PALENQUE

 

 

Our ever amoeba-like group flexes once again as to who is going to Palenque and when.  I can hardly keep my head on straight.  Things are moving so fast and I am so far behind writing about it, I feel like a Panzer Commander in WW II moving through France at breakneck speed.  I am also getting threats from home.  “Post: or else!”  Luckily I don’t have pets.  I think they would be stuffed and mounted by the time I arrived back in Seattle, due to my tardy dispatches.

 

The trip into the archeological ruins at Palenque is luckily quite short.  Perhaps half an hour, at most.  Arrangements are made almost immediately to share an English speaking guide (Jose Luiz) with a German couple from Bavaria, Heike and Klaus.  Palenque is a major site among Mayan ruins, and though it was on my bucket list, I did not think it approachable due to a long, roundabout approach circuit.  But when I found out there was a direct route from Tikal – however tortured – it went back on the front burner for putting in a visit.

The site was discovered in modern times in 1773 by Mexican families out searching for raw materials for chewing gum.  It held a population of close to 40,000 by 700 AD, with most of the population being domiciled in wooden houses in the valley surrounding Palenque.  Initial occupation of the site occurred somewhere around 100 BC.

 

I am really itching to find out what makes Palenque stand out, and unique compared to my other Mayan temple objectives: Chichen Itza, Tikal, and Copan.  And the answer is quite simple.  Accessibility, scope, and the fact this major Mayan monument was never a City-State.  It was always a graveyard.  Probably the largest in the world, at 25 square kilometers and containing over 1400 pyramids and supporting structures.  Only 1% have been excavated.

 

Unlike Tikal, which was a male-dominated settlement, Palenque has a distinct female energy to it.  Three rivers flow through or nearby the ruins.  Eighteen years ago, evidence was found of an extremely powerful female ruler called the Red Queen.  Unlike in Roman and Greek burials, where a pair of coins is laid across the deceased’s eyes to “pay the ferryman” for safe passage across the River Styx to the underworld, jade in the mouth is used for this purpose in the Mayan world.

 

The jade also had high levels of mercury.  Mercury has a nasty habit of killing DNA.  Only from the tooth material, were scientists able to determine this woman was not native to the area and was imported and married into Mayan Royalty.  She was also probably an albino.  Her royal housing was called “The Casa of The White Skin.”  The primitive solid rock platform bed chambers there were padded with feathers and jaguar skins.

 

As opposed to Tikal, there is also substantial evidence of bathrooms and kitchens in Palenque.  Royalty regularly enjoyed protein in the form of pigs, deer, fish, monkeys, and a local delicacy – armadillos.  The common folk ate tortillas, beans, and chiles.  Protein was not off limits to them.  The rule was simply whatever was caught, had to be shared 50% with royalty as a necessary contribution to their status as “living gods.”

 

Mayan royalty often intermarried within their immediate family.  The reason was to preserve privilege, and the exclusive passing of the torch for information, knowledge, and dynastic secrets.  The result was offspring with crossed eyes, six fingers, and club feet.  And sometimes an albino exterior.  This was not a mark of dishonor, however.  It was a badge of distinction.  You see this on stilas all over Palenque.  Bass reliefs of royalty with genetic irregularities make it appear as if these physical deformations are gifts of the gods.  It was not something that was hidden, but rather extolled.  Especially in Palenque.

 

I visit the Temple of the Red Queen, a relatively low-lying step pyramid with substantial hollowed out interior space dedicated to the monarch’s final resting place in a Mayan arched burial chamber.  Space for her servants (who were sacrificed upon the Red Queen’s death) are located immediately adjacent.  It is a large enclosure, well lit, and relatively spacey compared to the relatively confined spaces found in Tikal. 

 

Next door, adjacent, and much higher is the “Temple of The Inscriptions.”  This is the burial tomb of the Red Queen’s son, Pikal, who was invested as king in 615 AD at the age of 12 years old.  What is notable about this temple is the fact it has a Greek style summit altar, and it is aligned in such a way that on the winter solstice on Dec 21^st of each year light from the sun shines directly all the way through the summit temple for a period of seven minutes.

 

 

Across a broad walking path, perched above a structure divided into four main courtyards called El Palacio (The Palace) where royal housing was actually located, was the only tower in Mayan antiquity.  Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa (Italy), this tower was deliberately leaned just a bit to the south to compensate for Palenque’s position relative to the equator.

