Goodbye rat race, hello playa: Follow the Alexanders (Doug, Krista, and Levi) and their year-long adventure living and traveling in Mexico, Central America, and points beyond.
Community Baboon Sanctuary, Bermudian Landing, Belize
Howlers, Eco-Protection and How to Stitch Wounds with Soldier Ants
After leaving Hopkins en route to the cayes, we decided to head inland to Bermudian Landing, home to the Community Baboon Sanctuary. The village, which is little more than a few dozen buildings along a country road, is the best place in Belize to get up close and personal with howler monkeys (known as “baboons” by locals).
We were teased by these once-prolific creatures two weeks before in Tikal. Though we heard their ferocious growls on our first night in the densely jungled park, we never caught a good glimpse of them--the canopy was too high and their numbers were too low. Krista was disappointed. Seeing howlers was a top priority for our trip.
We would have no such disappointment this time around. The sanctuary, a patch-work of land occupying over 20 square miles, is home to over 2,000 howlers. But what’s notable is not just the size of the population, but the sanctuary’s grassroots nature. Since its founding in 1985, over 200 landowners in half a dozen villages have voluntarily pledged to protect the monkey and its habitat. Many forests that would have been clear-cut have been preserved, and in parcels that have been used for agriculture, monkeys have been relocated. It’s a model for eco-protection and tourism I wish we’d seen in Southern Mexico and Guatemala, where the twin specters of logging and cattle ranching continue to wipe-out these habitats at a furious pace.
We stayed the night at the Howler Monkey Resort, a lodge and cabins set on a few acres of private jungle banking the Belize River. Though not cheap by budget-traveler standards (as few things are in Belize), it's walking distance to the sanctuary center and includes an incredible feast of a breakfast and dinner. Our cabin was basic, but well outfitted with AC, screen windows, two beds and a nice back porch and bench swing overlooking the river.
We came for the monkeys, of course, so once we unpacked, we bee-lined to the center, which leads tours of a nearby track of forest where a particular group of howlers (called a "troop") lives. Part medicine walk, part howler education, we were skeptical when Russel, our cocksure guide, assured us we’d see monkeys on our casual nature stroll. But, lo and behold, within 15 minutes we located the troop, and a mother carrying a baby climbed down the tree within a few meters as if to greet us. In the canopy above, a male and a few other females climbed about restlessly.
Russell, summoning his best inner howler, gave out a challenging roar and shook and pounded a nearby tree. The male, head of the troop, screamed back loudly—an unequivocal back the fuck off. This is how howlers, which live on as little as a few acres of land, mark their troop’s parameter.
Though it probably isn’t best practice to taunt wild life, it made for good theater, and on balance, seemed like a reasonable sacrifice in the greater good of preservation. Tourists get to experience the wildlife, the community gains sustainable economic opportunity, and of course, the howlers maintain a semblance of their homeland.
As we ventured back, Russell gave us a cursory view of the human value of these quickly disappearing jungle environs. Seeds that ease stomach pains. Fruit that can be used as paint or a primitive form of (bright red) lipstick. A tree bark that can be smoked like a cigarette. And, most impressively, a demo of how massive soldier ants can be used as sutures on wounds.
Given Russell's flare for showmanship, we didn't know what to make of the later. But, as soon as we found an anthill, he thumped the mound with his boots, waited for an unsuspecting soldier to emerge, and -- carefully picking him up by the hind-quarters -- positioned its head on the collar of his shirt, where it aggressively clamped down with its powerful mantles. With a twist, Russell snapped its body from its firmly attached head -- and voilà a stitch.
Have a gaping wound in the middle of the jungle, Russell intoned? Repeat this a dozen times on your skin, and maybe you'll save yourself from bleeding out on the jungle floor.
The tropical storm that skimmed Vallarta a couple nights ago marked the beginning of the summer, and for us, the closing chapter of our “big year” away. Even as we lost power, leaving me stumbling around our casita looking for a headlamp, I felt a mix of excitement and nostalgia, wishing we could stay one more hurricane season.
But we’re getting rather broke, and we have our lives to attend to back home. Plus, Levi says he is “done” traveling. He misses Oakland, his friends, his stuffed animals.
Still, we’re squeezing-in one last adventure on the way home — a 7-week roadtrip across the States. We leave this morning for Guadalajara, where we’ll bid adieu to new friends, and then to Guanajuato, an enchanting colonial city known as much for its maze-like streets as its impressive mummy museum. From here, we bee-line to the Good Ole U.S. of A. where we’ll spend four weeks in the South, Ohio and Chicago, before wagon-trailing back West, visiting friends and family along the way.
If you’re in our path, and we’re not visiting you already, give us a shout! Otherwise, we look forward to seeing our peeps back in Oakland (in seven weeks!)
Cockscomb Wildlife Sanctuary and Jaguar Preserve, Belize
Jungle, Jaguars and the Struggle of Maya in Belize
We decided to visit Cockscomb because even though our two short weeks in Belize would be centered around beaches and islands, we also wanted to experience the other side of Belize—The Jungle. As we were staying in nearby Hopkins, the Preserve seemed like a good place to spend the day without having to shell out big bucks for a jungle lodge (which can run upwards of $300 US/night). In addition, even though we didn’t actually expect to see jaguars, the name certainly intrigued us.
Cockscomb Jaguar Preserve was founded in 1990, as a result of the work of Alan Rabinowitz. Rabinowitz had determined that this was an important habitat for jaguars, whose population was significantly diminishing due to the destruction of their habitat throughout the region. Rabinowitz tagged and studied the animals, and eventually convinced the Belizean government to set aside the land as a protected area. Unfortunately, this displaced the Mayan families who had settled the area and who now had to move to Maya Center, an established village nearby.
The displaced Maya had previously made a living from agriculture, but after the preserve was established, they were restricted from utilizing their traditional method of slash/burn farming (or farming at all for the most part). They were encouraged to now make their living off tourism. So far, this transition has not been terribly successful. The Maya are having a difficult time making ends meet off the sporadic tourists who visit the area and buy trinkets or a Coca-Cola from the visitor’s center. Everyone must at least stop at Maya Center to purchase tickets to the preserve. We purchased a few small handicrafts (and a couple of sodas) in addition to our $5 US a piece entrance fee.
The Maya women at the visitor’s center jarringly spoke fluent English with a Belizean accent as opposed to basic Spanish or an indigenous language, which we were accustomed to (though they spoke their indigenous language amongst themselves as well). After making our purchases, the ladies took a look at our car and calmly said, “You aren’t planning on driving into the preserve in that car are you?” They said we would never make it over the roads, muddy from the previous weeks’ rains (our Camry sits low and is not four-wheel drive). We weren’t sure if they were just trying to make an extra buck or if they were sincere when they told us we needed to hire a taxi, but we decided not to risk it and followed their advice.
