Dave Go Round

As I have alluded to there is a huge cultural bias against extranjeros in Guatemala. I think this happens in many or most countries all over the world, but this is the first time that I am really feeling it. It’s out in the open; palpable.

The incident at the restaurant in Lanquin. Waiting an hour for coffee I had already paid for and never receiving it. Now, being overcharged by 100Q for a hotel and being told I was wrong repeatedly when I brought it to their attention. Fortunately, I have an innate ability to make friends; or perhaps a built-in friendly people finder that seems to get me through times like these.

I arrived via shuttle in Antigua’s Parque Central which contains, among other things, the Catedral de Sanitago. The Cathedral makes a great landmark to get your bearings if you don’t notice the giant Volcan de Agua rising up over all the buildings to the south of the city. I shoulder my pack, and pull out my only map of the area which is in my Lonely Planet.

Seeing this a local man walks up asking if I need anything information, and I tell him that I don’t need any help, thanks. I think I missed some of the nuance in Spanish when I said it because he looks slightly offended. A cursory examination of the map shows an STA Travel Agency a few blocks away. Sweet.

Almost. It appears that the STA agency has been replaced by an ice cream shop. No problem. There is an internet café down the street. Nope, that’s not there either. Checking my book, which is the most recent version, I note it was published 3 years ago. Oops. Now where to go to try and figure out where to stay tonight.

Antigu@net café is one block south and a half block west of el Parque Central in downtown Antigua. The shop boasts a wireless network, about a dozen computers with webcams, and a mean coffee menu. My initial impression was a little startling.

Seeing the sign on the door for an internet café, I walk in and find an empty desk in the entryway. I stop to ask the only worker in the café if I can use the desk to look at my book for a moment and find a place for the evening. He gives me a pained look and says, no. I check him again for confirmation and again he says no.

I need a place to camp for a few minutes, so I ask him how much internet is and he quotes me a reasonable rate. Within 30 seconds I am so hung up on the No, that I shoulder my pack again and make ready to head out the door, when a well dressed woman with gold tear drop shaped ear rings walks through the room. She is obviously at home here and seems in a position of authority, as she asks the desk worker what he is doing away from the desk. He tells her he is telling me to get out of their spare chair and she stops him. She turns to me and says in heavily accented English, “This is your house.”

A minute or so later, she comes back to me and asks what I am looking for in a place to sleep. I tell her it must be clean and I would prefer it be inexpensive. She doesn’t remember the name, but her friend owns a place 4tth Avenue South that has private rooms with hot water and breakfast included for $7 USD a night. This is a little high for the country, but would be a reasonable rate for a dorm room in such a great tourist town. I tell her that’s great so she writes down the address for me. She then proceeds to call the hostel for me and even checks the nights I need availability for.

Over the space of the next hour, Carla (that’s her name), has found me a replacement hotel since the initial idea was booked up that is even more outstanding, usually charging $40 USD a night, she has asked the owner to match $7. Carla then directed me to a tour agency nearby that books my pacaya trip for the next morning and when the Hotel charged me double and would not return the money when confronted, she called them up and asked them to stop jerking me around. As soon as I got back to the hotel, my extra 100Q was returned to me promptly.

My toe hurts.

Reginadawn Villa, the place that I wound up staying at, has just opened this week. The sign isn’t even hung out front. The place is the near definition of opulence after my recent string of accommodations. The beds are giant and fluffy. They come with comforters and good pillows. Breakfast is provided as well as afternoon coffee. There is hot water, giant showers, and a gigantic mural hand painted by the owner down one side of the inner courtyard. She doesn’t speak any English, but she weathers my at Spanish tirelessly and we usually wind up at an understanding. She taught me a new word, “curitas”, for Band-Aids needed to patch up my toe. Pacaya comes early tomorrow, 6 a.m., so I need to get to bed.

The real draw to Antigua is Volcan de Pacaya. It’s the only currently active volcano in Guatemala and is open to the public to hike with a park entrance fee of 40Q. Tour guides are included with the park entry price. Steeeks, are not.

