Arriving in Rio Dulce

The last day of our central America trip has arrived, and we are in Tulum, only about two and a half hours by bus from the airport in Cancun from where we fly home this evening. One more time we'll have breakfast outside in our shorts and sandals, one more time a mosquito net was part of the room decor. Has it really only been three and a half weeks? It feels like much longer. Every day brought its share of new experiences – none of them of the kind I would want to forget – and I feel richly blessed to have been able to travel once again in this part of the world that has become very dear to me. I'm still not finished writing about all the places we have seen: we left Semuc Champey a week ago, and many kilometres of bus rides lie between there and where we are now. Back to the minibus in Lanquín, then, which was to take us to Rio Dulce in the narrow part of eastern Guatemala that is squeezed in between Belize to the north and Honduras to the south.

The bus, a bit smaller, older and less comfortable than the one that had taken us from Flores to Lanquín, was not quite full to capacity, which is always a bonus. No air condition would be needed, it seemed (not that there was any): the sky was overcast and it was rather cool, not the worst for travelling. If we had hoped this trip would be smoother than the rest of the last one we were mistaken: the road was quite rough, and this time this lasted for much of the six-hour trip. About an hour and a half after we started the driver stopped at a little restaurant for a baño break, only to return a bit crestfallen with the news that the baño wasn't working. 'Una hora mas,' he assured us, and indeed, this time he was right. Not only was there a bathroom, with a flushing toilet to boot, but also an opportunity to buy some snacks and fruit. The narrow rocky road continued to wind through hills and valleys. Signs of former landslides were frequent, sometimes with only makeshift repairs, and for some kilometres the road was slick with mud from recent rainfall. Our driver and his travel companion were talking animatedly, obviously enjoying themselves, unperturbed by any obstacles in their way

Finally the tight curves ended and we stopped at a lookout: in the flats below we saw the beginning of Lake Izabal. Rio Dulce was no more than a couple of hours away now.

The road improved somewhat, and for a few kilometres we almost dared to believe that the improvement was permanent, that the smoother pavement would last. But no: we had hardly passed the little town where it started when we were back to 'rock pavement' again. But nothing lasts forever, not even back-jerking bus rides, and the last third of the way was almost enjoyable. At about two-thirty we finally rolled into Río Dulce. Here we could see firsthand what we had read about in one of the reviews: heavy traffic, including big trucks, runs right through this little town, with all kinds of shops to the left and right. Crossing this busy thoroughfare is a bit like taking your life into your hands – or rather I thought it was until, on the last day we were there, I noticed policemen directing traffic at certain points. In any case, we were quite glad that we hadn't booked a hotel in town: our 'Casa Perico' could only be accessed by boat and was about ten minutes away.

Waiting for the 'Casa Perico' boat at the Sundog Cafe

The bus stopped close to the marina, right beside the 'Sundog Cafe' where, we had heard, they'd call the Casa Perico that guests were waiting to be picked up. We left our big backpack there and walked the few metres back to town to get some money and a bottle of wine. The bus was still there, and I asked the copilot if they were going to return to Semuc Champey the same day. 'Right away,' was the answer, 'the driver does this every day.' For us the thought of doing this arduous trip twice a day was hard to imagine, but remembering how relaxed and at ease the driver had been, even enjoying himself, I suppose it's different for him. The copilot told us it wouldn't be for him either; he usually guides groups in Semuc Champey, but didn't have one lined up today so came along for the ride just for fun.

Back at the Sundog Cafe we ordered something to eat and asked the waitress to call the Casa Perico for us. It didn't take long until the boat arrived. We sped across the lake for maybe ten minutes and then slowly entered a channel through the mangroves which led by a couple of other houses until we docked at our hotel. Here, the main building is connected with three or four outlying ones by wooden walkways. The jungle was all around us; even when I showered I had a prime view of vine-wrapped trunks rising straight from the swamp. All day the light stayed diffuse, and bird voices were the loudest ones we heard: the busy road was reduced to a slight humming in the distance, if we heard it at all. This would be our home for the next three nights.  