This turned out to be a good decision. We were beginning to learn not to count on any preconceived ideas of what a “road” might be in Belize. This particular road was full of deep, muddy ditches, and even our taxi driver had brought a friend along in case his truck got stuck in the ruts. He handled the 10km road like an expert though, and told us he’d be back at 5pm to pick us up. We hoped he was true to his word, as we seemed to be the only people around at the entrance, other than the park ranger who collected our tickets.
We spent the afternoon hiking through jungle forest along muddy trails, searching for a waterfall. Once we finally found the waterfall, Levi declined to swim due to the icy water temperature. I was spooked by the swarms of mosquitoes swimming in the pond, but I took a dip nonetheless. The scenery was breathtaking—green jungle looming above us, the jade-colored pond, and of course, the waterfall itself. Most exciting of all, however, was the fact that we were the only ones there. A couple was leaving as we arrived, and another one came as we were leaving. But for the hour we spent there swimming and eating the sandwiches we had packed for lunch, we were alone in the jungle swimming in our underwear and listening for wildlife.
After our respite at the waterfall we continued our hike, shaded by the tall jungle foliage, reading the subtly-placed placards that pointed out significant trees and other natural phenomena, and trying to avoid being eaten by mosquitoes (we failed).
We finished off the afternoon at the park visitor’s center, where there was an informative little museum about jaguars, the park, and about the area. While we waited for our taxi driver to return, I looked for birds (especially for toucans, though to no avail), and Levi got bitten by a red ant (he knows better than to play with them now). We were completely alone as even the park ranger who worked at the entrance to the forest had closed up shop for the day. Our driver arrived precisely at 5pm as he had said he would, and we were amazed at his punctuality given the difficult road he had to drive to get us.
On the drive back, our driver gave us the lowdown on what is going on for the Maya at Maya Center, as well as his view on politics in Belize. Basically, he told us, everything is for sale to the highest bidder (echoing what our captain in Placencia had told us). Of particular concern to people in the area at the moment, is that a cruise ship dock has been built in nearby Placencia (and has opened since our return from Belize). The environmental impact is sure to be enormous, as towns in this area are quite small, and cruise ships carry passengers in the thousands.
What really irked our taxi driver, however, was a false promise of jobs to the Mayan people who have already been displaced from the lands of the Jaguar Preserve. Everyone was initially excited about employment opportunities with Norwegian Cruise Lines, as finding work continues to be very difficult for the folks in Maya Center. Many went out for interviews, informed by the government that there would be jobs aplenty, for a wide variety of skills. However, at the time of our visit, not one person from the village had been hired. Our driver said that villagers were told that to qualify for a position, they needed to have a certain level of education (which many do not have) and be free of tatoos (which many do have), among other reasons that contradicted what they had first been told. (Read more)
As with everywhere in Belize, the highlight of our trip to Cockscomb Jaguar Preserve was talking with a local resident. Not only did our taxi driver let us know about local politics, he was very informed about the forest and wildlife in it. We felt almost guilty visiting this park, that was built somewhat at the expense of the Maya people, but our guide did not seem resentful about this. He seemed proud of the park and of his community, and was open and friendly with us foreigners.
Cockscomb was perfect for our remote jungle adventure, without the cost of a jungle lodge. Our only regret was that we hadn’t planned an overnight in the park, where there are rustic cabins for rent for as little as $20 US a night. We would have been the only ones in the middle of the jungle, and the wildlife at dusk and dawn would surely have been amazing. Perhaps we may have even seen, or at least heard, the nocturnal jaguar for whom the park is named.
—Krista
Trip Details:
WHERE: Stann Creek region, 20 minute drive south of Hopkins. The entrance to the Preserve is Maya Center, a short turn west off of the Southern Highway. Unless you have a 4x4, park at the Center and take a cab up the hill ($25 US RT) (Map)
ENTRY: Park fee is $10 BZ ($5 US) and is open 8am-4:30pm daily. View park details.
SLEEP: We stayed at nearby Lebeha Drum Center in Hopkins, but Tutzil Nah Cottages at Maya Center are also recommended. For a fully immersive jungle experience, checkout the cabins in the park.
TIPS: 1) Wear DEET-based insect repellent, and apply liberally. We itched for days. 2) Bring a swim suit and lunch. There are no restaurants in the park.
Coconut water has become a bit of an obsession for us. We've always loved getting coconuts on the streets in tropical locations, but now we have a strand of dwarf trees not 15 feet from our front door. So, after exercise, or the very occasional wild night out, we invariably pull a young coconut from the tree, slice off the husk, and pop a hole in the center to get at the goodness inside.
I always assumed you needed a machete for this operation. It is, after all, what the street pros use. But, after doing a bit of Googling, I found a simple (and inexpensive) chef's knife does the trick just fine. While in the States, coconut water usually comes in expensive, non-organic containers, if you buy whole coconuts (or have access to trees), a how-to guide follows.
Step 1 - Find your ’nut: I look for coconuts that are at least 6-8 inches in diameter. These young nuts are quite sweet, so in this case, size does not matter!
Step 2 - Get it off the tree: Simply twisting it off will work, but if you have to climb (or use a ladder), bring a knife.
Step 3 - Cut off the top: Use your knife to make a cut where the nut was attached to the tree. Then, cut around the perimeter at an angle, so the top comes to a point (it should resemble a triangle, or pyramid, from the side). Finally, cut a few inches off the pointed top, so it's flat again. At this stage, you should notice the inner shell (usually quite soft when they are young).
Step 4 - Tap your coconut: Setting your nut on a firm surface (a sink works well), carefully make a triangle cut with your knife. Note: If it's warm, the coconut may "burst" -- shooting coconut water when punctured. Beware!
Step 5 - Pour and enjoy: Pick up your nut and pour into a glass. Chill if you don't mind waiting.
Step 6 - Getting to the meat: The very young coconuts don't have much meat, but if you've spent $5 at the store, you'll want to take this step. Simply slice the entire top off the nut, so you have a 4-5 inch hole, and scoop out the meat with a spoon.
As for eating? Try it Mexican style, with lime and chili -- our favorite!
Kids' birthday parties in Mexico have been some of the more interesting cultural experiences of our trip. I have always been astounded by the wedding-like festivities planned for the coming-of-age-celebration quinceñera (for which even families without financial resources spend a fortune), but I had no idea how much effort was put into parties for four- and five-year-olds.
Each Birthay party we have been to so far has been catered (whether it be a hot-dog stand or sushi), and has had fancy cakes (and usually also cupcakes), a made-to-order piñata, and to top it off, huge bags of candy to take home (in addition to the bag of candy each kid manages to wrangle after the piñata breaks).
Despite the extravagance, very little advance notice is given to these grand occasions. At most, you can expect four days, but usually it is just one or two. There is no RSVP, no Evite, and no map of how to get to the party (though people do apparently invite others through Whatsap if you're on their telephone list). It is all very haphazard for our sensibilities, which usually require a minimum of 3 weeks advance notice, and for a guest to not RSVP is seen as a moderate kind of insult.