Our shuttle stops in a city called San Francisco de Sale. As soon as the doors are open we are surrounded, literally being flooded by little children with inch thing 4 foot long walking sticks yelling, “Steek. Steeek.” When I politely decline I receive, “Es necesario!” in return. This lovely dance continues for about 5 minutes until a few of the ladies have purchased steeeks and our tour guide arrives and shoos them away.

We are Falcones, our guide tells us. So when we are hiking the mountain, if we meet any other groups, we should listen for our name to be called for instructions. The hike up is a mere 4 kilometers, making the round trip somewhat less than I walked in Tikal in a day. The difference is, this is quite uphill, and half of it is over loose volcanic rock; somewhat different and rather unforgiving if you should happen to take a spill.

The first kilometer is the hardest, getting my body to wake up and work. The second is still a little tiring. After that, my group is moving so slowly that I take off and catch up to first one group and then, passing them, another group while ascending. There are horses available for the easily tired or lazy. According to this picture though, just because you are too lazy to walk, doesn’t mean the horse is a good idea.

On the way to the top, I have plenty of time to stop and take some picture of the landscape.

At the top, there are even more picture opportunities.

Early on in the trip, our guide handed me a great stick for roasting marshmallows on, and coupled with the two fantastic schoolteachers from the Bay who are in Guatemala for ski week who brought a giant bad of overstuffed marshmallows, we have on hell of a lava roasting experience. The heat wind coming up the mountain carries all the heat from the lava like a convection oven and literally bakes the skin off your face within seconds. I had to cover up with a hat and bandana to keep my delicate gringo skin in place.

If you don’t watch your step, the rock beneath your feet won’t be rock and you’ll find your foot rapidly sinking into magma. All around us are cracks in the ground bearing testament to this.

And one idiot’s pair of shoes.

All in all, I come away unscathed and victorious!

Now back to Antigua for an afternoon of relaxation.

Just kidding. I have to get back to Antigua so I can figure out where the hell I am going tomorrow morning in El Salvador and see if I even have a place to stay once I get there.

Mas luego.

I’ve got an awesome bruise on the inside of my right bicep. It’s been there for a few days now, and I’m not sure how I got it. My best guess is in the Cave of the Crystal Maiden. I just noticed another one on my left leg.

The roosters are going nuts early in the morning all around the town. After so many hours, even the earplugs don’t keep them out. We didn’t book a shuttle for the trip to Semuk Champey because I figured  we could just hitch a ride from the main road with as many shuttles and trucks as I figured would be going that way. Unfortunately, most of the people going to semuk champey stayed closer to the pools at the resorts. I prefer to stay in the area where I am not forced to eat whatever food the resort will provide and have no place to explore. That being, this choice means I gave up the free shuttle to the pools and will pay 20Q for Jimmy to arrange a shuttle for me.

The shuttlecraft is common to Central America. It is basically the same people mover/ delivery truck that is used to move, drinks, groceries, humans, etc, from anywhere to anywhere. Addison and I stand up in the back of the truck like the North American lookie-loos that we are and smile and wave at all the locals that I’m relatively sure think that we are retarded.  I saw my first Central American with down syndrome, though he looked very much like the rest of the locals, so it may have been somewhat of a mild case, if such a thing exists. Every man seems to be carrying a machete. A surprising number of women in all age ranges have pots of every size balanced squarely on their heads as they walk up and down the wild mountain paths. Mostly, it is the very young that smile back, but at least half wave in return. The ride to Semuk is longer that it should be. It’s only 9 kilometers, but it seems to take nearly half an hour. Along the way we pass a sketchy looking guest house, and two others, Las Marias and El Portal, that seem quite nice for being in the middle of the jungle. El Portal is 100 meters or so from the entrance to Semuk Champey.

The restaurant at El Portal serves mostly typical fare food, but adds coffee to the line-up which has me excited. I ask for some but the guide informs me that I would have to get it to go, and that isn’t an option. So, the group sits there for almost another 30 minutes while the guides and hostel workers talk. After everyone has had their fill of chat and food, the guide Edgar rounds us all up and we take off for the entrance to the protected area. We pay 50Q for entrance and I sign my name as Robert Marley in the register. The Scotsman in the bunch, also named David, looks at it and asks if people often call me Bob. I feel inclined to explain since we will be hanging out all day.

