Tikal

Deciding it was time for a splurge on transportation, we forked out on a private shuttle to get to Flores from where you can explore the ancient Mayan ruins of Tikal. It was pure luxury – with only one other passenger in the van, Neil from Nashville, we spread ourselves out along a bench seat each and slept the entire eight hour drive (though we’d all been told it was five hours – they lie a lot in Guatemala), besides for the quick fried chicken lunch stop where we ran into Georgia and Richard (our batty friends), who were lived with the knowledge that our van was so empty – theirs resembling the public collectivos with limbs hanging out every window.

Finally arriving in Flores, a small island on Lake Peten Itza, we tried to work out how we could get to the hostels found at the gate to the Tikal – we wanted to see the sun rise from the ruins so thought it would be easier to stay as close as possible. Unfortunately, everyone we asked had an ulterior motive, ie. getting our money. They told us that it was impossible to get there that late in the afternoon (3pm) and that a taxi would cost USD60. Annoyed and frustrated that we couldn’t make it there considering that it is so easy to get everywhere else normally, we checked into a hostel, the Mirador del Lago and set off to find some food and to organise a tour of Tikal for the next day.

Red tuk-tuks zooming around the island of Flores

Still hoping that we could see the sunrise over Tikal, we booked a tour leaving at 430am. We thought this would give us plenty of time to get to the ruins. Unfortunately, tour operators here, though incredibly easy to book things with, have a nasty habit of being either incredibly unprepared (the usual) or over prepared; nothing ever goes smoothly. That morning we got a taste of both.

Waiting outside our hostel at the requisite 430am with the other Tikal goers, a slow procession of buses soon arrived, but even though they were all run by the same tour company, we couldn’t get on just any one and fill it up – we had to wait for the bus allocated to us. Buses left half empty or too full. It was madness. Just our luck, our bus was the last to arrive, some 20 minutes late and it had one seat left. Our driver took it upon himself to try and fill the seat – circling the island’s hostels to try and pick up another passenger. We were relived when finally gave up on this plan at about 5am, hoping that we still might get there in time, but here’s were the unprepared element comes in (and this happens all the time) – he then stopped to fill up with petrol. We enjoyed the sunrise… from the car…

When we eventually pulled up at the gates to Tikal, right in front of the hostel we had wanted to stay in, we were introduced to our guide for the day – Caesar. I had instant flash backs of Machu Picchu, Ceasar being quite ‘Freddy’ like (our Machu PIcchu guide), though Ceasar spoke with an American accent, and said “you get what I mean, guys?” a lot. (I didn’t get what he meant and tuned out after about half an hour). Instead of tyring to comprehend what on earth Ceasar was talking about, I stood in awe and gazed at the huge structures that make up the site (and at the coatis fighting on the path).

The main structures of Tikal date from 600 AD (though some outer lying buildings date from 300 BC ). Caesar took us around all the main sites including The Lost World (El Mundo Perdido) where we scaled the steep stairs to the top of the Great Pyramid, which at 30 metres high, is the largest pyramid in Tikal. Sitting at the top, slightly dizzy from the height, we got an amazing view across the canopy to the other structures that poke out amongst the trees for miles.

     

We wouldn’t have seen even half of what Tikal has to offer, one part being a six day hike from where the tourist bus drops you (our guide told us that he did this once in bare feet...) But, I must say, I don’t think my little legs would have carried me much further than what we saw that day. It was a long walk from structure to structure in high humidity. With my ‘I’m not getting bitten by mosquitoes’ outfit on – I was feeling the heat, and smelling it – ever since our trek to the Lost City my backpack absolutely reeks. I thought it might be a bit of a mozzie repellent, but no such luck.

   

Last, but definitely not least, we explored the Great Plaza, the Temple of the Great Jaguar (shrine to King Moon Double Comb…), the Temple of the Masks and the North Acropolis where Giant Jaguar Paw, Curly Nose, and Stormy Sky were buried (what is with these names??) and by the end of all that, we were all Tikaled out.

Time for MEXICO!!!

A batty tale

After having a relaxing few days with concerns no greater than what we were cooking for every meal, we were thrown back into travel in the deep end.