A party we went to a short while ago continued to educate us about kid-party etiquette, and also managed to surpass other birthday parties we have been to so far this year. To begin with, the invitation for this party was sent out just ONE day in advance. Luckily, our calendars are not particularly full these days, and in general, people here are much more open to last-minute plans than in Oakland. However, the moms all chided the hostess for her tardiness in getting out the invites (although had it been THREE days, it would have been perfectly acceptable).
Another cultural difference is that Mexican people, by our standards, are always late. Or put another way, we are always early. We try our best to show up late, but we are almost always the first people everywhere (including school meetings, where we show up 20 minutes after the scheduled time so as to not be the first ones there). In this case, we showed up 30 minutes after the start time, and the mother was not even there yet. To be fair, she was running in and out setting things up (and there was one other mom arriving at the same time as us), but it felt as if we were an hour early despite our best intentions to actually be on time.
Of unique interest (and concern) to me at this particular party was the "bouncy house," which was really more of an inflatable climbing wall that would have perhaps been safe for 10-year-olds in a padded room, but instead was set up on concrete, with a tree looming precariously at the end of the slide, for a bunch of four- and five-year-olds. There were five injuries within the first half hour, mainly due to a swarm of fearless young children sliding down a fourteen-foot inflatable wall on top of each other (although one injury was due to a girl getting her hair stuck in the velcro), until finally the children lost interest and instead decided to run, in a hoard, around the swimming pool as fast as they could go.
And then there was the piñata. There is always a bit of tension to these things as a small child swings a baton full force through the air with other children barely restraining themselves just inches away from the batter. There are always concerned parents on the edges holding their children back from harm's way and jumping in to stop the swinging of the baton as it comes centimeters from a child's head. But this particular piñata had the disadvantage of LEAKING CANDY SLOWLY.
So, the small children would see the candy beginning to fall as the usual sign that the piñata was broken. They would then leap forward from their parents' arms to scoop up the few scattered candies as the batter continued swinging away at the unbroken piñata (all of this taking place over concrete, of course). Although we tried to hold Levi back, he wriggled free on occasion and scrambled into the pit of children to get his share of the candy, while I screamed in fear as the baton barely missed his head. Small children broke into tears as older children, understanding right away what was happening, swept in to grab the few candies dropping to the ground and then out again to avoid the child madly swinging the baton. All of this took place with the backdrop of the typical piñata song that crescendos over and over again while parents clap at each child's turn.
When the piñata finally broke, children clamored for the remaining candies, and parents rushed forward to help them. We haven't yet figured out if parents fighting for their child's candy is a sign of competitiveness or good parenting. But since kids are also given a big bag of candy at the end of each party (most of which we usually end up throwing away), we tend to be the type of parents who hang back and let Levi fend for himself.
On this occasion, Levi and his friend ended up in tears because they had gotten few candies in the melee, even though Doug got swept up in the excitement and couldn't help but push a couple of small children out of the way to fend for Levi. Not to worry, however; the hostess came around to remind Levi that she had huge bags of candy waiting for him.
Although the timing and safety of the party did not particularly mesh with our Oakland expectations, the cost and effort that went into this party far surpassed them. The party had a cowboy theme, with a direction to come as a cowboy which I lost in translation ("te espero un vaquero"). Thus Levi was one of the few children who was not dressed the part. The hostess had set up bales of hay, wagon wheels, and real cow skulls around the place, and hired professional photographers to take a snap of each family (though we have not yet seen the photo a couple of weeks later).
Then there was the food: Tacos with four kinds of meat (stewed chicken, carne asada, chorizo, and a sweet grilled chicken) as well as mashed potatoes with nopales, whole beans, and a variety of salsas. For appetizers, there was homemade humus and babaganoush (the mother is originally Eastern European but has been here for many years). And of course, the cake--two types of expensive cakes from a fancy local bakery.
Levi's birthday is in a few weeks. We have barely done our research. But the pressure is on--we don't want him to be the only one in his class to have a mediocre birthday party. He feels that he stands out as it is-- everyone else speaks Spanish, and there are very few guerritos in the school. Given the fact that we are not currently working, we are sweating it a bit. Thank goodness we at least do not have to throw him a quinciñera!
I was really looking forward to going to Hopkins. We read that it had a nice stretch of beach, good snorkeling nearby, and a drum center that teaches locals and visitors Garífuna rhythms. It was a bit off of the tourist trail, but reportedly still had a good selection of hotels and activities for visitors. I was particularly intrigued by the opportunity to visit a Garífuna town, as I have always had a strong interest in African culture.
From a previous trip to Honduras, where the Garífuna settled early on in the New World, I had learned that the Garífuna people have maintained many elements in common with their African ancestors--the way the women dress (head wraps, lengths of fabric wound round their waist, simple shirts), music (centered around drumming, usually male, and acapella vocals, often female), and general ways of living. They are proud of the fact that their ancestors were shipwrecked Africans, bound for slavery, but never enslaved.
I have always been fascinated with how African culture has persevered throughout the world over the centuries, in obvious ways and more subtle ones. I was hoping that Hopkins might offer a glimpse into a culture that had carried on a direct legacy from Africa, despite the fact that their migration took place several centuries ago.
We arrived in Hopkins around noon and were surprised to find that many of the hotels were once again already full. This had happened to us in San Ignacio and Placencia, but we had assumed since Hopkins was a bit less touristed, there would be no need to make a reservation. Luckily, we had our car, as Hopkins is spread out along one main road for 2 or 3 miles. Hiking around in backpacks and looking for a room would have been painful (we saw a couple doing this very thing and it was clear from the looks on their faces that they were not enjoying themselves).
Looking for a hotel, we had randomly started to the south of town and Drworked our way northward. It turned out to be a lucky thing that the first few places we checked were full, because we ended up getting an amazing cabin at a fabulous price ($60 U.S.) at the Lebeha Drumming Center. One can rent very basic rooms at the actual center for less, but we went for the cabin on the beach, with an unobstructed view of the Caribbean Ocean.
Doug was beside himself, as this is the view he is always searching for. This cabin also had a great little kitchen (well-stocked, a nice stove, and full fridge), two beds, and a pull-out futon. What was also great about this place was what it was not: high rise condos, an overly-manicured beach, crowded. It felt more like an out-of the way country cabin, except that we were on the Caribbean. We unloaded our car and settled in, our plan being to stay for two nights.
It began to rain hard as soon as we had unpacked (as it had been off and on since we got to Belize), but for the first time, we didn’t really care. The cabin had a homey feel to it, and we had enough food, rum, and beer to keep us going for a few hours at least. Having fallen in love with the town and our lodgings immediately, we decided we were going to stay for four nights instead of two, and make Hopkins our base for a jungle trip a few miles away, as well as a base for a snorkeling trip to the nearby cayes.
We had dinner that night at Tina’s. The folks at the drumming center had said they would be showing their skills there in the evening, and recommended the food as well. We had a delicious meal (I had creole shrimp with rice and beans). The place was crowded with tourists and no locals, but there was plenty of rum punch and good conversation with other travelers to be had.