On Maya trails, getting a little lost in the hills

The next morning at about 8:30 Golan, the owner, who moved from Israel to the US and sold his business there before building this hostel, called us over: time to leave. We climbed into the back of his pickup, fitted with the same metal benches facing each other as the bigger four-wheel drive truck we had arrived in; this way we had a good view. His neighbour, a carpenter, sat with Golan in the front, and the carpenter's young son in the back with us. Up we went into the hills on the curvy, bumpy road, hanging on to the metal braces. When we passed people walking Golan stopped, and we gained a few more passengers: men going to work, women with small children, one with a baby knotted into a sheet, only a tuft of black hair showing. We were all piled into the small space, looking at each other, smiling, the kids eyeing us curiously. Whoever needed to get off called out, and Golan stopped for a moment. I can only imagine what it means to save a kilometre or two or three when you're walking everywhere with a load or a small child at your side.

After about half an hour we reached our destination: a kind of community centre beside a church. We were greeted by a group of men from the community, the mayor and another official – this one more important because of his status in the Maya hierarchy – among them who were working together with Golan on the project, a new funeral hall. 
 

The old funeral hall

We walked over to the cemetery, which I would not have recognized as such since no graves were visible. What struck me first were rows of tall, dark, gnarled trees, looking like they could have been the models for Caspar David Friedrich's painting 'Two Men Looking at the Moon'. For every person who dies, Golan explained, a tree is planted, and these ones are los viejos, the old ones. Who knows how old, really? Smaller trees filled the spaces between and around them, but I only saw a single cement box, the usual kind of grave. 'This one must have had money,' Golan remarked. I like the idea of a tree instead of a marker, and it felt good to walk among those trees with the men high on that hill overlooking the many hills around and below us.

When we returned to the buildings near the church the bigger four-wheel drive truck from the hostel had arrived with a load of cement bags. Quickly a line was formed, and the fifteen or so men unloaded the truck: the cement was needed for the floor of the new hall. Meanwhile Golan's neighbour, the carpenter, and his son were busy working on boards and beams, sawing and planing; a few were already laid out to dry after being varnished. It wouldn't take long for the building to be completed, now that the planning and preliminary work had been done.

Next, we drove over to another church and big community hall where a meeting of what seemed to be the whole surrounding area was taking place. Hundreds of men, women and children were gathered, many crowded around the hall, looking in through windows and doors, listening, the hall filled with people standing – no benches or chairs here - their attention focused on a speaker at the front who alternated between Spanish and Q'eqchi', the local Mayan language which is spoken by Q'eqchi' people in northern Guatemala and Belize. Many of the people assembled could not speak any Spanish, we were told. Nobody seemed to mind that we were there; we were greeted with a nod or a smile and stood like the others, but understanding far less. Outside people were talking, kids running around playing; in the older part of the church soft drinks and snacks were for sale and a few men were working to repair a generator. 

The bigger, newer part of the church was locked, but we could look in through the door. No pomp here like in the huge churches in cities all over Latin America; here, there were only wooden benches on a flagged floor, a wooden altar with an eternal light at the front. Sadly, one of the two bells had been stolen - hard to imagine in this so very religious country. 'It's worth a lot of money,' Golan said.

 Golan had more business to attend to with the community, and we wanted to walk instead of drive back. We asked if it was safe for us to do so, and he immediately said yes. To be sure he conferred with the men, and they confirmed: yes, it would be totally safe. We didn't have anything really valuable with us, did we? No, we didn't; we don't ever when we're travelling. One needs so little, really. We thought we'd just walk back on the way we had come, but Golan showed us the trail that's used for walking: a narrow but well defined path. 'There are many trails branching off, but if you're in doubt just ask – everybody will be pleased to point you where you need to go. Just say 'GreenGo's'.' Our objection that we don't speak a lot of Spanish was dismissed quickly: 'neither do they. No problem, you'll communicate anyway.' I hadn't really thought of this as an obstacle either. Where there's a will there's a way.