To get to our next stop, Lanquin, we made the overambitious decision to travel the whole way in one day. For starters, this meant waking at 0410 – something we’re definitely not accustomed to after months without bootcamp (though that only involved 520 wake ups…) and months without an alarm, to make the first bus. Our drowsy eyes were soon wide awake as dogs growled and threatened us as we navigated the steep unlit road down back down to town to the bus stop.

Finally on a bus, we got our reward for getting up that early - the sunrise as we cruised along the high mountain road back to civilisation, and this time we could see Santa Mountain in the distance, poking out up above the clouds.

An early morning wakeup was not the end of it - there was more pain in store. The 12 hour trip from Todos Santos to Lanquin entailed 6 buses changes: Todos Santos, Buenos Aires, Aguapula, Sacopulus, Uspantan, Coban. I didn’t even want to know how many we were in for in the beginning, but we soon had a countdown going. As the day grew on, I was ever increasingly thankful for how easy it is to travel in Central America. You get off one bus and as quickly shooed onto another; however, we had now traded our chicken buses for minivans. You’d think that travelling by minivan would make the whole experience a lot more comfortable and enjoyable. When the back of the van is exploding with bodies crammed in at every angle – at least 20 – your mind turns to the ‘luxury’ you once had on the chicken bus in comparison. At one stage, limbs of passengers were dangling out windows and doors; the bus driver struggling to close the door behind them like a badly packed boot that refuses to close. To the drivers disappointment, we refused to add yet more bodies to the back of the van. He then insisted that we get in the front seat that was already occupied with two men - ‘Um, where exactly?’ When our attempts to fit even half a leg extra in the front seat failed, seeing gringo dollar signs, the front seat occupants were kicked out and made to ride with the wind in their hair – gripping on to the back of the bus for dear life – while the driver, clearly forgetting his external passengers, travelled well over 100km/h. We felt guilty, but hey.

By late afternoon our last minivan pulled up at the gates of ‘El Retiro’ – a hostel a few minutes out the other side of Lanquin with cabana rooms (we scored ourselves a loft room, which required a lot of ladder navigating but was well worth it) set amongst a garden of ginormous red flowers on a river bank. With a little restaurant on site run by local Guatemalan ladies serving up concoctions of scrambled eggs, fruit and cornflakes for breakfast and beefs skewers, chicken, spaghetti and various kinds of rice and vegetables for dinner for Q35 (about AUD 4), we never had to leave; though we did venture into town once in a while for a change of scene (aka a hunt for icecream that failed dismally) and to go chicken spotting – they have a weird practice here of dyeing the chicks fluro pink, electric blue and lime green. No idea why, but if you keep your eyes peeled around town you can spot brigades of wandering chicks, each a different colour from the last.

From Lanquin there is a plethora of activities to keep you entertained. Much to Claire’s disdain, first up for us was an adventure of a batty kind. Literally. At 5pm we left the hostel and drove standing in the back of a ute with bat enthusiasts  Georgia and Richard, to the Lanquin Caves, home to a squillion sleeping bats. In the fading light, we were led some 500m through a network of caves, slipping and sliding on rocks drenched in nasty bat stuff, to look at stalagmites, statictites, other ‘natural’ rock formations – an eagle, a turtle, the Virgin Mary, a King – and giant legged spiders until we reached an enormous cavern, the ceiling blanketed with thousands of sleeping bats that would soon wake and make their journey out into the night sky.

  

We scurried back to the caves entrance via a different path – this one much more difficult – so that we could watch them flock out in their masses. The trick to the path though - after carefully navigating our way back through bat poo without incident, we had to scale a 2 metre wall through a hole in the rocks no wider than shoulder width. Luckily for us, our guide was well used to getting people to the top – though he explained step by step how to make it up, after climbing up himself, he simply leant down, grabbed hold of our wrists and yonked us up with ease.

Back at the opening, sitting slightly to the side afraid we might get a bat in the head otherwise, we sat and waited. By 6.30pm trickles of bats started to appear. We all went camera crazy thinking that this was it, our guide laughing at our ignorance. Not ten minutes later, we got what we came for – thousands and thousands of bats stampeded right past us and out of the opening in a flow that lasted a good twenty minutes. We sat gobsmacked at the cloud of black wings that emerged every time a flash went off. It was amazing.

The following day we chose an adventure with a lot less slipping in animal faeces in the dark involved – Semuc Champey – a network of cyan coloured pools and waterfalls that cascade through the valley about 40 minutes outside Lanquin. 

