Around Río Dulce: El Paraíso, Castillo San Felipe de Lara, and back to Flores

We had one more day left in Río Dulce, and since it was another beautiful day we decided to take a collectivo (mini bus) to El Paraíso (or Aguas Calientes), about forty-five minutes from Río Dulce on the way to the town of El Estor. Four other people from our hotel had the same idea, a young couple from Holland and one from Australia, so the boat was almost full this time around. We had no trouble finding the collectivo at the place Jonathan, the owner of our hotel, had told us: three old mini buses were parked along the curb, and the drivers and their helpers tried their best to outshout each other to fill up their vehicles. They had to call their 'El Estooor, El Estooor' many times until they felt they had enough passengers, but finally we were on our way. We stopped several times more, loading more and more people until we were twenty-one (including one child and one baby) in the space meant for fourteen. The driver's helper was standing in the open sliding door, hanging on to the frame, but a few of the women were very close to that door as well. We were moving at an extremely slow speed, something I wouldn't have thought possible here; true, the road was very bad for the first few kilometres, but the shape of the vehicle might have had something to do with it, too. Once we were loaded to capacity, or rather to the point when really nobody fit anymore, the driver's helper pulled the door shut and collected the money.

Several people had gotten off already by the time we reached Aguas Calientes. We had hardly started on our walk towards our destination when we were hit upon by a group of girls who wanted to sell banana bread or coconuts. They were very persistent, to the point where it was hard to shake them; so far we hadn't made that experience on this trip yet. It was hot, but the few hundred metres we needed to walk to reach El Paraíso were on a slowly ascending path in the jungle, and the shade kept it reasonably cool. El Paraíso is appropriately named: a waterfall with warm water splashes from a limestone wall into a cool river, the perfect temperature for a shower. This seemed to be a favourite spot not only for foreign tourists but for Guatemalans as well, and several families enjoyed themselves in the water or were eating a picnic lunch on the rocks beside it.

We weren't too keen on joining them at first, but tried to gain access to the top of the waterfall from the other side, joined by the Dutch couple who had read that there were thermal pools somewhere higher up, frequented by fewer people. We crossed the river where a woman was just finishing up her laundry and it was only about knee high; she had pointed out for us to follow the river upward on the other side to get to the thermal pools. We climbed up the opposite bank and started walking, but soon saw that it looked more like a field than a path through the jungle and finally found the top of the waterfall after talking to a young man carrying a load of wood in a sling fastened around his head, the way it's usually done. The trail was quite muddy there, so we abandoned the search for the thermal pools and instead joined the Australians who had climbed up from the pool side. They urged us to try the pool – 'it's the best shower I've had in Guatemala,' the girl said. Johann took their advice and found it was indeed well worth it while I was happy to soak my feet in the cooler water a bit downstream, watching the fish and the sunlight reflected back from the water dancing on the exposed roots along the high bank.

Once we were back on the road it took no more than ten minutes before a collectivo stopped to pick us up. It was still early, so Johann and I decided to get off at the intersection where the road turned off to El Estor; on the way to El Paraíso earlier we had seen a sign indicating it was two kilometres to Fort San Felipe de Lara which we had seen from the water the day before.

It was a long two kilometres, or maybe we had remembered it wrong, and it was very hot, but finally we reached the fortress. It's small compared to the Castillo San Felipe in Cartagena, but meticulously restored (rebuilt?) in the 1950s, and the extensive, well-kept park around it made the visit worthwhile. Collectivos left from here every half hour, and we opted for one to get back to town, which turned out to be a good thing since it was probably another two kilometres from the intersection where we had started, and we could feel the effects of the heat.

We slept poorly that night: strong winds shook the trees, and it sounded like it was pouring rain. A cold front was moving in from Canada. In my mind I saw us cross the lake in the morning battling high waves, an image that did nothing to make getting back to sleep any easier. In the morning, however, the wind had calmed down, and while it was cloudy the rain held off, so we had no trouble reaching the Sundog Cafe's dock and from there the Fuente del Norte bus station. We had a long drive ahead of us to reach Flores and wanted to make the bus at 9:30, which we accomplished with time to spare. The small room had a few short rows of seats, neither bathroom nor wifi connection, but the TV on the wall provided some entertainment for waiting passengers and bus personnel alike: a soccer game. To our utter amazement we found that it was a Bundesliga game between Bayern Muenchen and Hannover. The guys from the bus company were just as enthusiastic about this as they would have been about any game by a team from Guatemala, it seemed, and Bayern Muenchen is well known everywhere.