Edgar has expressed concern over my choice of havaianas as footwear. I was under the impression we would be going to a series of pools and hanging out in a big river. Apparently this involves a 1.2 kilometer hike up some of the most treacherous terrain I have seen; mud, sharp rocks, and wet leaves all up the side of the mountain. Anyone going to Semuk Champey, bring some good walking shoes and a waterproof bag. If you can avoid it, you don’t want to leave your valuables on the side of the stream.

Semuk Champey is beautiful and unique. There is no doubt about it. The water was a little bit low, so diving from some of the places was not allowed, but others were just fine. I took my scuba camera with me and got some fun shots of us goofing off. I dropped it in one of the deeper sections of the pools and had to go diving for it. After that I clipped it onto one of my havaianas and it floated quite well.

Take a look at some of the pics.

Long and short of it, if you have time and are in Guatemala, go check out the pools. With 20Q ($2.50USD) you get the guide that shows you some huge rocks to jump off of and breaks out the tubes for you to enjoy the river, then shows you the rope swing.

After all that, then we went to the cueva de vela, the candle cave. Basically, they have wild guides like Carlos, who give you some candles, light them up, then take you about ¼ mile underground through some caves full of water. There is a lot of swimming and climbing involved, so imagine swimming in a subterranean river with only one hand because you are trying to hold a candle out of the water with the other one. If that doesn’t sound like fun to you, then give the caves a pass. There are some skietchy places where it looks like someone just taped a ladder to a piece of rock and you have to climb up or down it into pitch black. The reward at the end is that you can finally get to a quite large cavern where the brave can climb up the rock walls to some ledges up high and do some underground cliff jumping into the pools below; again, perhaps not for the faint of heart. I loved every second of it.

Finally after a very long day, we grabbed the cattle car back into Lanquin and I went shopping for some dinner to cook up at Hotel Cacao. For about 11Q I bought 6 eggs and three tomatoes and cooked them up with some picante that Jimmy had, then ate it with three rolls from the local bakery. It was delicious and very filling and cost less than half of what any meal in any restaurant in town would cost. Jimmy’s wife, Francis, just spent the entire night testing the limits of my Spanish. Thankfully, whether I actually understood or not really made little difference to her.

In the morning, the crazy rooster woke me up again, and I learned from Jimmy that he starts at 5 a.m. and will continue to crow until he notices someone is awake (me) and then he chills out. So it’s like a game of endurance. Whoever can stay in bed longer gets to keep sleeping after someone finally gets up. The shuttle comes at 8 a.m. but I am not there because I am hunting the post office. The postmaster was quite helpful, though I’m not sure that means that the postcards will ever get there. Anyone who gets one, drop me a line and let me know they made it.

The shuttle ride is packed as usual. I spend much of the 7 hours listening to my Spanish immersion mp3s and I have to say, I think they are helping quite a bit. We passed some interesting scenery, and even passed through a desert that mirrored much of the southwestern United States. I can now say from personal experience if you have the option, stay the hell away from Guatemala City. It is a cacophony of environmental hazard crossed with constant life-threatening danger. I would rather have a cannibal for a roommate than spend one day in that city.

Antigua, on the other hand, is beautiful. The outer regions of the city are what you would expect, but much of the downtown area is beautifully painted and the cobblestone streets are as quaint as the are dangerous. This is what happens when you walk around in your flip-flops without looking at the ground. Ouch.

The anonymity I enjoyed in San Ignacio and El Remate is gone. Again, we turistas have targets on us. The shuttle hasn’t even stopped and there are hands coming in every window holding adverts for the hostels and hotels in the area. So intent are they on putting their paper in your hands that we can’t even get out of the shuttle because they are crowding at the door. Angry, I begin yelling at them to move so we may disembark, and finally they cooperate.