Getting there was not without some excitement. The previous day, I’d been bitten on the wrist by an unknown offender. What ever it was, I’m allergic to it. As the night wore on, a rash trailing my vain made its way up my arm, and by the next morning my right arm and hand had swelled to Michelin man proportions. With antihistamines making no difference, I held up our tour group of about 15 people who stood patiently in the back of the ute as I was taken into the local hospital to get a quick jab in the bum in the emergency room. I must admit when the doctor said injection I freaked a little - racing through my head was images of recycled needles – but, out came a brand new needle and after a bit of a sting, and a simple ‘sign here’ I was back in back the ute. Total cost = Q25 (or AUD 3.50) for the medication at the pharmacy across the road; not a penny for the hospital. This brings my bite count for this trip to two bee stings resulting in two swollen hands (so fat my fingers were unbendable) and one unknown bug bite resulting in third world country hospital adventure.

Michelin Bec deflating after hospital trip

After my quick hospital detour, we continued on our not so merry way the hour or so to Semuc Champey – the problem was, with four times the number of people standing in the tray than the day before, it was an elbow flight to get any personal space. Desperate to escape loose elbows that kept jabbing me in the sides I tried hanging off the back of the ute. However, not trusting my arm strength, nor my swollen hands ability to hang on as we bounced along the road, I was quickly back on the other side of the guard rails.

Not liking being crammed in the back

We were dropped off just before a big red bridge and led along a trail to the base of an icy looking waterfall. Stripping off to our swimmers and leaving all our belongings, including cameras, behind we clambered up a rocky path to the entrance of a cave at the top of the waterfall. One by one, as we stepped into the icy water, water flowing around us and cascading down the mossy rocks, we were handed a candle. In one long line, candles lit, we headed toward the darkness at the back of the cave – from the darkness a network of tunnels soon emerged, supposedly so big that the end has never been found. It was an eerie sight – you can’t see anything but little glowing beacons that look like they are floating in mid air as you glide through the water.

Soon, the water got too deep and we were forced to kick off from the bottom to make our way through a long narrow passageway, one hand still above our heads with our candles(some managed much better than others; some drowned their candles and almost themselves). We made our way gradually deeper into the maze of caves, climbing up and down steep rock faces with the help of rickety ladders until we came upon a waterfall shooting down through the rocks above. In small groups, we navigated our way through a tiny opening around to the back of the waterfall, then with water stinging our backs, we walked underneath the waterfall to the other side where a rapid flowed, strengthened by the force of the falls. One by one, we jumped in and were whisked back through a small opening in the rocks to the side we’d started.

A scary thought - apparently, they don’t have to use the ladders all the time to climb the rock faces; the water level in the caves changes dramatically from day to day, so that one day where it was ankle deep, the next day you will be struggling to position your nose in the small gap between the water and the roof to get a breath of air. This freaked me out. I looked seriously at the guide and questioned whether he would be able to save us all if conditions turned. It didn’t seem to bother many others, though some of them did have greater concerns such as swimming in general. They floundered around like they were drowning for the most part. You forget how much as an Australian you take for granted knowing how to swim.

Anyhoo, after making our way out of the caves, we headed further along the bank to have a go at the swing that flung you out Tarzan style into the middle of the quickly flowing river. After hitting the water from a good 2 metre drop (higher if your Claire and hang on too long) and recovering your lost swimmers that had flung off on impact, you had to kick like a mad woman to get back to shore before the very quick current took you too far down the river (either that or fake drowning so you could be rescued by the Australian lifeguard also on our tour). At this point, our guide seriously questioned the Japanese tourist’s ability to swim (it had been him floundering in the caves), but reassured by the fact that we had a lifeguard standing guard he let him jump. He survived. Just.

The Tarzan swing

Next thing, big inflatable tyres wrapped around our waists, we headed a bit further upstream for a brief bit of tubing. Off to a very slow start because of every man and his dog grabbing hold of my tube for some unknown reason, we eventually gained speed and took off and blobbed (well, that doesn’t imply speed, but hey…) down the river. Some, as a result of too much speed and too little steering found themselves slammed up and stuck against a clump of trees that had made the middle of the river its home.