Everyone had come to see the drumming, however, and as the evening grew on, we wondered when we might be rewarded. The drummers finally played around 8, and the instant they began everyone was transfixed. Like the culture, Garífuna rhythms are rooted in Africa, and the drumming takes on a similar frantic pace to the ubiquitous drumming I heard on a trip to West Africa in the 90s. I have always loved West African drumming, and the hypnotic frenzy that draws you in as it grows stronger and faster. Levi loved it too, and even got a chance to play with drummers, apparently taking his turn on the drum very seriously if the look on his face was an accurate reflection of what he was feeling.
The first day was supposed to rain a bit, so we decided a jungle trip to the Cockscomb Jaguar Preserve would be the best way to spend the time (I always think of rain when I picture the jungle anyway). We drove about 20 minutes from Hopkins to the entrance of the preserve at Maya Center. It didn’t rain after all, and in fact was sunny and hot. But we found our way to a refreshing jungle waterfall to help us cool off.
Back in Hopkins in time for dinner, we were seeking out Garífuna food (how many places in the world offer this cuisine?) and decided on Laruni Hati Beyabu Cool Spot. This restaurant was on the far north end of town on the beach, and wasn’t something you would just run into without looking for it. It turned out that the proprietress, Marva, needed a day’s advance notice to prepare the Garífuna specialties, so we settled on stew chicken and veggie rice, which was delicious. Deciding Marva's cooking skills deserved a second pass, we put in our order for Hudut (a traditional Garífuna dish which Marva recommended) for the following evening.
Our second full day we spent exploring the village, walking the length of the crescent road that Hopkins stretches along beside the sea. It was a Sunday, so we had a chance to observe the people at rest, just hanging out with friends, or perhaps cleaning a fish and preparing the Sunday meal. The sun was out again and laughter and conversation could be heard around the town. People lazed about in hammocks, fired up the barbeque, and generally seemed to be enjoying themselves, which made us enjoy ourselves too.
I was again reminded of travelling in West Africa; there was something about the relaxed quality of the way the people interacted, laughter rising from every corner, chickens running about, a sense of unhurriedness and unlimited time to enjoy the sunny Sunday. This feeling was so contrary to how we experience Sundays back home in Oakland—with a sort of sadness and dread that the weekend is already over.
We were excited about our dinner reservation at Laruni Hati's. Not only do we enjoy food, but this was a chance to experience something totally unique. We were not disappointed. We arrived at Marva's promptly at 6, and our food was ready for us (one cultural element that was very different from my experience in Africa!). The Hudut was delicious--a piece of fresh fish in flavorful coconut broth served with pounded plantain. Most interesting to me was how this dish closely resembled the food I had tasted in Ghana and nearby countries--a starch (often pounded yam in West Africa) which you dip with your fingers into a protein stewed in a broth.
It was by far for me the most memorable meal of our trip, not only due to how delicious it was, but also because it held for me that taste of Africa, a history lesson in a meal, and a reminder of a proud culture that has transcended oppression and retained traditions over the course of centuries. I swore I would learn to make Hudut, though it may take me a lot of practice to pound the plantain! I'm certain whatever I come up with, however, will not be nearly as good as Marva's at Laruni Hati's.
For our final day we arranged a snorkelling trip to South Water Caye with our knowledgeable guides Marley and Burt from Noawel’s Fishing and Snorkelling. Our guides were very good with Levi, taking us through shallows along the way to look at sea stars (and giving us a little lesson about them) to break up the hour or so that it took us to get to the snorkel spot. They also kindly let Levi back on the boat when he was too cold to keep snorkelling, and Burt watched him while Doug and I continued swimming around with Marley.
The first snorkel spot was cold even for us, but we enjoyed chatting with Marley and Burt afterward over lunch on South Water Caye about Garífuna culture and the history of Hopkins. Residents of Hopkins, according to our guides, were traditionally farmers and fisherman. The culture worked largely from a barter system, neighbors trading with neighbors. This is changing as supermarkets move in (almost exclusively run by Chinese owners). Tourism is also changing the cultural landscape, and locals are developing businesses to earn the tourism dollar. I asked if Garífuna are encouraged to marry other Garífuna to maintain the culture. Burt and Marley said no, that people marry whoever they fall in love with. They didn't seem too worried, however, that Garífuna culture would soon die out, even if it might be changing.
Our second snorkel spot rewarded us with warm water, schools of fish, and a Spotted Eagle Ray. Although Burt was upset that a guide on another boat was giving a family free reign over the snorkel spot (and the kids were chasing after fish and scaring them away), we realized that the Cayes to the north would be far more crowded than the almost-deserted seas around Hopkins. Motoring back over the beautiful crystal-clear Caribbean, Marley and Burt pointed out a submerged stretch of sand that they called “their island.” We thought they were joking, but they said they actually stopped there on occasion to have lunch or barbecue when the water was lower (the ultimate “cool spot”).
Hopkins turned out to be the exact experience I was hoping it would be: a feeling of being off the main tourist trail in Belize, a tranquil Caribbean town, and most importantly to me, a cultural experience rooted in Africa. People were friendly and knowledgeable, the food was amazing, the price was right, and the uncrowded snorkelling spots with great guides couldn't be beat.
How easy has it been driving through Mexico And all of your border crossings? The American outlook is it's not very safe!!!!!!! I don't believe that myself but I haven't been warned to not drive at night! I feel as though y'all have an advantage due to being able to speak Spanish..I like reading your posts! Hope you have a continued great trip! Also, one more question, how big of a budget have y'all had! Y'all have been doing some amazing traveling!
Hello! Thanks for your question!
We've never felt unsafe in Mexico, though we've certainly been selective where and how we travel. On our recent roadtrip to Central America, we mostly took toll roads in Mexico -- from Guadalajara in the north to Oaxaca in the south. These roads are very modern, fast, and safe. And, with a couple of unplanned exceptions, we never drove after dark.
We were actually a lot more concern about safety in Guatemala. Reading the state department report is scary, but we mostly stayed on a well-worn gringo trail, and we felt pretty comfortable once we acclimated.
As for cost, we spent 6 weeks between Mexico, Guatemala and Belize, and aimed to average $100 a day, for a family of three, for mid-range (not budget) travel. While that works fine for Guatemala, Mexico is a stretch in larger cities, and in Belize, it's almost impossible. We splurged somewhat regularly on nicer hotels and food (and recreation such as snorkel trips), and went close to 50% over budget.
We chose comfort over saving money, but one could easily make a different decision. Folks regularly travel this part of the world for as little as $25-50/day (though perhaps without small children!)
We love hot sauce. So much, in fact, we pretty much collect the stuff. At our home in Oakland, CA, our Lazy Susan houses a dozen or so varieties from Mexico, the Caribbean, and the great state of Louisiana -- all quite different and all good for different uses.
So, when we planned our trip to Belize, a stop at Marie Sharp’s was mandatory. Her famed habanero sauces — which range from hot to dangerously so — grace the tables of nearly every restaurant in Belize. It’s the national condiment, and appropriate on just about any dish.
