Can We Get Out and Walk? -- Flores, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from the deck of our hotel in Flores, Guatemala. Cathy sits to my left, typing up an email to her family about our goings-on. John sits to my right, switching between reading his kindle, gazing off into the distance, cleaning his glasses, and discussing the possibility of popping over into the tienda next door to buy a couple of cold beers. Birds chirp, boat engines grumble, and the occasional fireworks crackle-crackle-BOOM in the background. 

We're finally in Flores. And it was quite the journey to get to this touristic island village from Chichichastenago. A journey fraught with sore bums, giant potholes (a significant factor in aforementioned bum soreness), spectacular scenery, and hordes of Israelis. 

WHY MUST YOU TRAVEL IN SWARMS?

Is what I think every time I see a crowd of raucous, young, petulant Israelis. 

I'm sure Israelis in Israel or the solo/duo traveling Israelis are amazing. But the groups of Israelis I meet on the road are... uhh... 

"Ellos no tienen respeto," (they have no respect) my Spanish teacher would say. 

The travel agency had told us the shuttle from Chichi to Pana left at 9:00, so we scarfed down a quick, traditional breakfast of fresh cheese, beans, eggs, and tortillas before stuffing ourselves into a tuk-tuk and wheezing into the city center. 

Due to Cathy's gift buying, we now have an extra duffel bag. Which was the straw that sent Aimee into the front seat with Fat Ellie on her lap, half a butt-cheek on driver's seat and the rest suspended in the air. 

The good thing is, even if I should fall out, we're only going at jogging speed. At best. I thought as the tuk-tuk determinedly, cumbrously chugged along. 

I popped into the tourist office just to make sure we were in the right place and everything was okay. And was informed that the person I'd spoken to the day before had written the wrong time on my ticket. 

"El autobús a Cobán sale a las nueve y media," (the bus to Coban leaves at nine thirty) the new agent informed me. 

"Pero la persona de ayer me dijo que el autobús sale a las nueve en punto," (but the person from yesterday told me that the bus leaves at nine o'clock) I showed the agent my ticket. Which clearly stated 9:00. 

The agent just shrugged his shoulders and repeated that the bus would arrive at nine thirty. Or ten, maybe. 

Fuck. We could have stayed at the Airbnb longer. Now Cathy and John have to wait outside for an hour... maybe an hour and a half. 

Gah. I feel like I'm failing so hard at making this trip good and easy for them. 

But... I'm doing the best I can. And it is Guatemala, after all.

I found a bakery for us to sit in for a bit, and then we took turns guarding the luggage and escaping into a nearby hotel with a courtyard full of tropical birds. 

  

We landed in a bus with plenty of space, which was quite the relief -- as you never know quite what you're going to get in Guatemala. John had enough room to stretch his legs, and I was even able to lie down, propping my legs up on the window in a lotus position.

Yay! Yoga. This is where you come in handy. During long, obnoxious bus rides through Central America when my bum is too sore to sit on. 

Cathy listened to an Audible book, I listened to Tom Waits, and John spent the entire journey being amazed at the astonishingly lousy quality of Guatemalan roads. 
 

My new daybag! Her name is Magdalena. And I love her. Fat Ellie will probably be very jealous indeed.

 At one point in the rather epic drive, we found ourselves on the edge of a cliff. On a washed out gravel road. And the bus started skidding, sliding backwards, towards what I assumed could be my imminent death.

"Can we, uh... Can we get out and walk?" I asked the English speaking driver named Donnie, as my heart plummeted into the depths of my queasy stomach. 

"Don't be scared!" Donnie calmed the quaking passengers. "I've been driving this road for ten years."

The roadworkers (who seemed to be approximately ten years old) shoveled some more rocks and soil onto the dilapidated road, Donnie backed the shuttle up, and tried again. With more momentum.

"Go, GO, GOOO!" Cathy yelled. And the rest of us were yelling with her. On the inside.

And we went. Donnie skillfully drove the shuttle over the washed out road, then turned to us and said, "Can we get out? Really? You were scared?"

"Yup. I was scared."

I haven't been on roads this bad since Nepal. It takes a bit of time to reacquaint myself with the feeling that possible death could be lurking around every treacherous corner. And, you know, not caring. 

