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| View from our hotel balcony: Great Egret |
Where even to begin? And how to tune
out what's going on outside, across from the island of Flores in the
quieter Hostal San Miguel but still somewhat within earshot of the
celebrations going on this weekend to mark the Day of Immaculate
Conception? Fireworks and firecrackers go off all
around Lake Petén
Itzá from five
in the morning until late into the night, laughter and bright voices
drift over from boats, right now the sound of drumming from Flores - it's such a far cry from where we have been these last
five days, and still all part of this colourful, friendly country in
which we've been a guest now for the past week and a half.
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| ... and across the lake to Flores |
Where to start? At the beginning ....
On Monday morning we left our Green
World Hotel at a quarter to five. We had repacked our luggage, taking
only the small backpack for water, rain capes, sunscreen, mosquito
repellent, toilet paper and some first aid items plus a duffle bag
with a few changes of clothes each, sandals for the evenings and our
personal hygiene items, a book for each of us, head lights, plus –
since I was not sure which shoes to wear – my new, still mostly
untested hiking boots. I decided to start out with my old walking
shoes and use them until it got too wet, just because I was afraid I
might get blisters wearing the new shoes. Our big, now half empty
backpack stayed behind at the Cooperativa Carmelita office that was
our starting point. Oh – the duffle also contained two bottles of
red wine, a recommendation of Cesar, a tour operator not far from the
office who had helped us out with good advice during our altercation
with the other tour operator. The duffle would be carried by the
mules; Johann would take the small backpack – a much lighter load
than the one he carried during the Colombian jungle trek this spring
– while I had my small woven bag with my camera, a notebook and
pen.
At the office we found three people
close to our age waiting already: Mirna, Erica and Sabdy, all from
Guatemala, all speaking hardly any English. A tall young man arrived
next: Markus from Germany, who, we were glad to hear, spoke some
Spanish: if necessary he could help us out, then. Finally a group of
four friends arrived, conversing animatedly in Spanish: Paloma, Borja, Violeta from Spain and Asha from
London, England. This would be interesting! On our other tours almost
everyone spoke either English or German. With a Spanish speaking
guide we'd be at a definite disadvantage. As it turned out we did not
have to worry ...
We took our packs down to the bus stop
a few minutes away where it was stowed on a pickup truck, together
with a big load of boxed supplies: all of it would be taken to
Carmelita, the small community that was the starting point for the
hike. A Toyota van was the means of transportation for our group and
two French girls who would be dropped off along the way; they were
going to take a tour to El Zotz, a different Mayan site.
It was still pitch dark when we left
Flores, with hardly any traffic at this early hour, although many
people on bicycles were on the road already, none of them with lights
or even reflectors. Not even half an hour had passed until the road
surface became rougher, and after passing through a small community
we were in for a torturous ride for the rest of the way. Deep holes
and ruts abounded, forcing the driver to carefully pick his way
between them, negotiating deep cracks that ran across the road
diagonally. Mud holes of uncertain depths were part of the scene as
well, not to mention crossing dogs, chickens and pigs. Traffic,
except for bikes and motorbikes, remained sparse. We hung on to our
seats as well as we could, thoroughly shaken through, sometimes
holding our breath when we encountered a particularly big, muddy
water hole. Would the van, not equipped with four-wheel drive and
very low to begin with, even more so with its heavy load, be able to
negotiate it? The driver was used to these conditions, of course, and
seemed unfazed, but inevitably the moment came when he couldn't make
it out of one of those depressions anymore. We heard – and felt! -
a scraping under our feet, and the wheels started to spin. He tried a
few times too many to get out and soon was completely stuck. There was
nothing for it: we needed to get out. A few motorbikes were quickly lined up
behind us, men on their way to work who could not pass as
long as we were blocking the road. With some back and forth and
everybody pitching in to push the driver made it out, and we could get back
in. How long was this seemingly endless journey going to last? At the
entrance of the Reserva El Mirador we had to get out once again to
fill out some forms: name, nationality, purpose of the visit,
passport number etc. (the latter a standard procedure for any filling
out of forms, from border formalities to hotel registrations or
sometimes even bus tickets), but more a kind of survey to gauge the
interests of people visiting than an official document. It took a
little over four hours until we finally arrived in Carmelita, glad to
finally get out of the cramped conditions, to be finished with the
bone-rattling drive.
An official for the Carmelita
Cooperative greeted us and handed out more forms to fill out, rules
for visiting El Mirador and a waiver, and introduced us to Santiago,
our local guide, Rodolfo, the second guide, the two cooks, Jadida and
Vikki, and Miguel, the mule handler, before taking us to a different
building for a delicious late breakfast.
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