While you can buy Ms. Sharp’s basic variety in the States, an extensive line is available in Belize: from sweet sauces and jams to the delicious habenero-citrus combinations. Naturally, after touring the factory, we had to buy one of just about everything.
My first inclination when planning our itinerary for Belize was to skip Placencia. I stopped there briefly in May, 1995 and prices were too high even 20 years ago for my then-backpacker budget (about $10 a day). Also, it rained the whole time my friend and I were there and there were very few tourists, so there was little for us to do.
Ultimately, Doug and I decided to give Placencia a chance; what we read in our guidebooks about Placencia's current popularity with tourists sounded enticing enough. I didn't remember the beach as particularly beautiful, but we thought being on the Caribbean would be nice, and although we are budgeting for longer-term travel and trying to live cheaply, we are not on a backpacker's budget. Having read that the tourist infrastructure is now well-developed we figured we might at least have a few tasty meals and a good snorkeling trip.
Upon arrival, Doug and I had the same initial sticker-shock that I'd had in 1995. We spent a full 2-1/2 hours trying to find a place to stay. This was in large part due to the fact that about 80% of the hotels we checked were full. But we were also finding it difficult to part with $100 plus per night in Central America for a basic room without cooking facilities and without an ocean view. This was perhaps our first lesson on this trip about costs in Belize (and a reminder to me): Belize does not give you nearly the same bang-for-your-buck that other countries in the region do--especially in terms of lodging.
On our way to Placencia town we stopped at Maya Beach, the first town one comes to when driving onto the Placencia peninsula, and Doug had voted to stay there (he found a place that was $100, with small cooking facilities AND a beach view, though not fancy). The beaches in front of the few hotels we checked out in Maya Beach seemed manicured and clean (another thing we later learned isn't super common in Belize, despite the efforts of locals to rake the constant flow of seaweed, driftwood, and even garbage from their beaches).
I wanted to stay in the town of Placencia though, where the restaurants and action are. In the end, Doug was worn out by asking practically every hotel on the peninsula about rates and availability (while I sat in the air conditioned car with Levi), and agreed to stay in town.
We finally settled on an upstairs apartment at Julia's that was set back from the beach, but still had a partial ocean view for $65 U.S. a night. The apartment had two small bedrooms and a decent kitchen. It was a Belizean-style, wooden slat "shack," and it was a bit run down. But it had a front porch with a hammock that Levi loved and a pretty view of the Caribbean through some palm trees. It seemed like a fine place to spend a few days.
It turned out that the beach at Placencia wasn't that much nicer than I remembered. People weren't really swimming there, and it seemed like the shore was made more for sitting beside rather than wading in (though to be fair, it was overcast, chilly, and even rainy while we there). Still, the white-yellow sand and the sea behind it was certainly pleasant, and we felt quite happy to sit at a seaside bar-restaurant for evening cocktails and lobster tacos after we had finally settled in. it was great to be back at the ocean after a month away, and Levi was very happy to resume his favorite nighttime activity of running through the sand.
In the morning, however, Doug and I both woke up in a bad mood. We had found the night before that our apartment had red ants, and the “rough around the edges” part of the place was getting to us. In one of the bedrooms the bed was all springs in your back, and the other bedroom was subject to loud construction work that began as soon as the sun came up. No one had slept well, the weather was bad, and we were not loving our lodgings or being particularly nice to one another (heated arguments about petty things began to arise). I was beginning to question whether we should have come to Placencia at all. We momentarily considered leaving early, but we had signed up for a snorkeling trip for the next day, so decided to stick it out.
We drove back north to spend the day at Maya Beach, since after seeing the beaches in Placencia town, we realized the beaches at the northern end of the peninsula are definitely nicer. We had read that we would be able to use the beach and other facilities of the Maya Beach Hotel as long as we purchased drinks and/or food from their bar and restaurant. The staff there was welcoming and our spirits lifted for a moment as we walked onto their grounds and pretty beach. Still, the weather was overcast, and as we sat on the beach, the wind howled around us and I had to don a hoodie. Dreams of swimming in the Caribbean, sipping cocktails, and eating French fries by the sea were abandoned. The weather wasn’t helping our foul moods. We cut our day short and headed back to Placencia town.
When we got back to our little apartment, things slowly began to brighten. The guesthouse had put a cover on the springy mattress, and fresh, clean white sheets made everything seem a little bit nicer. The sun peeked out, and we sat on the porch relaxing, while Levi played with a neighborhood girl (though he wasn’t so sure about her activity of throwing his Legos off of the porch; in fact, tears were briefly shed).
Later, we had dinner at a creole fish shack (Omar’s). Good food always lifts our spirits, and Omar’s had solid cuisine that was focused on the daily catch. After a nighttime walk around town, observing the evening activities of the diverse local people (on bicycles, coming back from a soccer game, walking with their families, or just hanging about), and eavesdropping on conversations heavy with the musical Belizean accent, we began to soften toward the town.
The next day, we snorkeled around Silk Caye. This is when our appreciation of the place really began to sink in. Who can resist a chill day-trip with a knowledgeable captain/dive master (born in Placencia) through turquoise water? It was just the three of us, a father/daughter duo, and one guide.
The water was chilly, reportedly due to the recent cold front and heavy rains, but the coral was colorful and there were enough tropical fish to make snorkeling entertaining. The lunch stop on a small island that was part of the Silk Cayes (stew chicken, and coconut rice and beans, of course!) was very relaxing and our guide was a great source of information about how Placencia is changing (mangroves being dug out, land being filled in, condo complexes being built, and a cruise ship dock recently completed)--sold out by the government, essentially, and yet how life there still remains, in his mind, idyllic.
Our second snorkel stop was one that I will always remember. Our guide took us to a spot where local fishermen anchor for a week at a time and return to their boat from a day’s catch to clean their lobster, throwing the chum into the water. This attracts giant sea turtles, nurse sharks, sting rays, and my favorite, spotted eagle rays. There were dozens of each of them just beside our boat, and only a few of us snorkelers joining the mix.
Having heard a rumor that the sea turtles occasionally go after colorful diving masks, and seeing the long, barbed tail of the sting rays just feet beneath us, there was just enough of a fear element to quicken the heart (as if seeing these giant, undersea beauties wasn’t enough of an adrenaline rush on its own). It made my top 10 of underwater experiences, both diving and snorkeling, of which I have had about a hundred.
Our perception of Placencia had significantly improved by the end of our visit. Our guesthouse now seemed like a fair value (it’s hard to keep bugs out of rooms in Belize, and how could we criticize a Caribbean view?), the food was solid, and the locals that we talked to were all very friendly. Throw in a bit of occasional Garífuna drumming and we began to see how this place can grow on you, and how you might decide to come back for a second time, or even a third or fourth, and how each time could be better than the last.