I had decided to look into a place called Rabin Itzam. It isn’t more than 50 feet away so I stop to chat with one of the guys from the shuttle about his plans. He is heading to Las Marias, which is quite a popular place about 1 kilometer from the 8^th wonder of the world that we are all here to see. While we are chatting, a man walks up to me and asks in English as clear as you might hear anywhere in California, “Do you know where you are staying?”

‘I had planned to go to Rabin Itzam.’

He says,”there is another place up there that costs the same and is a little different. Check it out if you like.” And with that he hands me a slip of paper and walks off.

Rabin Itzam is nice looking. The building is truly neat looking inside, but so are many of the buildings here. The beds are clean and hard as a rock. And with that deal breaker, I am out and on my way to the place on the paper in my pocket.

Once you actually enter Lanquin, if you take the first road on the right and walk about 30 meters, you will encounter on your right hand side a gate that is always open. There is a small courtyard and several doors bearing names of notable cities in Guatemala. Tikal. Antigua. Etc. Take the stairs down and you will find more doors, a couple hammocks, a clothesline, a kitchen, and a refrigerator. None of this is too out of the ordinary except that it is all available for use by the people who stay here.

Jimmy is the hotel owner, and his is not Guatemalan, but hails from Nicaragua. His English is so good because he used to live in the East bay not far from where I was born. We spend a few minutes laughing about our friends up in California and the quirks of Guatemala while I look at the beds. They are the most comfortable bed I have found since leaving the USA. I’m sold.

Every room is lockable from the inside or out. The shower is spacious and single temperature, and he seems to know the best way to go about everything. Jimmy’s wife, Francis, is solid gold. She knows that I am barely serviceable at speaking Spanish, but she never slows down or caters to my gringo-ness. She just keeps on talking to me full speed until I get my act together. It is some of the most consistent and honest Spanish practice I have received since I got here. She never loses patience when I can’t understand, she simply keeps finding new ways to say it until I get it. It is priceless and worth far more than the 35Q a night for the room. She is continuously striking up conversations about everything.

Addison is a likeable, if a little talkative, aspiring archeologist from Pennsylvania that I was speaking with on the ride to Lanquin. Walking around the streets, I take a detour on my way to the post office to go back to the main street and tell him about the place I found. He takes off to check it out and I go in search of the post office. What follows is a classic example of Latin American values.

I’m looking for the post office. Lanquin is composed of about ten streets, each of them roughly one or two city blocks in length. Perhaps it’s my fault for not remembering the word for post office or mail, but I am hoping that by waving postcards at someone and making up the words I can get pointed in the right direction. Not so much. The first person I ask tells me that it is back on the main street. I’m almost positive that isn’t true because Jimmy gave me the directions earlier in a very vague sense. Still I run down there to check. The building I was told had the mail houses simply an old woman who informs me that there is NO post office in the whole town. I know this isn’t true. Heading back up into the town, I stop to ask a couple people on the street on how to get there. They direct me to my hotel. Finally one of them comes up with the word “correo” which I am assuming means mail. Victory. Almost. He then informs me that it is 5 minutes after 5, not 5 minutes before 5 as I had though, and that the post office is surely closed. For those who care “la oficia postale”, post office in Italian, does NOT mean anything in Spanish.

I want to upload some pictures to the site, so head back over to where I was told the internet was available. The internet is available, surprisingly enough, dozens of miles from anything, in the middle of the jungle, some enterprising youth has rented a storage shed or oversized closet underneath one of the hotels, paid the deposit for a satellite link, and has a few broken down computers hooked up to it to surf the web. The latency is incredible (awful) and I’m losing packets everywhere, but I am connected. After a few minutes I manage to get connected and with some difficulty get the pictures uploaded. As such, you can go back to some of the older entries in this travelogue and take a look at some of the wackiness I was describing. Addison is here now and is arguing with the kid as to wether he should be charged for a half hour or less, since Addison has only been in attendance for about 20 minutes. I’ve been here for about 45 minutes. The kid charges Addison for a full hour, and charges me for an hour and a half. As I said, the kid is enterprising.

