FROM TIKAL TO PALENQUE

 

 

I will miss this charming little town of Flores, with a new discovery around every corner.  It personally delights me, being surrounded by water, and having more restaurants and hotels per capita than Paris.  My wakeup call for the bus out to Palenque comes at 4:40 AM.  The bus leaves promptly at 5. Unusual for these parts.  Those of us who have banded together for this leg of the journey already know it will be a long day.  We are headed into frontier territory, hardscrabble turf that makes DogPatch look like 5^th Avenue.

 

First comes the three hour leg to the Mexican border in a 15-passenger collectivo.  Mercifully sleep prevails along the way.  Then a stop just short of the border for a customs check.  Guatemala charges us $5 quetzales once again for the privilege of leaving.  Then a short continuation hop to a point close to where the Rio de La Pasion joins the Rio de Salinas in that same vehicle.  Afterward, we transfer to long dugout motorized canoes, and the fun really begins.  It is at first, a jaunty upriver run to the Mexican side that takes about half an hour.  The names on either side are not mentioned to us, and signs do not reveal this information.  These transfer stations are smaller than villages.

Money change artists are thicker on both sides than English bucaneers around a Spanish treasure port.  You can tell these guys are making bank changing pesos into quetzales (and vice versa) by their tightly pressed jeans and clean white shirts.  Instead of the usual peasant garb, they wear fine watches, have lizard skins boots, carry thick rolls of money, and drive away in late-model motorcycles.  They are a very confident and hurried lot.

 

Once on the Mexican side, we disembark into thick mud and a steep uphill climb with baggage to a waiting customs area. There is no line or reason to the process here, just present your passport, then retreat to fill out a form, and then present your passport with said form once again to the single customs officer.  He is handling a line of thirty people.  Those who are most shrill, get the quickest attention.  Meanwhile, taxi drivers present themselves and offer to take us on a ride.  None of them speak English.  We do not understand that they are part of the transport system to the nearby collectivo station, and therefore refuse their offer.  “Our ride is included in our payment already,” we tell them.

 

Much time is lost in this misunderstanding.  By being divided into fours, our group is now badly fractured.  Those who had counted on others for translation are now cut from the herd and driving solo.  None of us has any idea what is going on.  When the taxis arrive and we find the collectives again, many from our group are missing.  They eventually arrive.  But in the meantime, their seats are filled by cash paying Mexicans.  They pretend not to know English, and refuse to budge.  They do not know or care we are all supposed to remain together and all seats are already accounted for.  We try to get them removed from the bus.  The collective drivers and station manager just stand back and laugh.

 

Finally, when we are all assembled, we are three seats short.  A German woman named Susan who is traveling solo with her two young kids, appears to be isolated.  There are no seats for her.  And there is a miscount with the voucher written up by the travel agency arranging our trip.  There are reallytwenty-five of us, but the voucher only says twenty-four.  So the station manager demands more money.   We argue.  We explain.  We cajole.  I take her luggage in hand and personally put it at the top of our van.  We make it clear we are going on strike and not leaving without her and her kids.  The demand for more money continues.  The collective drivers cross their arms, stand back, and laugh at the Chinese fire drill in front of them.

 

Finally, we cram Susan and her kids between the interlopers who have jammed our bus.  We tell the driver to leave.  He is shown (but not given) cash.  He seems to take the hint.  His eyes light up and suddenly all is okay again.  Our fourth leg of the trip begins with us vastly overweight and on potholed roads worse than those headed to Hopkins four days earlier.  It continues for about ten miles in this fashion.  Sleep or rest becomes impossible.  Dental work becomes self-inflicted on this crater-riven nightmare.  And just when any momentum arrives, the never ending speed bumps which dominate both Guatemala and Mexico put in another appearance.

 

We are supposed to arrive at Palenque at 1 PM.  Instead, we arrive at 3:30.  Way too late to make it this day out to the Mayan archeological ruins and temple complex at Palenque.  Luckily, from there we find an English speaking handler named Rodrigo very quickly.  He shows a group of six of us a local hotel.  Then another.  And eventually a third.  We negotiate individual prices (always the fun part).  My needs list includes hot water (and one must always test for this in this neck of the woods), wi-fi computer access, and a fan.  This is necessary not only as heat mitigation, but to dry clothes that you wash in the shower or sink.  Quick drying nylon is best suited here.  I learned my lesson well in South America on this score.

 

Having secured hotel rooms, we wander as a group in search of cash machines (always), and then something to eat.  Quite by coincidence, while on such a walkabout, in the only television in evidence for a four-block radius, the Seattle Seahawks are playing the Washington Redskins in the first round of the NFL playoffs.   I spend the afternoon content and sassier than a prima donna soloist, watching the Hawks and their composed rookie quarterback Russell Wilson dismantle the Redskins, 24 to 14.  Seriously sleep deprived still, I retire to bed early.  A theme when on the trail when not catching up with blogging.

 

It is not all fun and games on the road.  There is work involved in trips of this magnitude.  Keeping track of expenses.  Taking notes, to remember names and details for later inclusion in posts.  Sending occasional e-mails back home.  Procuring money.  Procuring enough money.  Carrying luggage while checking out multiple hotels, and negotiating prices.  Translating.  Getting past the proverbial “Yes, of course” and the big smile to get at the real situation.  Blogging.  Posting.  Finding a suitable eating place.  Getting bathroom breaks.  Earning some sleep.  Investigating and then negotiating means of travel.

 

The latter task alone, is magnified by the desire of locals to get your business at almost any cost.  Does this bus go here (insert your chosen destination)?  How long does it take?  What does it cost?  You have to check multiple sources, for the truth is infrequently conveyed.  Or, perhaps I should say, reality takes on its own meaning.  The bus may go there, yes … but only after an out-of-the-way declination to a spot in the opposite direction.  Schedules are rare, and if posted, rarely conformed to.  Departures are late.  Arrivals are late.  Costs magically change, once aboard.  This is both the fun and the frustration of life on the road.  The one blessing is, that it always turns out to be an adventure.