Our bus didn't arrive until a quarter past ten, and when it did we realized that it didn't matter at all that we had been there so early: by the time we got on the bus almost all the seats were taken. Johann found a place in the first row behind the driver and I secured one across the aisle from him, but when I saw that a young woman with her baby was still standing in the crowded centre aisle I got up again. Shyly she slipped by me and sat down. She looked like she couldn't be more than 18 or 19 years old. 
Now I was without a seat, like probably at least fifteen other passengers, if not more. Did all these people want to go all the way to Flores? Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw that a young couple had moved closer together to give me part of their seat - how nice of them! They obviously didn't mind snuggling up to each other, not only for my sake but with good reason. During our conversation I found out that they had a long-distance relationship: he was from Guatemala, she from Portugal, and they had met during a university exchange in Italy. They were enjoying a two-week holiday in his home country. He told me that only four percent of kids who finish school in Guatemala go to college, and that it is very tough to pass the entrance examinations. Once that hurdle is taken it is very cheap, however, unlike the private universities that also exist. 

The baby in front of me had been fussing while we were still at the bus station, but once his mother had nursed him the movement and engine noise of the bus soon put him to sleep. After a couple of hours he woke up and was happy to play peek-a-boo, laughing heartily. I love watching the beautiful young women and children with their gentle disposition, smooth faces and dark eyes. They seem so serene, resting in themselves.

Somewhere along the way a big group of people got off the bus, and more and more of the people standing found a seat. The young man who was sitting beside Johann got up and offered me his seat, indicating that he had sat long enough, and he didn't think it was overly comfortable for me (he was right, but I still was very thankful that I didn't have to stand all this time). How nice of him! 

Early morning in Flores

We reached Flores early enough that we could do some shopping. Cesar, our travel agency friend, called our hotel to send its boat to the La Union hotel - the one with the closest moorage to our San Miguel hostel across the water - and bid us farewell. He had arranged for our tickets to Chetumal for the next morning at six-thirty: sadly, our time in Guatemala was rapidly drawing to a close. 

The yellow hotel is our 'Hostal San Miguel'

Not without a special parting gift, however: like often when I know I have to catch a bus (or a plane) I didn't sleep very well that last night, a week ago today. I woke up before sunrise and stepped out onto the balcony to see if it was getting light. A huge greenish-yellow light shone among the stars: the 'Christmas comet', 46P/Wirtanen, as I found out later. By chance I had happened upon it without even knowing of its existence. It was quite spectacular! 

An hour later the sun rose, and it was time for us to leave. We liked Flores very much, and I hope we will come back sometime. 

From Rio Dulce to Livingston

It had been cool overnight, and we were glad to have not only the customary sheet but a blanket, too, but not long after we woke up the sun did as well: it promised to be a perfect day for the boat trip to Livingston on the Caribbean coast. This trip was hailed as a very special experience in the Lonely Planet and other travel write-ups, and at least part of the reason why we were here.

The boat, big enough for about twenty people, with a tarp providing shade, picked us up at nine: we were the first ones onboard and thus had the advantage of getting a look at other hotels/hostels hidden in the mangrove swamps when we picked up other passengers. A short detour to Castillo San Felipe de Lara a few kilometres outside of town, built as protection from pirates in the 17^th century at the entrance to Lake Izabal, was an early bonus of the trip.

Before the lake widened we could get a good look at the many mansions, yachts anchored in covered shelters beside the dock, alternating with more modest dwellings and watercraft. It is easy to see the allure of living at a place where life happens on and along the water, where it's never cold (though might be too hot for some during the summer when the temperature rises to near forty degrees during the day and doesn't drop much below thirty at night, humidity hovering around 80% or more). Expats seem to like it here: we heard many English, German and Dutch voices in town, and the owner of our hotel is from Switzerland originally, with many of the guests from Germany and Switzerland, too.

Once out on the lake the boat picked up speed, and soon houses were few and far between, green hills rising from the shore. Other boats big and small passed us on their way to and from Livingston. About an hour in the young captain of our boat slowed down and pulled up beside a small island. Hundreds of cormorants were nesting here, so many that the entire crowns of the trees were white with guano, the stench and noise appropriate.

 

No sooner had we slowed down almost to a stop than small boats appeared from between the trees with women and children offering crafts. It can't be an easy way to make money: nobody from our boat was interested. We slowly wended our way through several little islands, admiring the waterlilies, their leaves a green carpet spread out on the water, dragonflies darting between them, and stopped for fifteen minutes at a hotspring along the bank where we could sit and dip in our feet. 