Wandering down the street discussing our recent robbery, Addison and I meet a lovely women from Great Britain and invite her to come have dinner with us. We are all chatting amiably in the restaurant, being congenially ignored by the serving staff for a while, when I finally get one of the women to come and take our orders. We’ve been here for about 30 minutes now, so we’re right on schedule. A camioneta rolls up outside and unloads about a dozen local men. It is dark outside, so I am assuming they are all coming back from working in the fields surrounding the town. Within about 30 seconds, there is hot tortilla on everyone of their tables.  Within about 5 minutes, they all have a hot plate of food accompanying it and coca cola in front of them.

A thin, somewhat unwashed looking white youth walks in the door and starts to take a seat at the table behind Addison. We three beckon him to sit at our table and chat with us a bit. He does so hesitantly and introduces himself as Connor. This is where things get awesome. Connor is an anthropology student who recently graduated in the States and came south with no itinerary. He’s been around for several months and is widely accepted as one of the locals. Except for when he sits at a table with a bunch of turistas. For now he is being ignored just as soundly as we are. This works out well for us, as Connor has the most interesting conversations topics I have heard in years. We are talking about the land owners of the pyramids, the local ddrug dealers, muggings, etc until the heavyweight comes on. He spent some time hanging around with an Incan priest in Mexico long enough to figure out why they were so into studying the heavens. They believed that we are currently orbiting the 5^th sun to give life. Knowing that the sun would eventually die, they were searching the heavens for the 6^th sun that would give life. Talk about forward thinking.

We spend hours discussing ancient civilizations and comparing their stories and technologies to our “advanced” civilization. Like how the Egyptians had the steam engine, and acid batteries. The Babylonians had stories of a city that was completely destroyed and all the inhabitants who survived died within weeks. We talk about Nietzsche and his demonic question. Imagine that you are at the end of your life and a Demon appears to you. The Demon tells you that you will be sent back through time and you will relive every second of your life all over again. The question being, will this be a great reward or a great misery? We talk of Buddhism and the karma and dharma. Reincarnation and pre-existence to this planet. Why did you choose to come into the world with these particular parents? What do you need to learn from them? What mission do you have to fulfill?

At the end of all this, I look at Connor and ask, “Connor, how did you get here?”

He looks at me, smiles and says, “I don’t know. I really don’t know anything.”

At the end of a night like this, a little quiet time goes a long way, so I excuse myself from the table to go and ponder my dharma. Connor writes down his email and we part ways. I’ll save you the weight of the rest of my thoughts that night.

Guatemalan Rainstorms are no respecters of laundry. More on this later.

That lovely feeling of anonymity granted me by San Ignacio is gone. I sit back in the shade of the building and wait for Dom to emerge. About ten steps from the door entering our new territory we are accosted by a taxi driver asking us to ride with him.

Dom and I do enough deliberating that the driver lowers the price a bit and we go for it. He drives a new enough Montero and cruises us along with intermittent English and weird music. Dom tells me about a cave he went to in Guatemala where they sell candles and send you on your way. Listening to his description of swimming underneath a mountain in near total blackness, with just a candle held out of the water, pressing deeper through the caves on nothing but prayer is intoxicating.

An hour or so later, I am disembarking the vehicle in the middle of Guatemala at a jungle of a guest house where no one appears to be at home. Dom and I exchange our goodbyes and he leaves…  with my rechargeable batteries.

Dom, if you are reading this. I’ll be in Antigua soon, so you can come drop them off to me.

The hostel is fantastic looking, and ultra rustic. But with only marginal mosquito protection, I’m a little hesitant. I decide to take a walk in to town and see what else is going on. There is an American with a great looking dual sport 250 chilling on the side of the road. He is informative but by no means friendly, so I keep on rolling.

The next hotel is unattended, so I land at the Sun Breeze Inn. Hardly an Inn, really just a fantastic old house with a courtyard run by a splendid gentleman named Humberto, who has absolutely no interest in speaking English. Perfect.

I really feel like my Spanish speaking abilities are in full effect after I negotiate the room, a ride to Tikal, and some food recommendations nearby. The room has sufficient screens, a mosquito net, and a startling beautiful view of the lake behind the house.