We disembarked at Cobán, most of the rest of the passengers continuing on to Lanquin -- the village about twenty kilometers from Semuc Champey.

I had decided against going to Semuc Champey for a couple of reasons. A) It added another four+ hours round trip to our travels, and B) in order to see the full glory of Semuc, one needs to hike a fairly challenging 45 minutes through jungle. Up. And although Cathy and John are way more adventurous than they ought to be (I mean, come on -- who in their right mind comes to visit someone like ME in a place like Guatemala?), I thought the hike might be too tough for their knees. 

So after buying tickets from Ronnie for the next day's tedious journey to Flores, we caught a taxi to our Airbnb in Cobàn. Where we rested, commiserated with each other about the soreness of our bums, and then went out to find some alcohol and a place to eat a light dinner.

Our shuttle departed at 10:30 from the same McDonald's at which we'd been left the afternoon before, so we grabbed a taxi and settled ourselves into a comfortable corner of McDonald's to await our bus.

10:30 rolled around. No bus.

John began to pace. Cathy looked nervous.

"Buses are always late," I tried to reassure my friends. "It's Guatemala."

10:45 rolled around. No bus.

John continued to pace.

"Can you ask someone if this is where we're supposed to wait?" Cathy asked.

"Sure, but I'm pretty sure it was it. Ronnie said the bus would leave from McDonald's at 10:30 today."

A security guard from McDonald's confirmed this for us, letting us know that the bus to Flores left every day between 10:30 and 11:00. Which seemed to ease the fraying nerves of my friends.

Finally, at just after 11:00, a bus chocked full of rowdy Israelis (and one dog) rumbled to a stop in front of our bench. And after another forty-five minutes of confusion, we joined them, packed in like a bunch of smelly sardines, for the long-ass haul to Flores.

The road was better between Cobán and Flores, but the conditions inside the van were worse. I found myself in the middle of the backseat, with the window seat occupied by a ninety pound Israeli girl with a wide enough man-spread to compete with the most belligerent of man-spreads out there. 

Are you taking up so much space to compensate for weighing ninety pounds? I thought, looking at the lady incredulously.  

We finally arrived in Flores at around 5:30. Cathy and John loaded into a tuk-tuk with Fat Ellie and their luggage, and I gave the driver directions to the hotel.

"I'll just meet you there!" I called to my friends, not wanting to cram another body into the already bursting tiny tuk-tuk.

When I wearily trotted up to Lacandon hotel, there was no one to be found.

Oh goody. What have I done? 

"John, where are you?" I WhatsApped my friend.

"I don't know!" his voice seemed stressed over the phone. "The tuk-tuk just dropped us somewhere because a road was closed because of a wedding or something."

"Fuck. The one time I didn't go with you. Where are you now?"

"We're at a cafe... by the water," Cathy's voice took over. "Next to La Villa Del Chef."

"Okay, let me just look that up on Google Maps. I'll be right there," I hurriedly typed the name into Maps, thanking all of my lucky stars (and even some of the unlucky ones) that I'd bought a new phone before leaving Antigua. 

I found my exhausted friends and we checked into our hotel. The hotel owner, a German guy named Oliver, managed to ignore our exasperated, delirious faces, and gave us the long, proper check-in.

Can you not tell that we're KNACKERED? And that all we really want right now is a moment to rest in our rooms before being told to keep the lights off in order to take care of the environment? 

After we were finally allowed into our rooms, we ordered cocktails and dinner. Which took the better part of an hour to arrive.

"Guatemala..." I said meekly as Cathy's TOTALLY justifiable hanger became more and more apparent.

It was quite dark by the time our longed-for food finally appeared, so I ate ravenously, enraptured by flashes of lighting illuminating billowy clouds over the lake.

Well... That was the last long bus ride for Cathy and John. Now it's only to Tikal and back, to Yaxha and back, and a ten minute tuk-tuk ride to the airport. 

And that. Is a very good thing. I don't mind long bus rides myself (even though my sinuses seem to hate them), but I struggle watching people I care about and feel somewhat responsible for having such a tough time of things.