Thus we took off. It was drizzling a bit and not as hot, which was fine with us. The trail, narrow and a bit muddy after the rain of the day and the night before, led along the ridge of the hill, with many more hills all around us. The landscape is beautiful. Small, irregular fields of corn, the plants mostly somewhere between ten and forty centimetres high, hugged the steep slopes, adapting to the contours. They were planted by hand, one kernel after the other, with the help of a stick with a small metal blade. 

We passed a couple of houses, were asked where we wanted to go - 'GreenGo's'? Aquí.' - fingers pointed out the direction we were to take. So far so good. But the trail narrowed even more, and more and more often some branched off, with no house close by where we could ask. We had a rough idea which direction to take – thought we did, anyway, and we kept going. At some point we turned left onto what looked like the more likely direction, but soon were starting to wonder: we seemed to be in the fields now, the trail less travelled and even narrower, corn alternating with achiote trees, partly with the crimson seed pods, partly still displaying pink blossoms. 

Here and there were cocoa and coffee bushes, but for quite a while no house right on the trail. When we finally passed by one and then another we found nobody at home. Was everybody at the meeting? It seemed more than likely. Another house that looked totally deserted, only a couple of pigs tied up a few steps down the hill. 

I took a picture and saw movement near the house from the corner of my eye: a little boy, maybe two years old. There had to be someone else. When I turned around and started walking uphill again the boy started screaming at the top of his lungs. The door opened, an old woman reached out, pulled the screaming kid back inside and slammed the door. So much for the friendliness and openness we had encountered so far. The look on the woman's face was one almost of rage, I thought. Strange. The explanation came much later when we were back at the hostel: people were afraid that foreigners came to steal their kids after an incident of that kind not far from here. I realized that it hadn't been rage but fear I saw in the face of the woman. The whole thing left me sad and ashamed.

Since we couldn't get any help we just kept going downhill; that seemed like a safe bet at least, and so did the creek at the bottom: something to follow until we got somewhere. We had seen a couple of bigger buildings with metal roofs from higher up, decided it could possibly be another hostel, though certainly not ours. Finally we reached the bottom of the hill and arrived at the creek, turned left and followed it in the hopes of arriving somewhere we could either ask or get our bearings again. All these little trails must eventually lead to a road, no?

What we found was indeed another hostel. People were hanging out in hammocks, a few were around the reception area. 'Where did you come from?' we were asked. Hmmm ... from somewhere above, was all we could reply. We had no clear idea anymore. 'Where are we?', was our question. The reply left us none the wiser: the name of this hostel hadn't been one called out when the hostel vehicles had picked up their visitors in Lanquin a couple of nights ago. 'How do we get back to our hostel?' was the next question – but nobody there seemed to have a clear idea where our hostel was either, or that it even existed, in fact they didn't even know how to get to the road. 'But Mike, the owner, is working on that building over there, I'm sure he can help you out,' a guy at the reception suggested. Indeed, Mike could. We found out that Mike, originally from Texas, had bought two acres of land here and built the Ch'i Bocól hostel. It had been finished only the year before. Mike at least knew where we were headed and told us if we didn't mind walking we'd get there without a problem. He drew us a map: follow along the river until you come to the bridge, cross it and loop back underneath, then turn up the hill and walk until you hit the intersection with the road, a 45-minute walk. 'How do people get here,' we wondered. 'Hiking in,' was the reply. They're dropped off at the road, and there is a small tienda (store) from where they can be guided to the hostel.

Armed with the map we now felt confident that we'd get back to where we needed to be. The walk along the river running to our right, cocoa, coffee, corn and avocado fields to our left, was beautiful. 