Today is filled with motorcycles. After a good 2 kilometer walk, and a fantastic chat with an Australian woman named Moonwhisper, followed by an attempted chat with a Taiwanese co-op farmer, I find myself at a French restaurant that really looks like any thatched roof bamboo hut in central America. The fare is reasonably priced, but no one is in attendance. Just another American from Washington in the corner who tells me he just rode down here in his Kawi 650 dual sport. Yes. From Washington.

Eventually the owner shows up and brings me some delicious food for a price that would be criminal in the USA. Jay, the Kawasaki king pulls up at a table that would seat Genghis Khan’s hordes and orders his food as they are clearing my empty plates. We chat a bit about adventures, just enough to convince me I need to immediately buy a dual sport bike and go travel the world when I finally realize the sun is long down and there are no street lights in the middle of Guatemala. Being the Eagle Scout that I am, I am glad that I brought a flashlight. Flashlight or no, a horse snorting next to me in the dark scared the bejeebus out of me on the way back.

Fireflies are nearly great. In Guatemala they seem to have a marginally red tint to them. Orange perhaps. About a half kilometer from the Sun Breeze I become aware of lights in the fields. Making a possibly questionable call for the middle of the Guatemalan country street, I shut off my flashlight and just chill out for a while watching the fireflies. It’s nice, but I have to get up early, so it doesn’t last long.

New life lesson learned: always check the bed before paying the hotel. The bed I have chosen is little more than a boxspring. The other bed in the room is even more uncomfortable. So I fold the blanket up underneath me as best as I can and situate the mosquito net and go to sleep, such as it is.

I sleep fitfully. The time between 3:15 and 4:30 when I finally get up is characterized by an agonizing slowness and about 50 half awake looks at the clock. Yuck.

I make the bus on time and we pick up Jay on the way, among others. He doesn’t notice me, so I say nothing. My mission for Tikal is to see the sunrise from the top of Temple 4. As soon as they unload the bus, I dodge into the restaurant, grab a cup of coffee to go and take off for the temple. About half of the coffee spills before I am halfway to the ticket booth. The disparity between locals and tourists is spelled out in black and white on the board over the ticket booth. Nacionales: 50Q. Extrajanes: 150Q.

This is the same everywhere. At the very least I will pay 3x as much as a Guatemalan for anything. Ah well… such is the life of the invader.

Jay catches up to me at the map and we take off in search of Temple 4. We are walking nearly as fast as can still be considered walking. When we finally reach our destination, a walk of a couple kilometers, the climb is outrageous and we take it just as quickly. The heights are dizzying and my lack of oxygen from the climb makes me a little wary of being too near the edge at first.

There is fog everywhere. There is no sun. There is no sky. It is still brilliant.

Finally we descend and go off in search of new sights. The day is not simple. The park is huge and the trails are poorly marked, if at all. But the walks are rewarding and the temples are gargantuan. El Mundo Perdido; The Lost World. The Gran Plaza. Temples by every number.

Whenever I am under a tree it is raining on me. Whenever I emerge from under the canopy, there is no rain. The humidity and mists are so high, that it truly rains only in the forest; I suppose that’s why they call it a rainforest.

I sit on top of the Gran Plaza and write a couple postcards and think and write and think. It’s comforting to be inspired and surrounded by the work of dead people. Makes one think that I might be able to do something inspiring to others one day. Though, perhaps a little smaller.

Jay has taken off in search of something, so I wander and eventually find myself at temple 5. I’ve been looking for it for part of the day, since I didn’t buy the 25Q map they were selling at the door. Perhaps that has something to do with the horrible signage. Temple 5 is massive; it goes up and up and up and up. The climb is dauting, though luckily not nearly as fast as Temple 4, since some local guy is taking his 4 children (all under 10 years of age) up the Temple. Picture the Empire State Building, then add a wooden ladder that runs up the outside. That is basically what we are on.

The view from the top makes it all worth it. I’m amazed to see more people smoking at the top of the temple. I think forcing people to climb even one of these temples would be an effective quit smoking program. I need to leave. Lucky me, I get stuck behind the man and his children again on the way down.

