FROM  LIVINGSTON TO TIKAL

 

You know you are leaving Belize and approaching Guatemala when Polynesian type huts start lining the shore.  The atmosphere becomes more casual, and perhaps in a contradictory sort of way more orderly as well.  Before being prepared, our Panga lands in Livingston – a small port town of 25,000 smack in the middle of what little coastline Guatemala shares with Honduras and Belize on the Caribbean side of that narrow stripe known as Central America. There are no roads leading to Livingston.  One can only access the Garifuna town by water.

 

Livingston is also the mouth or gateway to the Rio Dulce River.  Cruises leaving Livingston and headed upriver to the town of Rio Dulce encounter an “Adventureland” type atmosphere similar to that at Disneyland, with a spectacular gorge, tropical jungle sidewalls, and thatch roofed Polynesian huts lining the watercourse.  Most of these huts are custom homes or very large secondary homes.  Many are accompanied by expensive yachts and motorsailers, which seem out of place under the circumstances.  Since the cruise is on freshwater the entire distance, it is one of immense relaxation and perfectly smooth sailing conditions.  The sun never fails to show itself throughout.

 

Once ashore, and having passports checked, dining becomes the order of the day.  There are no shortage of suggestions.  Once off the boat, you are swarmed with suitors guiding you to a hotel, taxi, restaurant, souvenir shop, cambio booth, or … as they say … “Whatever you want.”  These pack hounds press in on you, until you either have to shove them away, or choose one just to get the others off your back.  They are worse than the guide wannabes in Tangiers.  Some pick up your bag through misplaced presumption, and have to be repeatedly scolded to “Let Go.”

 

Now at this point it is probably best to say something about Traveler Alliances.  They are frequent, necessary, fun, and build a sense of camaraderie on the road.  They last from 15 minutes to days.  Some turn into relationships, from all the stories traded over meals and drinks in various locales.  Sometimes, you sit and talk awaiting a bus or a ferry.  Sometimes you dine together.  Sometimes you share necessary scouting information.

 

Sometimes you stay at the same hotel or hostel, and then having established a comfort level, accompany each other to the day’s star attraction.  Places like Machu Picchu or Tikal or Chichen Itza.  Or Caulker Caye.  Sometimes you amicably part company, only to encounter each other once again further along your chosen path.  So even though you are flying solo, it does not mean you are without company.  Far from it, most of the time.

 

I walk outside the grab bagging porters’ sphere of influence close to the docks and seek out my own guide.  It is a brilliant find.  Joshua Trammell, fluent in both English and Spanish and close in several other languages, is a US Army disability retiree who came to Guatemala to stretch his dollar, then fell in love with the place.  When he doesn’t speak, he is virtually indistinguishable from any Garifuna along the Belize coastline just left behind.  He first directs me to the cash machine, then the bus line for subsequent tickets to Tikal, and finally a suitable eating place.  We avoid the waterfront.  At least the immediate waterfront where tourists are harvested by the locals like fish on a conveyor belt.

 

He directs  a group of us to Casa Nostra, run by Arizona expatriate Stuart Winand.  The small waterside restaurant specializes in fresh fish caught that day, and Italian style pizza.  After preparing the best pico de gallo and guacamole I’ve ever had and tostadas for a table of six (accompanied of course by the best mojito I have ever tasted), he told us the travails he must navigate to get his real mozzarella cheese from Guatemala City.  First, he must call in the order and check on supply levels.  Then he had to prepay the shipment via his bank, and include specific numbers such as weight, volume, and brand specificity.

 

Then he had to go to his bank and send a money transfer.  Then, back to his business to e-mail over a copy of the check paid to the bank, and the money transfer confirmation number receipt received from the bank.  The shipment could take anywhere from 3 to 5 days.  The ordering process could take 6 hours.  And the lure of theft is immense.  Said blocks can be worth half a month’s salary for the average Guatemalan, so security concerns and tracking are paramount in whatever arrangements are made.  All this, to serve up the finest pizza in all of Rio Dulce.

 

Many of us are going to Tikal through the southern back door.  So it is off to the local bus line for tickets.  Their timeline is off.  There is only one bus remaining.  It is not an express line with guaranteed seating.  It is a local bus.  But one that will still make the four hour journey to Flores (the gateway to Tikal).  Three hours yet to wait.  The time is spent at The Sun Dog, a seaside bar, one of many in these parts with a port to recharge the computer and wi-fi for internet access.  As long as you buy a beer occasionally, the proprietor remains quite happy with your patronage.