Pale, tasteless beers like Corona have convinced us that a true, warm-weather beer should be, well, pale and tasteless. Thankfully, the good folks of Belize—and the Caribbean at large—have some different ideas. Owing to influence of the Brits, stouts are particularly popular here—so much so that a version of Guinness is brewed in Belize.
Make no mistake, though, this ain’t your papi’s Guinness. While still thick and suitable as a breakfast in itself, these petite bottles pack a wallop: They weigh in at 7.5% ABV and have a lot more bite than the mild, chocolaty version sold in the States. This is a “man’s beer,” we were told, but also happens to be among the best you’ll find in Central America.
Crossing from Guatemala into Belize is somewhat jarring. Not only does suddenly everyone speak English, but everything feels different as well; lighter somehow, warmer, easier; perhaps unburdened by a tragic past, perhaps just more intimate, this country where the entire population is smaller than our home town of Oakland, CA.
Settling into San Ignacio, just a hop from the border, illuminated another difference: Belize is a crazy cultural hodge-podge. Mayans, Ladinos, Kriols, Chinese, Mennonites, Garifuna all call this tiny country their home, and they all speak English, their native tongue, and perhaps even a third language—all with funny accents.
The old, bearded white guy at a restaurant sounded like a “Rastaman,” and the Mayan woman, dressed somewhat traditionally, hawked her wares in her best “hey dude” California cadence. It was all very disorienting.
For tourists, San Ignacio is popular less for what it is than where it’s at: the heart of the Cayo district, an outdoor-lover’s paradise. We came without an agenda (Krista just remembered liking the town), but quickly found it’s a base for all manor of adventure: Mayan ruins, caving, tubing, hiking and combinations thereof are all within arm’s reach. We also discovered finding a room, especially something mid-range, was tough: this unassuming place was packed.
We ended up breaking budget, but landed a lovely suite with a view and huge porch for less than a stateside Holiday Inn. It was a lucky splurge: Krista was sick with flu the next day, and there’s nothing worse than being holed up in a dark, grimy room when you feel like hell.
As Krista slept, Levi and I visited the green iguana sanctuary, located on the grounds of the fancy San Ignacio Resort. The kid loves nature and the outdoors, and the opportunity to hold and learn about these creatures was right up his alley. Levi must have asked two dozen questions — How long do they live? (20 years), Do parents care for babies? (No), Do they bite (Yes), How do they fight? (Using their tails as whips) — before the tour was over. Our guide was a great sport.
The next day, we dragged Krista out of bed to explore Barton Creek Cave, which included a gentle canoe ride into a Mayan archaeological site. This was billed as the easiest tour and one of the few caving outings not too rigorous for a young one. (Actun Tunichil Muknal, the Cave of the Crystal Sepulchre, is the “must-do” for adventure types but is quite strenuous.)
Krista, still a little woozy from her bout of flu, was doing well until our Jeep — driven by our affable guide, John — turned off to Barton’s Creek from the “main” dirt road. The trip down the hill was steep, muddy and very bumpy, and when we got to the bottom, we had a problem: A stream, passable only by driving through it, had swollen into a river with the night’s rains. John waded out into water, checked and rechecked potential paths, before deciding we’d have to take the other road in.
So, back up the hill we went, bump, bump, bump, and 45 minutes later we learned why the other road is called the other road: This sucker is steep. We made it down without much sliding, though, and when we finally reached the bottom, we were there — a pretty palm-fringed valley, with a house on one side and a small restaurant at the creek on the other. Krista looked a little green, but remained fully intact.
We loaded up a canoe, grabbed a spotlight, and followed John through the narrow cave opening. The water was incredibly still and an intense turquoise-gray, and soon became black. Inside, the cavern opened, perhaps 50 feet, and here, scattered high along the ledges, are the remains of some 28 individuals as well as artifacts such as pottery — offerings to the gods. Archaeologists believe the Maya used the cave for rituals such as bloodletting, lineage internment, and yes, human sacrifice.
We paddled only about a half mile in, but the system extends over 4 and includes — an hour or so further — a 60 foot waterfall. It requires swimming and climbing, so we’ll have to wait until Levi’s a bit older to do that trip.
San Ignacio, Belize’s second largest “city,” was a perfect entry into the country. I always associated Belize with reefs and cayes and Afro-Caribbean culture, but that’s only part of the story. The country is becoming well-known for its inland adventures and eco-tourism — and culturally, of course, it’s a dynamic and unique place. Where else, after all, can you hear a half-dozen languages in a town of 17,000 people? Clearly, more adventure than I expected was in store.
Border crossing days are usually somewhat stressful, especially with a car. We had read that we would need our title to take our car into Belize, but we hadn’t brought it. So, we spent the morning forming a vague “Plan B” (turn around, drive all the way back across Guatemala, and spend time in the Yucatán) in case we were not allowed to enter.
Even this plan seemed potentially disastrous, since we had some difficulty getting into Guatemala in the first place without a title. My worst fear was that we might be stranded in a no-man’s land between borders once we exited Guatemala if we couldn't get into Belize and if the Guatemalan agents at this border wouldn't let us back in.
Guatemala: Leaving the Country With a Car
We had spent the night in Flores, Guatemala, in Petén. Despite what we had read in the guide books, we found the Petén to have the worst highways in Guatemala, at least among the areas we visited. We couldn't drive much more than 50 mph (and even that still was pushing it), lest we bottom out or blow out a tire from one of the hundreds of deep potholes along the two-lane roads. There are also long sections where the roads are still unpaved or are being repaired. Thus the 90 or so kilometers to the border took us a bit over two hours.
As we approached la frontera, we had to pay a small fee (maybe $3) to cross a short bridge just to get to the border. After crossing the bridge, we were bombarded with money changers. They crowded around our car and told us we wouldn't be able to change money on the Belizean side. This sounded like a tall tale to me, as I have never been at a border crossing anywhere in the world where there were not money changers on both sides. We decided to take our chances and wait to change money in case we weren’t allowed to enter Belize without our car title.
The border at Melchor de Menos/Benque Viejo was what we are learning is the norm in southern Mexico and Central America—a confusing jumble of buildings and money changers, with no signs telling you where to go. Instead there are young boys waving you on and telling you where to park your car, what line to stand in, etc. We likely would have eventually found our way without them, but we chose to tip them for their services (maybe $4-5 U.S. total) so they could earn some money and so our border crossing would be a bit easier.
First, we were led through a gate and instructed (by the helpful boys) to park our car in front of the building to process our exit paperwork. We waited in one line to get our passports stamped (no exit fee). The kids then directed us to another line to process the car paperwork. We relinquished the sticker we had in our windshield to prove we had permission for our car in Guatemala, and were free to go. The whole process took 30 minutes at most and was stress-free.
Belize: Entering the Country With a Car
The kids then led us across the official border, where we had to get our car fumigated again (about $4) as we crossed. Our next stop was the customs office. There were no fees to enter Belize and no visa required. The lines moved quickly, and even though we were sent to fill out an additional form, it only took about 15 minutes to process our passports.