 

In that way, on December 21^st at noon, there would be no shadow from the son for perfect astrological alignment.  Still higher, is a royal reception court, where royalty from other kingdoms was received – either as guests, emissaries, or prisoners.  Stilas once again gave an indication of their status.  If the depicted enemy was partially bound and had paper in their ears instead of jade (a sign of humiliation), you knew they were prisoners and subject to ransoming prior to possible execution.

 

Nearby is a ball court (the closest modern day equivalent is jai alai), which the Mayans played with knees and elbows only.  An even more difficult pursuit than today’s soccer, with feet only.  We are told the game was not to create hierarchies and to promote sacrifice of the loser, but to replicate in circular motions and play patterns, the circuit of the sun through the heavens.

 

Among other stories told by additional stilas on the site, are the knowledge that other tall, white appearing peoples preceded the Spanish (which the Spanish attempted to destroy, along with over 1 million Mayan documents).  The story of corn is also told.  Corn was absolutely sacred to the Maya.  Their mythology dictated that humans emanated from corn.  Mayan babies of high birth standing, were in fact purposefully deformed at birth by a couple of pressed boards on the scalp for the first six months of their lives to make their craniums more elongated and thus corn shaped.

 

The highest point on the site, around a corner in a long curving staircased ascent, is the elegant Templo de La Cruz (Temple of The Cross).  It has the largest and most finely engineered roof comb temple found at Palenque.  Views from here over the The Palace, The Temple of the Inscriptions, and the Temple of The Red Queen.

 

Mayan civilization rose and fell, depending on the presence of abundant corn and abundant water.  Temple building by 900 AD had reached such a crescendo, that disproportionate areas of jungle had to be burned to support the building initiatives.  For every 1000 kilograms of limestone mortar necessary for binding stone together, 3000 kilograms of wood had to be burned.  This included the sacred ceiba tree, mahogany, and balsa.  As in Easter Island, this single minded pursuit actually prompted the demise of the society which had initiated this ambitious building program.  The lack of jungle resulted in a distinct weather change and nine year drought at Palenque.

 

 

 

Unlike at other Mayan strongholds, however, environmental adjustments were made.  Limestone and mortar were abandoned in favor of clay as the favored construction material.  Palenque continued to thrive until 900 AD – not nearly the lifespan of Tikal, but then it was never really a “living city.”

 

A short tour of the jungle aspects of Palenque is attempted, but I have a timeline to adhere to.  I attempt 15 minutes of this nonsense and only get rewarded with a coating of mud, before begging off with Jose to end the tour early.  He is only too happy to comply.  And from here, it is rush-rush to attempt making the bus for a six-hour bus ride to the highland colonial gem of San Cristobal de Las Casas.  Luckily, I have trained myself since high school as a result of long bus trips to away athletic contests, to sleep almost anywhere.  Sleep is possible on this occasion also.

 

Arrival is late at night, and yet the city beckons still.  It is an area I have long been told about, and long wanted to visit.  Like Merida in the Mexican Yucatan or Cuzco in the Peruvian highlands, it is a thrill to explore its cobblestone streets, well preserved missions and churches, and colonial Spanish architecture.  At the same time, it is surrounded in Chiapas state – site of a relatively recent Zapatista uprising led by Mayan peasants upset with the lack of political distribution or economic gain – with traditional villages without running water or electrical power.

 

The squares here are beautiful, spacious, and well lit.  Like Cuzco, there are no potholes.  They are simply not allowed to exist.  Mexican and Spanish music plays deep into the night, and by the time I am ready to retire at 1 AM the crowds have yet to dissipate.  Many of the streets are pedestrian only, and very visitor friendly.  I stop at a restaurant called The Terradentro, and enjoy the best tamales and enchiladas verdes I have ever tasted.  The tamales are made of corn maize, double crème, chiles, and pollo.  The enchiladas are of course adorned with green chili sauce, pollo, onions (cebollas), and a variety of spices.  It is truly a treat to write home about.

 

Even better, is the colorful daily public market which takes place about five blocks outside the main public square in San Cristobal, Plaza 31^st of March.  It is wrapped around the Templo de la Caridad on three sides, and is an absolute delight of local crafts, food booths, and bohemian displays of artistry showcasing both indigenous Mayan craftsmanship and works from creative types from nearby provinces.

 

I am most reluctant to leave this festive spot after two hours of gawking (and buying), but once again must conform to a schedule if I hope to make my primary objective for the day.  This bucket list highlight for the entire 45 days in Central America – the mysterious and beautiful Lake Atitlan, remains nearly ten hours away in a risky night ride return to Guatemala. 

 

 

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.