 

Cocoa plant

We met only one man coming out of the fields; other than that only birds and – still a thrill for me although I saw it several times in the jungle – a blue morpho, the huge blue-metallic butterfly that's called morpho azul in Spanish. To walk here with a big backpack, especially when it's muddy and you haven't ever been anywhere like it, would be quite the experience, I imagine. 

In due time we reached the bridge, found the tienda and finally were at the 'cruce', the intersection with the road. Mike had suggested that we could catch a ride with any of the passing vehicles for five or ten quetzales; we still had about three kilometres left to walk. We were okay with that, however. Now that we knew where we were we had no problem walking the rest of the way.

Tired but very happy with the way the day had turned out we reached the hostel in the early afternoon.

I was a bit concerned that Golan might be worried about us: we should have been back at the hostel way before. There was nothing we could do about that, however, so I just hoped he hadn't started a search. He hadn't, at least nothing big, but Dani, the Dutch receptionist, told us he had been wondering already where we were. It was a bit unnerving to realize how far we had really gone astray, how completely our sense of direction had abandoned us in this extensive network of hills. We also gained an even more deep appreciation for the hard work the people living here do, the many miles they walk to get just anywhere. Apart from the jungle hike to El Mirador this day was our favourite, and we were very grateful for Golan that he had made it possible for us to see all this.

He has big plans for GreenGo's, is about to add on to the hostel and build a hotel, a couple of swimming pools – one with a water slide using the natural lay of the land – and even a helicopter pad eventually. Already he employs a lot of locals for the maintenance and building, and we could see that he was well respected. The hostel, while a bit of a 'party hostel' and thus in some ways better suited for the younger backpacker crowd, is very well run, the rooms beautiful, everything clean and well thought-out, the food plentiful, tasty and cheap.Our cabin by the creek was far enough away from the public space that the loud music in the evening didn't bother us if we wanted peace and quiet, and the staff was great, making sure that everybody felt welcome and had what they wanted. 

 The next morning at seven we were ferried back to Lanquín with the four-wheel drive truck, squeezed in tightly, most of the young people visibly hung over after an evening of 'beer pong', hardly awake: all of us needed to catch a bus somewhere. One by one the mini-buses left for their destinations: Antigua, Flores, finally ours to Río Dulce. It was time for the next chapter.

Semuc Champey

 

Achiote (or Annato): the seeds are used for makeup and as food colouring and spice

I'm slowly catching up, but I'm still behind. Every new place I arrive at takes over with its new impressions, especially if it's beautiful, and this hotel in the jungle – albeit 'civilized' jungle - of Rio Dulce, is no exception. I've been watching the sun pick its way through the trees, wandering up and down trunks, shining through leafs of so many varied shapes, from huge fans to those shaped like elephant ears, from vines digging into trunks with claw-like tendrils to delicate veils dropping from branches. I could hear boat engines from the lanchas taking passengers from the different jungle hotels to the busy hub of Rio Dulce and back as early as five-thirty, and trucks roaring through town just as early. I'm glad our hotel is a bit removed from that.

No noise like that disturbed the peace at the GreenGo's hostel in Semuc Champay; except the music in the bar/public space in the evening there were only bird voices and the sounds of people working on the grounds.

We were slow to start the first morning – Monday of this week (it's Friday now) – not feeling the need to spool off a program since we felt we could see what there was to see in the space of two days. Many visitors only come for a day, visit the pools in Semuc Champay nature reserve and the caves, and are gone again.

It was cloudy and a fair bit cooler than it had been in the morning, but when we started out for Semuc Champay, about half a kilometre away off the road we had come on, the sun blasted down. Followed by kids wanting to sell home-made chocolate – thin discs of about ten centimetres in diametre, wrapped in tin foil -, two for five quetzales (a little less than a dollar), we paid the entrance fee at the gate and were now free to roam the park.