 

Finally, the bus arrives.  Only it is already full.  And people are not getting off.  I stand in line, to ensure my spot should space become available.  It does not.  Suddenly a middle aged woman in a native skirt dodges past my arm and tries to sneak past.  I sweep her backward.  Not on my watch!  “Esperando para tres horas,” I tell her.  (I am waiting three hours).  “Debe esperar tambien.”  (You must wait also).  The interior of the bus ingests a bit, leaving a hole in the bus vestibule.  I am able to get my foot inside the door.  Suddenly this same woman dives underneath me, then rocks her hips to maneuver me out of the way.

 

Then she reaches back for three children (I find momentarily they are not even hers), and places them on the window mantle in front of the bus driver.  I am left on one of the steps next to the exit door, with no handholds, and her occupying prime real estate.  Several others are still between me and the door.  One bus employee who collects payment from those leaving the bus, has his bum sticking out into traffic.  Overall, twelve of us are stuck between the driver and the doorway.  This is what you get, with the Chicken Bus.  Nobody is refused. Worst that can happen to you is simply that the driver won’t stop for you at roadside.

 

This condition is endured for two and one-half hours.  Each time the bus stops to let a passenger off, those of us in the vestibule must depart.  Then grapple our way back onto the bus, making sure to avoid letting new interlopers push us aside and get to our hard-won spots ahead of us.  So we develop another alliance of sorts, settling into a customary pecking order, about who got there first, and what step they belong on now, and who has earned the right to stand in a flat spot and not have to perch themselves storch-like on one leg.  The lady on the dress routingly uses my feet as launching pads.

 

At Poptun, halfway into the trip, a large number of passengers depart.  But the aisles are so crowded with standing room only folk, these are quickly snapped up.  I interview those near the front, as to who will depart, and when, and how many seats they will vacate.  As a result of this, I am finally positioned to let a couple mothers with small children deboard, but avoid letting others slide in from behind to take my new seat.  Not that they don’t try.  But they don’t stand a chance again somebody who played regularly in pads for 14 years and once played professionally for the Denver Broncos for one week.  I have effectively won the Chicken Bus lottery …

 

Our bus arrives in Flores at 11 PM.  It is a lovely city of 30,000 that is spectacularly located on an island at the end of a 500 meter causeway into the middle of Lago de Peten Itza.  You can walk around the whole island in less than an hour.  It is about 36 miles from Tikal. There are more hotels and restaurants here than hookers at a political convention.  Almost all of them ring the water, and every single one is inviting.  But there will be no dinner this night.  Just a catchup on much needed sleep.  The big prize awaits those of us who have allied for the day, to visit Tikal.

 

We are set upon by a hustler named … what else but …  Larry.  He assures us in mixed English and Spanish that the people he will set us up with will take us direct, provide the lowest cost round trip, have buses with bathrooms, and provide an English speaking guide for a minimum of at least eight visitors.  He doesn’t realize most of us have already consulted one or more of the numerous guidebooks that give proprietary details about major spots like Tikal.  He quotes a price of about 150 quetzels (just short of 20 dollars, the Q exchanging at about 8:1 to the dollar).  It is another $150 quetzels to gain admittance to the park.

 

He seems too eager, too anxious to close the deal.  Very mindful of Rene, my slick airport handler back in Cancun who sent me to Cuba with nearly the last of my cash, knowing full well I’d have a difficult time accessing additional money in Cuba.  Won’t let me out of his sight.  I tell him I will do some research and let him know my decision in the morning. And the others can make their own decisions.

 

In the morning, a local tourist office around the corner from my modest hotel provides round-trip tickets for 60 quetzels.  I will get my own guide.  Larry counter offers, throwing in transport as part of a package deal to Palenque the following day for 260 additional quetzels.  This time he assures me not only is it the best price, but the only outfit going to Palenque at all.  And that only three tickets are left.  That would include the bus to the Mexican border, river trip across the border, and bus trip beyond to the next major Mayan Temple and archeological ruin on my bucket list.

 

By now, once burned and twice shy, I know this number is inflated and will be at the top of the food chain.  There is nowhere to go but down in price.  Larry is the ceiling.  I will find my floor.  And muse in the meantime just how this hideously transparent man manages to have such up-to-date information at all times about exactly what the art of the possible is here at any given moment.