 

 

TIKAL

 

What separates majestic Tikal from the count of over 40,000 temples and settlements built by the Mayans during the height of their Central-America cultural supremacy from other top archeological ruins is the supreme verticality of the site, and its distinct remoteness.   The limestone city that housed 100,000 people at its peak around 1200 BC (when it was mysteriously abandoned, 300 years prior to the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores) is nearly 36 miles from Flores, in Guatemala’s remote Peten Province.

 

There is very little in between.  Interestingly, just as the peak of pyramid and temple building was taking place in the Mayan empire, English castle and cathedral construction was just beginning in earnest.  We owe much to each other, in this progression of musical chairs that plays out in the sharing of and transmission of knowledge.  Even if it is unconscious.   

 

Once you arrive at this hallowed site, you realize why the Mayans had to “go big, or stay home.”  They were astrologically tremendously astute people.  They counted heavily on precise sightings of the sun to plan their crops and validate their 23 different calendars.  To do this, however, they had to surmount the high jungle canopy that surrounded them here.  Only by reaching above the treetops, could Mayan priests and astronomers get accurate summer and winter solstice or spring and autumn equinox readings.  Their culture depending on this entirely.

 

So “go big” they did.  Many of the unique design temples approach 200 foot in height, towering above the landscape in ways that is very suggestive of strong male energy.   All of the monuments at Tikal are solid.  Few have hollow interiors, only a few having burial chambers secreted between their four classic walls and corresponding steep stairways on each face.

 

Over 4000 known buildings make up the 570 square kilometer site.   Only 20% have been restored or partially excavated.  Excavations began in 1956.  Those that have been are widely separated and can take from ten to thirty minutes to reach via remote hiking loops.  The lengthy walking contributes to a sense of remoteness here -- along with the overhead canopy which shades you as one traverses from spot to spot, and the sweet jungle rot which permeates the surroundings.  Contributing are the relatively constant sounds of native howler monkeys, parrots, and toucans.

 

As usual, I hire a professional guide to direct my attentions while making the visit.  Mine was Abel Luzero, a native Guatemalan who had been giving tours locally for over 20 years.  As we hike the 1.5 kilometers toward the main plaza at Tikal from our parking lot, he immediately points out two sets of monkeys thriving there.  Spider monkeys, quiet white-haired fellows that grow up to 12 pounds, and the noisier howler monkeys, which can reach up to 25 pounds.

 

He quickly points out the latter group takes special delight in defecating on tourist heads from their lofty perches amidst the treetops.  Particularly on Americans.  “So move along quickly,” he advises in excellent English.  I soon learn however, had I been Canadian or German, for example, then that group would have been the favored targets.  Just part of Abel’s sense of humor.

 

Our next object of reference is the Ceiba tree – absolutely sacred to the Maya.  They display massive smoothbore trunks that are mindful of a green onion stalk, arching delicate branches like those found beyond the reach of giraffes and elephants on the African Serengeti, and deep root systems.

 

Our first stop is at a place called Complex Q.  Here, a partially uncovered pyramid that you can still walk to the top of towers over nine Stilas – or standing stones with stucco and plaster bass relief representations of Mayan Gods.  Next to each is a sacrificial stone used for both animals and humans.  This is a singularly important monument at Tikal, since pyramids commemorate human calendar or astrological events.  This one honors the accession of the 29^th Mayan King, Xax Num Aim, or “Josh Num Eye-Eeem” in 741 AD.

 

After a 20 minute walk, the next stop is at the tallest of the monuments in Tikal, Temple IV.  This complex was built in 741 AD.  It can also be ascended to the top.  It has the best views of the other temples in the complex as they pierce the jungle canopy (almost as if to reach up and affirm the heavens).  The dressed limestone – carved by obsidian flint chisels naturally found on the site – is mortared together with limestone mortar fired in kilns.  It is massive in appearance, and is characterized by a steep open-air altar at the top which is suggestive of a rooster comb.

 

Besides the presence of plentiful flint, the reason Tikal was sited where it is was due to the abundance of fresh water, and its position on the crown of a hill which made it more easily defended from enemies.  Evidence of habitation by other tribes – the Olmecs preceded the Maya in most of their domain – is clear at this and many other Mayan constructs.  One depended on the other to build a foundation for greater works to follow.  Just as in Europe, China, South America, and virtually everywhere else on this generationally interdependent planet.

 

From Temple IV, you can look out over – and I do mean OVER, without use of ziplines – the jungle canopy at other nearby stone monuments which pierce the sky.  That includes the Temple of the Jaguar Priests straight ahead, the Great Pyramid to our right, and the Temple of the Masks in the background.  Our elevation is about 700 feet above sea level.