There are two main points of interest in Semuc Champay itself, one being the 'Mirador', the outlook, the other the river with its beautiful blue pools and cascades. We decided to hike up to the outlook first and look at the pools later. Again it had clouded over, and we hadn't climbed for more than five minutes before it started to rain lightly. It was warm enough not to be unpleasant, however and the trees shielded us from the rain somewhat, so we kept going. The climb was pretty steep, partly on a trail, partly on stairs, either cut into the rock or built of wood, and by the time we reached the top it was pouring. 

A platform afforded a nice view of the river and the pools far below. An old Maya woman with a little boy and a couple of young women had sought shelter under some big trees as well as they could, and when a bigger group of tourists arrived they spread out the oranges and bananas they had brought. They giggled when they watched the visitors posing to take selfies, and when I asked them if I could take their photo after buying bananas they readily agreed, smiling a bit self-consciously.

We completed the loop, taking the longer way down which, by now, had turned slippery with red mud wherever there weren't stairs or rock. After about half an hour we arrived at the river where the more forceful part of it had carved a tunnel from which it emerged 300m downstream. 

Part of the river, however, made its slower way down on the surface, forming quiet pools of various shades of blue and turquoise, flowing over limestone ridges. 

We balanced along the ridges and tried the water: it was not cold, but since it was still raining and the air temperature only moderately warm we decided against taking a dip. Instead we kept hiking on a trail right along the river, saw where it emerged from the tunnel and followed it a bit further until the trail turned away towards the exit of the park.

Later in the afternoon we were approached by the owner of the hostel who asked us if we enjoyed Semuc Champay and were happy with our stay. We talked for a while and asked him if it was okay to keep walking along the road in the direction opposite from town: we just wanted to get a feel for the place beyond the touristy part. Johann was especially interested in checking out the corn fields; we had watched people walking through them with backpack sprayers, and he was curious to see if they used glyphosate. “Why don't you come with me tomorrow?', he asked. 'I have a project here at the cemetery with the local people, and I need to go there in the morning.' That sounded like a great idea, much more enticing than the pools.

From Flores to Semuc Champey

Already I'm behind again in my posting; it seems I'm either busy doing something or tired from a bus trip. Let me see if I can get back on track ...

It's not even a week since we came back from El Mirador, but it feels like much longer. Before we left for the hike we had booked two nights in a hostel in Flores. We were quite sure we needed a day of rest before we embarked on another long bus ride. This time our hotel was not on the island of Flores itself but right across, only about five minutes maximum by lancha (boat). This had the advantage that it was a little less noisy than close to the beach in Flores where parties seemed to be going on every night.

We had reached Carmelita at 11:30 on Friday morning, not bad after walking 17 muddy kilometres that morning. The people at Carmelita were going to cook lunch for us, and since we had about half an hour until that happened we all attacked the mud clinging to our shoes and boots with brushes and rags supplied by the manager. It was great that we could do it there; I'm sure no hostel/hotel in town would have been happy to have us walk in looking like we did. There were showers, too, for those who wanted to get cleaned up right away. Lunch was delicious, like most of the food we have had here in Guatemala, consisting of the obligatory rice and beans, chicken or pork, and salad. As dessert we got to taste a specialty not only in Guatemala but other central American countries as well: horchata, a frothy drink made with rice soaked in water, then blended with sugar, peanuts and cinnamon – muy rico!

The ride back was just as bumpy as the way there, but the road had dried a little bit, and at least we didn't get stuck. I'd say it was as strenuous as half of the seventeen kilometres of walking ...

We arrived back in Flores just in time for sunset, as beautiful as ever on the lake, dropped our bags at the Carmelita Cooperative's office and walked across the bridge to the supermarket in San Elena, the modern part of Flores, to get a couple of bottles of wine: we had earned it, we felt, and had no plans whatsoever for the next day except to relax and get our clothes washed. There was to be some special entertainment that evening, however, the celebrations I mentioned earlier with fireworks all around the lake.

