each which we declined nonetheless. We continued on. Vehicles were coming up on us from behind and I thrust my thumb out in what I hoped was an acceptable gesture for hitchhiking and the third and final truck in the pack pulled over and waved us in. We ran.
We ran towards the truck, of course, not away from it. A young man in a straw hat stepped out from the back and gave us a hearty greeting. I recognized that accent! Alabama. “Are you guys heading for the border?” I asked. “We sure are, want a lift?” he offered, and we excitedly accepted. He jumped in the back of the truck box with us and we drove well over 3 miles to the border while getting to know our host. He and his father (in the cab) were heading to Flores and were happy to give us a lift all the way there, two hours away. That was a great turn of events. Not only was transportation free, but it was right away, it was fast (maybe a bit too fast at some points) and we had a great view of Belize receding from us after we went through the border rigamarole (and paid our $20ish fees to leave the country). Although hard on the butts, the ride to Flores was great. We took our backpacking up a notch.
Arriving in Flores, we checked ourselves into Los Amigos hostel, which costs about $3.75 / night for a dorm bed. While I was waiting for Phil to get ready, I overheard some people who had just had their camera and cash taken at gunpoint by two guys that were driving by on a motorbike. They were fine and the girl had the guts to remove the memory card before handing over the camera, but that’s a scary story to hear in a town you’re about to amble around. I later discovered that they had been swimming with their money and were fanning it out to dry, which probably isn’t the most discreet behaviour but even so... a person has to be careful, and having Phil around still hopefully helps deter these sorts of encounters. We definitely had no problems as we wandered around, but unfortunately we arrived on a Sunday which meant many things were closed and it felt a little dead. We went for a beer in a restaurant overlooking the lake to the west, strolled some more, and came back to our hostel to visit, shower, eat, and have a few more drinks with other backpackers. I quite like the hostel, it’s got a very communal layout that really encourages fraternizing, though it does also segment people into smaller cliques too. We ate dinner here (nice but pricey), Skype’d home, and visited with some others before heading to bed.
The next day, Phil and I took a much needed recoup day. By which I mean we made no plans aside from getting laundry done and going to the bank to finally get some Quetzales, the Guatemalan currency. The bank is about 3km away, near the airport and in the pouring sun it felt much longer. Getting my traveller’s cheques cashed was a bit of an ordeal, standing in the wrong line, and most annoyingly, watching somebody who had clearly never done this before attempt it – for over half an hour. There is no magic to traveller’s cheques. They’re a guarantee from American Express to pay $50 US if you have a properly signed copy and some indication that you’ve seen proper ID. Most people, you sign it and print your name and passport number on the back, perhaps signing it again too. Then they give you the equivalent amount (minus commission hidden in the exchange rate) of local currency. Done. 3 minutes. At this bank, it was, without exaggeration, 45. Why they have to detain you so long while they do who knows what is beyond me. But eventually I was flush with Quetzales and we walked back towards the hostel.
On the way, there was a little shop/restaurant that we’d stopped at to make sure that there was indeed a bank this far out. She was very nice and helpful and it looked local and cheap so we stopped back to have lunch there. This may well have been the best thing we did in Flores. Although there was a shop front from which the woman sold drinks, she did the cooking in her home kitchen, conveniently located next door. The lunch, in my case a beefy cut of pork full of flavour, came with a bowl of soup (excellent!), home fries, and salad and a Dorado beer for 24 Q or $3. In contrast, the meal at our hostel, which was an admittedly delicious though obviously cheaper skewer of veggies with rice cost 36 and beer an additional 15. The rest of that day was spent relaxing at the hostel and having dinner with a pretty cool doctor from California. We had to take the 7 AM bus to Tikal the next morning (60 Q) which is the Angkor Wat of the Mayan world, and so to prepare, Phil and I watched Apocalypto then crashed. I should mention that this movie, though completely ignorant of the timeline of history, and a project of Mel Gibson’s, far exceeded my expectations and further was great preparation for Tikal if only to stimulate our imaginations about the lives that had been led around the temples.
The ruins cost 150 (about $20) to enter unless you are Guatemalan, but you can’t be here and not see Tikal. Yes, it’s part of the “checklist” but it’s also an amazing site and worth every cent even considering that you have to wake early and pay an additional 60 for the hour long ride to get there. Tikal, like Angkor Wat, isn’t one temple or pyramid but a collection of many complexes spread throughout a very large area with large tracts of jungle between them. This is why everybody tries to go early, usually for sunrise: it’s not about getting a great sunrise photo, it’s about the wildlife living all around the area. But it’s pretty much inevitable that you’ll spot something whenever you go though, even if it’s just birds. The first bus back is at 12:30 which would’ve meant more time than we really wanted to spend there going at 5. 7:00 was perfect though 6:00 would’ve been acceptable since we did miss the northern “Q” complex in favour of sitting on top of Temple 5 for a long time. But I digress. I’ve wanted to see Tikal ever since I saw it in A New Hope which is nerdy but true. And it was great. We did see plenty of wildlife, especially some little anteater type creatures with long snouts. The temples were massive and impressive, and it wasn’t hard to imagine a population of 250,000 Mayans spread among these complexes (and presumably far beyond). I feel like I’m giving it short shrift here but I’m not sure what I can add aside from that it was excellent.
We got the bus to drop us off at that same restaurant for lunch on the way back (really good again) then spent the afternoon strolling around Flores. It’s a pretty nice place and they’re putting some serious effort into making it cleaner. We sat and had a mojito on the waterfront where they were putting in cobblestone and burying power lines, for example. Around sunset we watched some locals playing basketball (a serious game with two refs and a scorekeeper) in the park at the top of the town, had a quesadilla and booked a minibus to our next stop, Coban, for 90 Q including a taxi ride to the bus station at 5:30 AM. This was the best deal we could find (and 60 Q cheaper than the hostel was charging) and took some serious negotiating so your mileage may vary. From there, we would take another bus to Semuc Champey, a place that a friend from back home, Megan, had insisted we visit. South, mis amigos, south we go.