 

We entered a side channel to drop off a couple of passengers at a hostel. Looking up we couldn't believe our eyes: there was Markus, the German who had hiked to El Mirador with us! What a coincidence that he was out on that dock at the very moment we stopped there for no more than three or four minutes.

We were nearing Livingston now and entered the canyon, its tree-covered walls rising steeply to both sides. The speed of the boat made it impossible to take a good picture of this. Hundreds of white egrets were perched on trees and rocks along the way, a clear indication of the amount of fish in these waters.

The canyon walls gave way to lower banks, and when we turned another corner we had reached Livingston, and with it the ocean. We disembarked, and now had two and a half hours to get a feel for this town that is very different from the rest of the country: here, the population is Garifuna, an ethnic group living along the Caribbean coast of central America, most in Honduras with smaller populations in Belize, Guatemala and Nicaragua. They are descended from groups originating in the Lesser Antilles, from where the British administration exiled them after a series of slave revolts. Dark skinned and mostly tall, they have their own language and music. 

We walked down main street, filled with restaurants and shops selling crafts and specialties, coconut oil and honey among them. The hot noon sun beat down on us, and we were glad when we reached the beach at the end of main street. It didn't look very enticing, the brackish water slapping lazily against the small strip of dirty sand and small rocks in front of a row of small huts. We were looking for a restaurant Dani, the receptionist at GreenGo's, had told us about: The Chill-Out Cafe, and its owner Mario, a friend of Dani's. 'If he can summon a few of his buddies you'll get to hear some great music,' she said. 

We watched a group of egrets fishing in the shallow water, looked furtively at the houses, and walked right past the Chill-Out without seeing it on our first try: it differed not a whole lot from its surroundings. After we turned around we saw the sign, and right after we met Mario, who had stepped out to greet us with a friendly grin. Sure we could get something to eat, he said, the meal of the day on the blackboard seemingly the meal of all days – whatever we wanted: rice, rice and beans, chicken, shrimp, fish ... It was a bit early still, so we told him we'd be back after another round through town. Few people were about, maybe because it was midday, but compared to the rest of Guatemala it felt less welcoming, few of the people looking up, even fewer replying to my greeting. Maybe they didn't like visitors very much. Maybe their history had caused them to be more circumspect, less inviting, or maybe they just couldn't be bothered. 

Back at the Chill-Out Cafe Mario passed our order – rice with chicken for Johann, rice with shrimp for me - on to the cook. We were the only guests for a while, sipped our beer and watched a few men working on putting in some kind of lamp posts. One dug a hole while four or five others waded out into the shallow water near the shore and brought back sand – or was it clay? - by the shovelful, piling it beside the guy digging the hole where the water drained from it. To us it looked as if they were going to use this as a kind of cement. Meanwhile Johann, who had asked for the bathroom earlier and came back with the news that the toilet drained right onto the ground below and that the only water he found for washing his hands came from a pail (nothing unusual, btw), had second thoughts regarding our food. He is the one who will get sick at least once on every trip, and now he had soon convinced himself that he certainly would get sick after eating here. I tried to reassure him: Dani wouldn't have sent us here to eat if it wasn't safe to do so. He wasn't convinced. The food arrived, my order with big juicy shrimps as tender as any I've ever eaten and absolutely delicious. Johann's chicken, too, was well seasoned, yet he couldn't fully enjoy it because he was thinking about the boat ride back to Rio Dulce. Sometimes the result of eating something that wasn't safe to eat had come within half an hour, so the worry was not quite unfounded ...

A few of Mario's friends had arrived in the meantime, their language much like what we had heard on the 'chicken bus' we took from Belize City to the Guatemalan border where we were the only white people in a crowd of mostly Garifuna. It didn't feel like the right time to ask about the music: had we been there in the evening I might have done that. We had to leave soon, however, and Johann, still worried about the effects of eating lunch at this place, paired with an aversion to loud live music, wouldn't have been able to enjoy it anyway.

As soon as all the returning passengers had arrived at the dock the boat left. Quite a few of the people who had come to Livingston with us stayed there to take a boat to Honduras  or Belize, both close enough that we could see their shoreline in the distance across the bay. This time we didn't stop anywhere but headed straight home to Río Dulce, where we arrived after only an hour and a quarter instead of nearly two. Johann didn't get sick, not on the boat and not later, and I was glad we had found Mario's place instead of eating somewhere along main street in a nondescript restaurant. Maybe I wouldn't have felt this way if the outcome had been different ...