On Sunday morning the Hostal San Miguel's boat took us over to Flores where we caught the bus to Semuc Champay. The sixteen passengers were all backpackers (hence the sign 'Turismo'), squeezed into a Toyota van with working air condition – big sigh of relief. It actually was one of the more comfortable mini buses we have ridden in. The luggage was stowed on the roof, and off we went. After about an hour and a half we crossed a river by ferry, the first of several bathroom stops; this is by no means the case on every bus ride here and was much appreciated. The landscape was varied and beautiful: lots of the typical Brahma-type cattle along the way, sleek and well fed in green pastures, little villages and single houses strung out along the road. The driver, just like most of the others, had no qualms about disregarding any speed limits, and as usual honking was the means of communication for passing manoeuvres: one honk to say 'please let me pass', one more to say 'thanks!'

The roads were nice and smooth until we came to Cobán, a relatively large city where we stopped at – of all things! - a MacDonald's, right across from a big new mall that could have been found anywhere in North America. A big cone-shaped artificial Christmas tree was the centre piece near the entrance, and Maya families, most of the women in traditional dress, lined up to have their pictures taken in front of it. Here was a welcome opportunity to draw money from an ATM; we weren't sure if we would be able to in Lanquín, the town closest to the hostel we had booked for the next three days.

A man in his thirties asked me where I was from and told me he had worked in Georgia for eight months, until his company went broke. He would have liked to work there longer since he made good money. He asked where we were headed and what we had seen of Guatemala already. Most of it, he said, he had not seen himself yet: most people make only enough money to get by, not enough for extras like travelling.

"Christmas Market" in Lanquin

After about an hour we were on our way again, and this time it didn't take very long until the good road came to an abrupt end. For about fifty or sixty kilometres we were shaken about, the driver changing lanes according to where the deepest potholes were, until we finally reached Lanquín. Here we were right back in Maya country; hardly any woman wore modern dress, people carried heavy loads on their heads, hills were steep and cobble-stoned. The bus stop was in the middle of town, and we had hardly opened the doors when the first calls came for the different hostels: from here we were going with four-wheel drive trucks belonging to the hostels. About eight of us climbed in the back of the 'GreenGo's' truck, fitted with two opposing benches and a metal roof, our packs shoved under the seats. Another hour of being bumped on even worse roads, and we had finally reached our destination.

GreenGo's is a backpacker hostel, frequented mainly by people in their twenties, by the looks of it, beautifully designed with many thoughtful details. It is not cheap for backpacker budgets, but the ample meals are, and the food is very good. We had booked a private room and got a nice cabin beside the small river, away from the loud music at the public space, its balcony with a hammock and chairs. After supper, accompanied by a litre of 'Brahva' beer, we were ready for bed. It was not even eight-thirty!

Part Four: Day Three, visiting El Mirador (plus days four and five)

Again the voices of the jungle woke us before Santiago did, announcing that the day would soon begin. It was nice not having to pack our bags: we were going to spend another night here at our campsite. Today would be dedicated to looking at the complexes of El Mirador.

El Mirador was established in the Middle Preclassic between 1000 and 350 B.C.E. and became the capital of the region a few centuries later replacing Nakbé, about thirteen kilometres southeast. Had we wanted to visit that site we would have had to choose the six-day tour; the thought of hiking 35 kilometres in one day precluded that for us since we would have had to make the decision before we started. It sounded like a lot, and once we had hiked the first two days we were glad we had decided against it: five days were enough, and there was a lot to be seen and learned without Nakbé. The zone reached its greatest times during the Late Preclassic period (between 350 B.C.E. and 250 A.D.) when El Mirador became its capital. It alone consisted of 35 triadic groups (groups of buildings organized in threes), astronomical commemoration complexes, ball game courts and several palaces. Many were decorated with massive stucco figure heads and panels.