Next, we moved to the line that handled our car paperwork. The official there asked a lot of questions, and we had to tell her the latest date we would be leaving, which we hadn’t yet figured out (so we estimated and added a few days on for cushion).
I always get nervous that border agents are not going to let us through with a car (probably due in part to some difficulties I had in the 90s, when a friend and I had to pay big bribes to get our van over the borders in Central America since our vin number did not match our license plate, which is another long story), and I do think this is the trickiest part of crossing borders. Assumedly, this is because there is a concern about car theft and illegal importation of vehicles from the U.S. southward. Our worries were unfounded this time, however, as we did not have to show our title. This part of the process took about 20 minutes more.
The agent helping us with the car paperwork came outside to check our vin number (which luckily this time does match), and to take a look at the items in our car, despite initially telling us we would have to take the items out of the car and bring them inside, which would have probably taken us a minimum of an hour. After taking a look throughout our car, she asked how many people were traveling with us, perhaps since our car is loaded down with stuff, and again I got nervous. I thought that we might have to pay import taxes since we have brought so many things with us, as I have heard this can happen coming into Mexico. She let us pass though, and I began to relax.
Inside Belize: What a Difference a Border Makes
From this very first point of entry, it was clear we were in a totally different country. Of course, the most obvious reason for this is that people were speaking English and Creole. Also, the majority of customs officials were of African descent, folks whom we hardly have ever saw in Mexico or Guatemala (aside from in Livingston, Guatemala).
But there was also just a different vibe once we crossed into Belize. Although the customs officials were as serious and intimidating as they are at other borders, once our paperwork was processed their demeanor changed; they smiled, and were actually welcoming and helpful.
The drive to San Ignacio took another half hour, and it continued to be obvious we were in a country that was very different from Guatemala (or Mexico). There were few cinder-block houses, and the few there were near the border largely gave way to the wooden, stilted small homes (“shacks”) typical of Belize. Signs were all in English, advertising jungle lodges and “cool spots” (which we think might mean a place to catch a breeze and have a cold beverage, but we haven’t figured this out quite yet). The jungle is wilder just over the border, as so much of it has been cleared on the Guatemalan side.
Overall, although border crossings always fill me with some level of anxiety, this one was smooth and more or less stress-free. We were thankful we got into Belize without our car title after all, and were excited to begin this new chapter of our journey.
Like millions of suburban American kids, few movies of the 80s captured my imagination like Indiana Jones. With its wild explorations of far-flung places and dangerous, hidden worlds, Indy reignited the adventure genre and flavored my own arm-chair travel for decades. Central America always seemed like the perfect place to experience real-world adventure—including a less ridiculous element of danger—but as I’ve written previously, I never made it past the guidebooks.
So, thirty years after seeing Indy run through that tunnel being chased by that massive rock, my inner kid was thrilled to finally be at Tikal.
Located at the edge of the Petén region of northern Guatemala, this Mayan city was a power-center for centuries, and today, is among the largest and best-preserved sites in Central America. It’s big enough to escape crowds (especially the further away you get from the Grand Plaza), and if you come late afternoon, as we did, you may almost have the place to yourself.
Here, with monkeys high in the canopy; miles of twisted, jungle trails; and hundreds of structures, small and grand (many still unexcavated and overcome by nature), it’s easy to feel lost in exploration and to imagine that you, like Indy, are among the first to see the place for thousands of years.
—Doug
Trip Details:
WHERE: Petén region, accessible by bus from Antigua (and other Guatemala tourist areas) as well as from Belize. View Map
ENTRY: Park fee is $150Q per adult (about $20 U.S.) and the park is open 6am-6pm with special night passes available (guide required). View park details.
SLEEP: Tikal Inn. This two star hotel is expensive ($100 US), but it's one of three hotels located inside the park, which is the best way to get started early (or stay late). It does includes breakfast and dinner (mediocre fare but serviceable), a nice benefit since there are no restaurants (save a couple pop-up comedors) inside the park.
TIPS: Bite the bullet and stay inside the park. Arrive after 3:30pm (and we do mean 3:30pm precisely!) and your $20 entry pass will cover the following day. Otherwise, you're going to pay twice. Also note the park is open from 6am to 6pm, and we found most wildlife (monkeys, birds) were active late... so stay until dusk. Also, don't forget to bring sturdy, grippy shoes, insect repellent, and headlamps or flashlights.
After two weeks in colonial towns, I was ready to get off the mountain and back to the jungle. I craved water, heat and humidity, something I heard the eastern region of Rio Dulce (literally “sweet river”) had in spades.
A hop from the Caribbean coast, with cheap marinas and some of the best hurricane coverage in the sea, Rio Dulce has long been popular among cruisers. The river, in fact, has been used as a “hurricane hole” for hundreds of years. Spanish galleons, carrying booty from the Mayan world, took shelter here during storm season, and it became an important passageway to the interior. But with such good loot within arm’s reach, it also became popular with pirates--so much so that the crown had to build an armed fortress, Castillo de San Felipe, to protect its plunder.
For modern-day land-lubbers, the highway settlement of Rio Dulce (aka Fronteras) has never been much more than a layover to more exciting sites to the north — namely, the ruins at Tikal and the reefs and cayes in Belize. When Krista first passed through here in the 90s, the road north was unpaved and very slow-going—a bumpy, uncomfortable two-day trek. This was simply a place to supply-up before hitting the wilderness.
Today, Fronteras is a congested mess of a place, but just off the highway, on the river, it’s a completely different world: Resorts, guest houses, and primitive cabins dot the quiet riverbanks, catering both to passersby and those looking to hangout and explore the region.
We fell somewhere in between, staying three nights at Hacienda Tijax (pronounced tea-hawsh), a beautiful “eco resort” on an old cattle ranch that’s been converted to a teak and rubber farm. Cabins are connected by a series of boardwalks over the swampy earth, and extend to the docks at the small marina, where we scored a river view. The resort, though rustic, has a good restaurant and a nice, yet very cold swimming pool.
On our first night, Levi befriended our yachty neighbors, mostly long-term cruisers who’d checked into Tijax and never really checked out. They were celebrating a fellow cruiser’s birthday, and Levi, hearing music, joined them and so we eventually followed. He “jammed” with the guys, playing harmonica and mandolin. It was a lucky introduction to water-bound expats who've temporary made this place their home.
Fronteras sits on the river between two lakes: Lago Izabel to the west and El Golfete to the east. Izabel, the country’s largest lake, is beautiful and almost completely untouristed. The north shore is mostly cattle and agriculture, with one large town (El Estor) and a few small settlements. An extensive nature reserve, accessible by lancha (boat), sits on the western shore.
Cruisers said there’s a regatta to the lake once a year, but because of security concerns — the area is still known for pirates — they wouldn’t do it alone. It’s far too remote.
We took a day-trip to the hot-spring waterfalls at Finca El Paraiso (Paradise Farm), about 45 minutes from the highway, en route to El Estor. These beautiful falls are, quite literally, Jacuzzi-tub hot, dropping almost 40 feet into a cool-water river, where you can find the temperature that meets your fancy. We went around noon, mid week, and it started getting busy by the time we left a couple hours later.