Jay and I compare notes on the way back. He says a tour guide bribed a grounds worker and took him back to see some things that weren’t open to the public. I say I think that’s pretty cool, but probably wouldn’t attempt it myself since every park guard has an M-16 or a shotgun with him at all times. We make plans to meet up for dinner and talk about bikes and traveling and I get out at the hotel.

That’s it? You may ask… That’s all of the famed Tikal? Honestly, it is amazing and giant and formidable and inspiring and involves many kilometers of walking. But you really need to see it to believe it.

When I get back to the SunBreeze I still have a few hours before sundown and a ton of dirty clothes. Humberto, the owner is an agreeable sort, so I ask him.

‘Es possible puedo llavar mis ropas in el lago?’

“Claro, que si!”

“Donde puedo comprar jabon?”

‘En la tienda,’ he says pointing out the window at the store.

Next door, I can’t remember the word for soap again. This sort of thing happens a lot. The lady is helpful enough and soon I have an odd blue spheroid of soap and a bunch of dirty clothes and am on my way to the lake behind the hotel.

The local ladies think I am a trip. I ask them if it is ok if I do my laundry nearby on some washing and drying stones, and they agree mostly out of shock. I don’t think a lot of men do laundry here, and the town is pretty small. Despite El Remate’s proximity to something as famous as Tikal, it still has a wonderfully small town mentality. I sort of stare at some of the women as they do their washing to get a grip on what to do. The younger one asks her mom why I am staring at them. I can’t really hear her response, but it still makes me grin. I’m probably using too much soap. I just wash my board shorts while they are still on me and go for a swim to rinse them out. Laying the clothes out on the line, I put on what little dry clothing I have and don a wet shirt in hopes that it will dry out while I am going to get food.

There is a possible delicious Italian restaurant on the road out of town, which I may never know because it was twice as expensive as the French place down the road, so Jay and I head back over there to eat and drink and discuss the nature of our findings today; archeologists that we are.

We really know nothing, but Jay does know that the dots and slashes on the inscriptions are dates in Mayan. They are either 1’s or 5’s or 10’s according to Jay, as they used a base 20 counting system since they generally had 20 digits… fingers and toes.

It’s dark outside. Quite dark, and I forgot my flashlight at Sun Breeze. Looks like a dark walk tonight. Truly the only danger is stepping in some of the gifts from the horses that are scattered around the road.

None of my clothes are completely dry, but I think they will be by morning. That is, until I am awakened by the violent rapping of the rainstorm of the metal roof above. Oops.

Picture me in a pair of boxers, trying to fight my way out of a mosquito net, unbolt a foreign door and storm out into a cobblestone courtyard in a rainstorm and a completely black night to start fighting clothes pins for possession of my rapidly soaked clothing.

Adventures aside, the night doesn’t give me anything more restful than the night before. The shuttle to Lanquin comes at 8:30 in the morning. It’s about 7:30 so I have time. Just in case, a lesson learned hard on my flights in recent history, I check the ticket Humberto gave me two days ago.

8:10 departure.

Oh. Wet clothes. 30 minutes to pack and leave. Super. Somehow all my clothes are dry except for socks, a pair of shorts, 2 pair of boxers,  a shirt, and my board shorts. I can work with this. I put on a wet pair of boxers, wet shorts, and wet shirt, then I pack everything except for my drawstring backpack and the remaining wet clothes.

I make the shuttle and I am the first person on it. Taking advantage of nature mixed with the internal combustion engine, I open a window at the back of the shuttle and use the wind from the drive to Flores to dry the remaining boxers. We pick up some folks on the way. Again, the Guatemalan women have no idea what to do with me.

Luckily, by the time we get to Flores, the boxers are dry and all I have left are 6 socks, and my board shorts. Oh, and all the clothes I have on.

My shuttle-mates get to watch me drying my socks out the window for the remaining 6 hours to Coban. Our wild careening life threatening shuttle with my wet socks flying as a flag from the window. Heh.

Luckily, everything was dry by the time we got to Lanquin. I have no shame.