June 29, 2008
Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 4
June 27, 2002
We stumble sleepy- eyed but prepared to an early breakfast of papaya juice, eggs and the always present bean mash and delicious sweet bread. Jeronie loads both George and I and the Canadians into a large tan and red diesel van whose floor is littered with books, towels, framed pictures and air freshener cans. He plows down the road like a madman, churning dust and we are on the main road before I can blink.
Right before we reach the border, the countryside begins to change- pastoral fields framed by low green mountains and dotted with trees.It is scarcely twenty minutes before we reach the Belize- Guatemala border and utter chaos sets in.
As soon as we set foot from the van at the ramshackle building with attached shack and muddy, rickety gateway that serves as the Belize custom building, we are beset withe men offering to change money. Confused and unsure, we refuse and begin fishing around and searching for some indication of where to go next. We are directed to a window where we pay our departure tax, an amount required to be in Belizean dollars. Prepared for this, we comply and proceed to the customs window where our passports are inspected and we are unexpectedly asked to pay another fee called an "environmental fee." Not possessing the correct change, we offer a $50 Belizean, the lowest denomination we have. The customs office refuses, claiming to have no change and stares at us.I run back outside and approach the same men who had solicited us for changing money previously. One man shakes his head and the other sticks his hands in his pockets, looks at me blankly and says "I seem to have lost my money." Rebuffed I return and the customs officer is persuaded to accept US dollars instead. Once again, the greenback is KING.
Passing through to the other side, we are introduced to our guide and driver for the tour, both named Ugo with dark skin, sharp eyes and a friendly manner. We wait at Guatemala's customs window while our guides negotiate with the officers, present our passports, and pay our fees. As in Belize, this process seems haphazard and confusing and has twice as many people waiting in throngs, loitering about or hustling changing money. There are also a few buses waiting, engines running to add to the noise and chaos.
The ugos have apparently safely navigated our passage into Guatemala. Stamped and approved, we get our passports back when we have been arranged in a fairly clean, white, air conditioned van- the Canadians up front and George and I in the back. The ugos sit up front and chat in Mexican the entire way- our guide only stopping to add tidbits of info on the Guatemalan countryside unrolling past our window.
Our first stop is, not surprisingly, the gas station where the Canadians attempt to figure the price of gas and fail utterly. The exchange rate Guatemalan to US is 7.4:1 and the green stuff is accepted almost everywhere. Outside the gas station on a picnic table sit two men with bottles of hard liquor and paper cups. They are swigging away. It is barely 8:30am.
We are off. The roads in Guatemala, though they sport the occasional random speed bump and impassable pothole, are fairly smooth, paved, and well trimmed. The countryside, more pastoral and lush green than Belize, is beautiful and while the rural villages seem devastatingly poor, they look quite self sufficient. Most include a clapboard shack with thatched roof, painted windowsills, flowers and a yard or attached field with farm life of every sort and colorful clothes swaying in the breeze. People- children, soldiers, old women with wizened, tanned faces and farm animals share the roadside alike. Unlike Belize along the main highway, people here smile and wave and are engaged in productive work of all sorts from mending fences, cooking, doing laundry or walking woven baskets on their sturdy heads to unknown destinations.
Guatemala does not seem to have been besieged by the recent flooding and with exception of a few pieces of pasture land here and there, is mostly dry. Small and large lakes approach and recede along the way and our guide explains the statistics and significance of each. We pass a military installation which during the Guatemalan Civil war of 36 years would have been a hotbed of activity. Today it is only a training camp and baby faced boys in jerseys are collecting on the soccer field to engage in games for a sports day. They stare curiously as we pass, but pretend to be too important and aloof to wave.
Our two hour drives continues quite uneventfully this way through such similar countryside villages. Besides dodging the occasional bump or rough spot, the road is quite good. Guatemalans, however, seem to have a disregard for penning their animals and we are obliged to slow for horses, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats in the way.
On schedule, we stop at the gates of the national park containing Tikal where we are solicited to buy a guide book for $10 US containing information and maps compiled by the Pennsylvania University who originally excavated this site in the 1960's. Intrigued, we purchase one and our van rolls into the small cluster of restaurant shacks that are a precursor to the ruins. Our guide puts in our order for lunch, the driver suddenly disappears, and we find ourselves at the entrance to the trail. To my disappointment, I discover Tikal, like most American tourist sites, sports a gift shop, snack bar and t shirt shop at the entrance. Some things, apparently, really are universal.
George and our guide get into a somewhat length discussion of the Guatemalan Civil War and while the details seem complicated, the essence is this. The military and the liberals fought in the form of paramilitary groups for 36 years in a war that was hardest on the poor, rural communities, as war always is, and turned into an ethnic cleansing rather than a battle over land reform. It began to wind down in the late 80's but wasn't really over until 1996. Apparently, unbeknown to us stupid, uneducated gringos, just last week paramilitary groups took over strategic spots in Guatemala, held hostages and shut down roads and airports as well as Tikal until their demands of money previously promised from the Guatemalan government were met.
Our guide points out the medicinal and useful purposes of the flora and fauna along the way and directly across from the post that seems to serve as a checkpoint, where soldiers with guns loiter and laugh, there is an enormous tree whose vastly skyward branches were covered with a brown- orange moss that made the tree look furry. "Ceibas" the Mayans call this sacred tree and I find it easy to be awestruck by the size and the way it dominates the forest canopy.