Headlamps switched on, we started for the nearest pyramid to watch the sunrise, surrounded by the sound of monkeys howling and birds starting up. It had rained a bit during the night, and the sky was still partly cloudy, clearing somewhat while we were waiting for the sun to rise. It did, at about 6:30, briefly lighting up the underside of a wall of clouds. Soon it was light enough to see what Santiago had shown us on a map earlier: lines of Maya roads elevated from the rest of the jungle canopy, connecting the different parts of the city, and other major Maya cities. How amazing to imagine what it was like when this was a place bustling with activity, when we could have seen the buildings that were now hidden from view by the jungle, observed the thousands of people going about their daily work!

We went back for breakfast once the sun, still somewhat veiled, had cleared the horizon. This time porridge, pancakes and fruit awaited us: our 'day of rest' promised to be a sweet one indeed.

After breakfast Santiago first took us to the Jaguar's Paw temple, decorated with two jaguar symbols to the left and right of a wide staircase. He explained that the Maya had used stucco tinted red, cream and black as well as white – it must have been a stunning sight. The sculpture to the right was well restored already, the jaguar face easily visible with its ears decorated with a circle, the symbol for fire, and the claws on both sides of the head. The top of the building had been used for living quarters.

Around the year 150 A.D. the population of the area diminished considerably, but about five hundred years later it again was settled heavily, and building resumed. New constructions were built in part over existing ones, or old buildings were dismantled, the material used for new ones. The thought that for five hundred years it would have looked like what we saw now, and then had risen to new heights, only to diminish again, is hard to grasp.

The Great Acropolis is mainly composed of great pyramidical buildings and ample courtyards, with spaces for political-religious ceremonies, a canal water system that drained into massive, stucco-lined reservoirs, and an inner causeway, this, too, a massive construction. As we could see at an archaeological excavation site it was between one and four metres deep – unimaginable like so much else we saw.

Next, Santiago showed us a well restored panel with a great number of symbols representing the Maya worldview, thought to possibly be a part of the Popol Vuh, the sacred book of the Mayas (?). One interpretation of the panel suggests that it depicts the hero twins from this Maya myth who swim after avenging their father's death in the underworld. Other researchers identify symbols of rain, clouds, and water, essential elements of Chaak, the god of rain. We could easily recognize the serpent, clouds, a bird resembling a pelican fishing, and the figures of two swimmers on top of each other.

Now, all that was left was a visit to La Danta, the largest pyramid constructed in the entire Maya area, where we were going to see the sunset. It was only a little after noon, and we were given 'time off' until three – oh! the luxury of stretching out for a nap in the middle of the day, either in one of the hammocks strung around the campsite or in our tents. We all gladly used the opportunity.

And then it was time to see the most impressive construction of all, La Danta. The inhabitants took advantage of a natural hill, on which they constructed a massive platform, 300m long and 280m wide, which reached a height of 22m. In total, La Danta reaches a height of 77m above the base of the complex. It includes several buildings located over two stepped platforms. It is estimated that 2,800,000 cubic metres of material was used for its construction - to me, an unimaginable amount! - all moved by hand, without the use of either animals or the wheel. The Acropolis of La Danta is the most important of the compound, and this is where we were headed for the sunset.

At the foot of the last pyramid Santiago shushed us: a couple of toucans had just flown overhead. Soon there was a group of ten, twenty, thirty of them – a beautiful sight, their yellow beaks glowing in the late sun. As quickly as they had come they were gone, their strange croaking voices diminishing in the distance. 
 

As in El Tintal a couple of days earlier the sunset was spectacular, made more so by a few well positioned clouds. Again we needed our headlamps on the way back. Sudden excitement behind us made us turn around: Sabdy had spotted a huge tarantula! Soon after the beam of Santiago's headlamp caught a 'baby' coral snake, the most poisonous snake of the Guatemalan jungle. We watched it wind sideways into the undergrowth, reminded by both incidents that we were in the wild, and were not to forget it. We reached the camp safely, without seeing or hearing either snake or jaguar.

We had seen what we had come to see, awed and so very thankful for the opportunity to experience what few people will even now. Two more days of walking were ahead, but we would no longer stop to look at anything beyond what was on our path.