On to the last bit of the day, and probably the bit that I was looking forward to seeing most – the cyan coloured pools of Semuc Champey that appear magically amongst a river of murky brown water. After grabbing a quick meal of fried chicken, refried beans and fried tortillas (they love their fried here), we made the incredibly steep 30 minute climb up a network of stair cases that clung to the rock face to the mirador where we got a birds eye view of what we were about to go swimming in. If I hadn’t seen the impressive photos previous tour goers had of the pools from above, like others, I would have turned back because of the heat – I just wanted to swim! - but the view once you get to the top is so worth it:

We spent the next two hours exploring the pools and floating in blue bliss.

Guatemala & ‘chicken bus’ delight/fright

 

It was not without much umming and ahhing that we headed to Guatemala. We’d heard from many travellers that it was their favourite Central American country, but recent events - erupting volcanoes and tropical storm Agatha – caused us to question how dumb we would be to go. We googled our little fingers off to find out what the conditions were like, but we didn’t find much. The Australian Department of Foreign affairs said absolutely nothing. The US in comparison that had flashing warnings all over their webpage. What to do!?!? We toyed briefly with the idea of going to Nicaragua instead, but having so little first hand  information we decided the best thing to do was to judge the situation when we got there, and we haven’t regretted it one bit - Guatemala is a spectacularly beautiful country. Chicken bussing it through the countryside we’ve seen amazing things – at points we’ve thought the scenery resembled Ireland, Canada and Switzerland (though Claire would disagree with me on the last one). Mountain ranges are luscious; lakes are emerald green; and quaint little villages with Mayan men wearing the traditional red and white stripped pants cling to the hills.

                              

Our two night bus bender through Central America landed us in Guatemala City, Guatemala’s capital - apparently not the safest place on the planet so we jumped on the first ‘chicken bus’ of our adventure and headed straight to Antigua. We heard a story later on from a guy that witnessed a woman being shot at city’s bus terminal. Everyone around her just continued on their merry way, not caring in the slightest. Must be a usual occurrence - scary! Other stories, including that bus divers there get shot everyday by gang members wanting the bus fare collection make me very glad we gave it a miss.

Chicken buses are a Guatemalan experience in themselves. The rickety old American school buses are used around the country as mass 2nd class transport. You can catch them to pretty much anywhere, though quite often you’ll find yourself having to change 3 or 4 times to make a several hour journey.

The funniest bit, asides from the way the drivers have pimped up their vehicles – from TV’s, car stickers, bright colours, and the disco lights – are the number of people that pile onto them. I didn’t think too hard into the name when I first heard it, but once you’ve seen 8 people squashed across 2 seats made for a maximum of 4 you get the idea. How do they do it? They cram 3 people onto a small bench seat and then there are another two passengers that look like their sitting on a seat but are in fact are suspended mid air because they have wedged themselves between the hips of passengers seated either side and are thus held dangling in the aisle in a sitting position. Luckily for us, we got to experience the ‘suspended mid air’ bus seat when we found ourselves whisked onto a full bus by a driver keen to get some gringo dollars (they often overcharge gringos exorbitantly, so we’ve taken to asking the locals how much to avoid gringo inflated prices). It was surprisingly quite a bit more comfortable – instead of being thrown from one side of the bus to the other as the bus corners at 100km an hour, even though you grip the handlebars with all your might and lock your elbows, your totally wedged, so you don’t move an inch. Genius really. And, if you’re really lucky, you won’t be seated underneath a casket of squawking chickens, or Houdini cats that escape from their boxes, and you’ll get a driver with half decent taste in music – pumping out N-trance and Madonna as you cruise down the highway.

Our poor backpacks are getting a run for their money though – they ride the whole time - wind, rain or hail - on the roof. I can’t complain. They take your bag off your hands as soon as they know where you’re off to - the ‘co-pilot’ yanking your 25kg bag off your back and running it up the back of the bus, balanced on the back of his neck, to strap it to the roof. Those few minutes not having to lug my pack somewhere are bliss. One guy managed to carry both our packs up the 3m or so to the top at the same time – one on his back, the other on the back of his neck. They have to weigh at least 45kg together. Once you’ve arrived at your destination, like atom bombs, your bags are dropped from the sky, and come smashing to the ground unless your strong enough to catch them – which we’re not. As a result, our packs are a little worse for wear with broken buckles, zippers and the like.