After a short jaunt on a well worn dirt trail, mildly muddy, we are suddenly in complex R & Q. To our left, a fairly impressive flat topped tower with limestone steps in front of which 9 stones aligned in a row with a circular altar carved with hieroglyphics at the foot of each.Our guide explains about the Mayan calendar, most of which becomes a jumble of confusion and numbers to me. But this structure, which is solid like all Mayan towers, was built to commemorate the passage of 20 years and the human sacrifice that consecrated this place is retold by the hieroglyphics of a scared stone contained in a small chamber to the left of the tower. Intrigued, we bustle along, knowing there is much left to go.
Our trail leads on a trek that seems rather lengthy through dense rain forest. Sunlight barely reaches the floor and while we can hear the pelt of raindrops, they never really reach us under the canopy of the enormous, protecting trees. All at once we emerge into a clearing where Mayan roads meet, still hard with stone and barely concealed by a layer of dirt, at the foot of Tower 4. It's height is dizzying and we crane our necks to see it's stone top breaking out above the canopy of forest that has grown up around it for thousand of years. The access to this tower, the highest yet discovered in this Mayan city, is by a set of sturdy mahogany ladders that steeply ascend the right side of the structure.
The ascent is quite an athletic task and though we are gasping with the effort, the view alone is well worth it. You can see far across the lush, swaying ceiling of the forest to the limestone tops of the other Mayan towers, peaking their heads in triumph towards the heavens. It is a view seen perhaps thousands of years ago by a conquering Mayan king from his perch as he offered sacrifices to the Gods. It is hard not to tingle a bit with a sense of history and human passage. We encircle the tower, surveying the view from 360 degrees, and then descend, hesitantly picking our steps down the unbelievably steep sections of ladder.
At the bottom, George and I loiter, waiting for the Canadians. There is a stand supplying water, soda and snacks to weary, hot tourists run by a group of Guatemalans who are chatting with guides and soldiers. They speak loudly in Spanish about other tourists, including myself, assuming no one can understand them. From my limited knowledge of Spanish I can derive a decent amount of understanding about the derogatory comments and try not to smile.
Next we stop into the lost world and while it doesn't look like Spielberg's idea of dinosaur paradise, it certainly seems like something out of a movie. The ancient ball court, overgrown with jungle foliage and flowers, is ironically beautiful. It is strange to think of the rituals performed here and the savagery of a culture that seems so distant from today and yet still resides at the core of human nature. The buildings in this plaza are the oldest in the city and were abandoned for 130 years when the Mayans were overthrown by neighboring tribes. When the royal family returned, they never re inhabited this plaza.
In the middle of the the lost world is a structure called the Great Pyramid, a flat topped tower with a formidable amount of steps that a great many people are panting and pawing up. We take a deep breath and undertake the climb. The steps, quite uneven, crumbling and steep, prove to be a challenge. At the top a reward of swaying, gorgeous green canopy and another view of Tower 4, whose topside tourists look like ants in the distance. We linger to admire but the crowds quickly drive us away.
Back on the ground, our last stop is the Main Plaza, a group of two towers facing each other and an extensive maze of rooms, presumed for the royal family, as well as carved limestone masks of immense proportions of the Rain God. A crowd of hundreds are milling about the plaza of a strange mix- Americans, archeology students. Guatemalans., Europeans and a scattering of Asians. We join them, scrambling over ledges and outcroppings and exploring the deserted heart of a Mayan City.
Ravenous and exhausted, it is only the thought of food and drink that buoys us and carries us down the path and back to the restaurant. The fare, mushroom chicken, vegetables and rice, is simple and good but we hardly taste it in our hunger. Refueled and quiet, we pile into the van and the Canadians' girl is promptly asleep before we even leave the park it seems.
The road back seems long, but I am unable to sleep, tossed about by the evasive maneuvers the driver performs. At one point, he has to come to almost a screeching halt due to a group of horses in the road. The male has mounted the female and seems reluctant to move, despite the fact that she is scurrying away from him to avoid oncoming traffic. Several other horses, bystanders, seem to be simply watching the barnyard hijinks.
We have almost reached the border but the Canadians, eager for their gift shop tourist fix, have been promised a stop for dirt cheap "authentic" Guatemalan goods. George and I enter reluctantly and though we initially avoid being sucked in, we end up attracted to a colorful hammock. The Guatemalans have expressed a willingness to barter and I talk her down to 20 dollars below price for the hammock and 5 dollars below price for a purse. Content with our bargains, we make our escape before we become drawn in by rain sticks, funky woven placements and napkins, and eccentric cabinets and carvings. It seems fitting justice that later, when the Canadians attempt to leave, the shop keepers little boy latches onto the girl and bites her in th leg. I can see them trying not to smile as they wave and apologize from their doorway. They may need your money but they certainly don't have to like you for it.
Customs, this time through, seems a much calmer affair and our guide, who was snoring away in the front seat all the way back has suddenly disappeared into thin air. The driver escorts us through to Belize where Jeronie, not surprisingly, is nowhere to be found. We shuffle our feet for half an hour before he materializes with no explanation or apology. He carts us back for dinner. Like father, like son.
Dinner is a crowded affair, as we have three new sets of guests: a pair of weathered, mild mannered travelers from the Netherlands, a couple from Oklahoma who seems a bit rough around the edges and slightly obnoxious, and a wealthy, free spirited family from Florida who have sailed through the Carribean and are simply passing by on the way to Guatemala. The fare, simple and far too normal for my tastes and expectations is spaghetti with meat sauce and tossed salad. George and I opt for washing it down with Belikin beer and dessert, while disappointingly Duncan Hines yellow cake mix ungarnished by frosting, is sweet and moist enough to satisfy.
We play a short but fairly competitive game of chess right up until the end, when I give up all hope completely. Finishing off our night with a feisty fame of strip sex gin rummi, we sleep hard but still plagued by restlessness, bugs and nightmares.