 

Next stop is “El Mundo Perdido,” The Lost World, or the Gran Piramide.  This massive mound dates back to 600 BC.  The nearby plaza demonstrates an unusual style of arches not usually found in the Mayan world, evidence of communication with contact with Teotihiticlan in Mexico, nearly 1000 kilometers away.  The pyramid itself is the oldest building in Tikal and much more of a classic Mexican or Egyptian style step pyramid.  It is massive in its base, very symmetrical, and with a flat top lacks the summit comb that is so much more representative of the gravity-defying uniqueness of Tikal.

 

I ask Abel what support services were necessary to conduct this level of construction over a 2000 year period?  He guesstimates from his knowledge, training and experience that about 20% of the population was devoted to agriculture.  Much time also had to be devoted to the gathering of firewood, for both food preparation and to keep the fires which turned the omnipresent limestone into mortar.

 

Then there was the masons for dressing stone into squares and rectangles (even if soft stone).  Also necessary was the conveyance of water, which was stored almost religiously by the Maya in a large enclosure nearly a mile long close to Temple IV.  It had a high earthen enclosed damn at one end of a natural v-shaped depression – a massive piece of engineering in itself.

 

Along the way, I witness the Plaza of The Seven Temples.  Here is found a very tranquil and pleasant public square bounded by seven small temples, and a triple ballfield (jai alai is the closest modern equivalent) that is unique to the Mayan world.  

 

Beyond is the massive South Acropolis, unexcavated, but higher still than Temple IV.  It reaches so high that at times the summit is lost in the mist.  What mystery lies beneath its tangled vines and slanted trees can only be imagined.  Temple V, very close to this among the excavated mounds at Tikal, is second only to Temple IV in height.

 

Adjacent to this is the Central Acropolis, where royalty lived.  While the Maya were excellent masons (but nowhere in the league of the Incas), their engineering necessarily required wooden headers and beams on occasion for structural support.  There is evidence in this area (dating to about 700 AD) of  wooden beams dating back to this same time period.  They remain solid.

 

The thing one notices most about this enclave for the exalted ones, is how bombproof it is, for such tiny living quarters.  Here are essentially “homes” as it were, for perhaps three to four people.  The largest number of stone platformed bed chambers I noticed in any given domicile was six.  Beyond that, there was no apparent living room, family room, kitchen, or bathroom.  Just sleeping quarters, and minor storage bins built in at the head of each bed platform (typically covered with feathers and jaguar skins).

 

The supporting sidewall structure and overhead mass is sufficient to be a nuclear blast redoubt.  It all seems so … disproportionate.  Are there secret channels inside?  Secret chambers?  Areas yet remaining to be explored, if only one learned the right access?  Rather like learning to play some Mario Brothers computer games.  If I hit the right mushroom or intuit the right combination, will the secret door panel slide open?  You have to play repeatedly to learn the trick.  What is being hidden from us?  How could this much energy and material, be devoted to so little purpose?

 

Oddly, in all the elegance and strength demonstrated at Tikal, there is absolutely no evidence of banos (bathrooms) or concinas (kitchens).

 

There are many areas that are merely skimmed in passing.  Almost all of them are unexcavated. My tour officially ends after three hours.  Abel directs me out, still a half an hour’s walk away.  I elect the long way, to be able to catch Temple VI on the way out.  It is 25 meters high, about 40% of the height of the highest temples.  This complex is differentiated in Tikal by its huge crest, the largest hieroglyphic in all of Tikal at nearly 13 meters tall.

 

Pouring rain dims my enthusiasm for any more viewing.  It becomes necessary to make the long trek out to the entry and the collective vans which will take our constantly changing day alliances back to Flores.  I slip frequently on the sloped and occasionally steep limestone roads, which when wet degrade into something approximating clay.  This is compounded by rotting vegetable matter on the top, such that one is often walking on a slip-n’-slide.  Hiking boots with waffle treads are definitely recommended in Tikal!

 

This night, I celebrate a long-awaited bucket list objective being met with a special dinner in Flores.  Spaghetti, con camarones (shrimp).  And my now favorites libation, the magical Brrazilian caipirinha.  It is the relaxed end, to a long and momentous day.  In celebration, I pen a little dity.  It is as follows:

 

No matter how twisted the road

Or dire the troubles de jour

Just hoping what I’m told bears out

An elusive pursuit for sure.

 

Yet I am redeemed by fermented cane

And welcome come what may

For the playful limon elixir

Helps me find my way.

 

So let’s lift our glasses often

And let me hear you say

That you too are in agreement

The caipirinha adds grace to your day.

 

 

 

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.