Anyhoo, we decided that Antigua was a much better option and was only a short chicken bus ride away from Guatemala City. Entranced by the beauty and relaxed nature of the town, we spent 4 days in the old capital recouping from being glued to a bus from Panama. We perused the brightly coloured colonial buildings; explored the ruins of earthquake damaged churches and their gardens; and did a lot of what we do best – eating – as we watched Australia get thrashed by Germany in a pub full of German supporters.

Much to my utmost disappointment, we couldn’t do the thing I’ve been looking forward to since hearing Cliff talk about it back when we were on the salt flats in Bolivia – climb the Pacaya Volcano and roast marshmallows on the lava at the top. Two weeks before we arrived, it erupted. Though companies were offering tours to rivers of lava that were flowing through properties at the base of the volcano, we thought it would be incredibly dumb to go. Not only had a journalist, a tourist and her guide had already been killed, the volcano was still unstable and it was being predicted that it would erupt again. Oh well, onto bigger and better things.

         

So after much needed R&R we left Antigua and scooted off to Lake Atitlan – one of the places worst hit by Agatha. The destruction was still evident. Landslides destroyed bridges and left roads virtually impassable, though chicken bus drivers continue to drive at manic speeds like they are invincible. I think they enjoy the new obstacles.

In Lake Atitlan, we based ourselves in Panajachel - not the most inspiring of places, though the view from the pontoon across the lake is superb. Once you had walked down the main street, full of vendors and their stalls with the usual Guatemalan souvenirs there was nothing much else to see. We did find an ENGLISH bookshop – woo hoo – which we went a little nuts in. We’re now carrying around 4 books to read which we will not get through fast cause there is no way you can read on a chicken bus.

  

With little else to keep us entertained in Panajachel, and with the lovehandles over our jeans ever so slowly increasing, we kick started our fitness regime that had until this point consisted only of chewing, with a bit of interval training. The locals obviously thought we were a bit nuts in our matching bootcamp shirts and exercise gear and gave us weird looks as we jogged through the main streets, dodging tuk-tuks driven by 10 year olds. Exercise has not been a big thing in any country we’ve visited so far – you feel very self conscious, even more so at this point because we have absolutely no fitness. It might not be the attire that makes them stare, it may be that they’re concerned we’re going to drop dead. The amount we puff and pant as we make our way along the street would be enough to make anyone worried, especially considering that the road was absolutely flat.

After exhausting the to do’s of Panajachel, including a day trip to the Chichi markets (same old same old), we boated it across the lake to San Pedro (a rip off at Q25, about $3.50, for the trip per gringo with locals paying no more than Q5) – a dirt path maze of restaurants, Spanish schools, and yoga centres. With yoga definitely not my thing we gave it a miss and headed straight for the restaurants. After about a half hour of wandering, we finally found Cafe La Puerta, down on the ‘playa’. It is not a beach really – or maybe it was – but Agatha has left the lake littered with debris so we didn’t see any beach. It was absolutely gorgeous though, sitting at a table on the waters edge. The food was even better than the view – a delicious Greek Salad with to die for feta and a hamburger, made with homemade bread. Delicious! We loved the food so much that we went to ‘Ventana Blue’ that night for dinner – a new addition to the restaurant scene in San Pedro run by the same guy. Sitting in a tiny deep blue room with only 5 tables we devoured a fabulous curry and pad thai (the closest we’ve had to the real thing – and by real I’m talking Stanley Street standards) followed by a huge piece of chocolate mud cake and icecream. Yum, yum, yum. On all the tables were beautiful mosaic lamps, that glowed different colours – blues, green, pink. I loved them so much I bought one, and am now lugging the thing around with me until I can find some way to ship it home – so worth it though.

    Always love a good moo-moo.

After a night in San Pedro we ventured across the bay to San Marcos. Apparently the prettiest of the towns found around the lake, San Marcos clings to the hill from the dock for a kilometre. After a quick wander around, in which we witnessed more destruction caused by the storm, we wandered back down to the lakeside and had lunch at Cafe Moon Fish. You’re thinking ‘random name’ I bet, but once you learn that San Marcos is also the home of month long ‘moon courses’ and other holistic hippie things, it makes a lot more sense. We didn’t hang around long.

Some of the destruction around Panajachel.