We visited the castillo on the way back. It’s been destroyed several times — once by marauding pirates — but was reconstructed with good fidelity in 1955. Levi loved exploring the maze-like dark passageways. Definitely worth a visit.
If there’s one “must do”, though, it’s exploring the river, and the best way to do it is to take a lancha to Livingston, where the Rio meets the Caribbean Sea. The river here is wild and beautiful, passing through a numerous small Maya settlements, most quite traditional, and the occasional thatched-roof resort.
The moment you arrive Livingston, however, you know you’re not in "Kansas" anymore. Only accessible by boat, this English-speaking (and historically Gurifuna) town has almost nothing to do with the country in which it happens to reside. Guatemala's Afro-Caribbean population is tiny, and almost all of them live here.
Traveler descriptions of the town are decidedly mixed. Some like the town for its vibrant yet laid-back culture, and rough-around-the-edges feel. Others think it’s too shabby, even a little dodgey, and consider it only a way-point to nicer locations in Belize or up the river.
There’s no denying Livingston isn’t a beautiful place. The beaches in town aren’t very nice, and you shouldn’t expect the clear blue waters for which the Caribbean is famed. What you will find, however, is good food and fascinating culture. Topado, a traditional seafood stew in coconut broth with plantains, is quite special and shouldn't be missed.
The main street, leading up from the dock on the river, is the tourist zone with restaurants, a couple hotels, and a number of shops selling mostly tourist junk. Interestingly, this part of town is also mostly Mayan and Ladino (mixed Mayan and European), and not Garifuna. Largely ignored by the government, Livingston was considered a safe haven during the war, and as refugees flocked from the interior, it fundamentally changed the town’s makeup.
As you walk over the hill to the Caribbean side, however, it’s mostly Garifuna. Brightly painted clapboard houses and a few restaurants and bars reach down to the waters edge, leaving a narrow strip of beach. Off-shore, kids played in the water and men in dug-out boats cast their fishing nets. It's an odd division for such a small, isolated place, and one, we were told, that holds an uneasy balance.
We took the lancha back to Rio Dulce late afternoon, just in time for the rain. It was a wet and very windy trip up the river, especially across the lower lake of El Golfete. Everyone huddled under strips of black plastic tarp in a fruitless attempt to stay warm and dry. So much for my hopes of tropical heat and river-swimming bliss.
Still, in this beautiful land of pirates, nearly lost people, and edge-of-the world places, it felt like our real adventure had just begun. And for that, the moment was perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Though I’ve been to Antigua several times before, I was once again struck by the beauty of the colonial buildings set beneath the backdrop of looming volcanoes. Due to both my poor memory and the fact that much has likely changed since I last visited in 2002, it took a moment to get my bearings.
The central market has always been my grounding point, perhaps because it is near the bus station that has been my point of arrival for previous visits. The market appeared to me to have grown quite a bit in the last decade-evolving into one of the larger markets we saw in Guatemala. We were even able to find a superhero jigsaw puzzle for Levi!
The town now has the feel of a boutique town, similar to Oaxaca in Mexico. The first time I visited Antigua, in 1995, there was nothing “boutiquey” about war-torn Guatemala. Although the town was beautiful even then, there were no high-end clothing shops, ice cream stores, or coffee houses. Today Antigua is full of beer halls, wine bars, and other fancy watering holes, including one with an old-fashioned hardware-store design that has seemingly every type of liquor from around the world lined up against a high wall.
Aside from the obvious dramatic beauty of the setting, an interesting market, and an abundance of nighttime options, we really enjoyed the food. Locally sourced, international, and vegetarian options are now abundant in Antigua, and we had very good dinners there. I didn’t have to worry about finding vegetables for a meal, and our more-or-less vegetarian child had plenty to choose from on menus (though his favorite always seems to be beans and tortillas).
Doug especially appreciated the coffee. There are several roasters around town and plenty of places to grab a late-night espresso. We had a great one at a warehouse-type cafe off of the main square (with a complimentary shot of warm milk for Levi). Although he liked the warm milk, Levi wasn’t so sure about the unique smell of roasting coffee beans that always draws Doug straight into the coffee shop.
It almost seems now as if the tourists in Antigua (including weekenders from Guatemala City) outnumber the residents, and many languages are heard in Antigua’s streets. Given that Antigua was once the capital of Guatemala, there has likely always been an international element to the city. But for me the changes over the past two decades are quite striking.
Still, a few things about Antigua remain the same. It is a stunning town in a beautiful setting. It is also one of the easiest and most comfortable towns to visit in Guatemala, with it's wide variety of restaurants and hotels, as well as a well-developed tourist infrastructure. I enjoyed going back for a few days, and wouldn't be surprised if I found myself there yet again sometime in the future.
In planning our trip to Guatemala, I knew that going to towns on market days would be important to getting a fuller picture of indigenous life. Given a mere two weeks and a cross-country journey to incorporate into our itinerary, I settled on two market days that I felt might be enriching cultural experiences.
The first, as I mentioned in a previous post, was the Saturday market in Todos Santos. The second was the vast Friday market in Sololá. These were two very different markets, other than the fact they were not at all geared toward tourists.
While the market in Todos Santos gave us a sample of the scarcity that can plague the highland people, the Sololá market was a fascinating display of all that Guatemala has to offer.
There were shelled fava beans and peas for less than a dollar a pound; farm-fresh eggs for 15 cents a piece; a pound of tomatoes for a dollar; squash of many types; well-made tin pots for $10; beautiful woven skeins of fabric; used (and broken) toys; countless comedores; and of course the social aspect that is so interesting to observe while meandering through Guatemala’s markets.
What was also interesting was that the Sololá market is essentially in the most heavily touristed part of Guatemala—Lake Atitlán. Yet we saw only one or two other extranjeros during the entire two hours we were there. This is a market not geared toward tourists. But if you love to cook and have access to a kitchen or a hot plate while in the region, this market is a gold mine. Even if you don’t cook and simply want a glimpse into the life of the local people, the Sololá market is not to be missed.
Descending the steep road to Panajachel, Lake Atitlán’s tourist hub, I was awestruck when I caught first sight of it. Set deeply in the mountains and flanked by three massive volcanoes, Atitlán is considered by many to be the world's most beautiful lake. Aldous Huxley famously thought its beauty was almost ridiculous, calling it “too much of a good thing.”
The lake itself was created when a larger, fourth volcano erupted and then collapsed into itself, leaving a deep hole in the earth that filled with water and became Atitlán.
Maya have been living in settlements around the lake for millennium, and recently, an ancient ruin (dubbed Samabaj) was discovered 115 feet underwater, on what was once an island. Though the settlements have grown into towns, the Maya people are still there, and in some places, still quite traditional.
Gringos discovered the lake en masse in the 70s, and today, several towns—such as fast-paced Pana, the new-agey San Marcos and the party center of San Pedro–hold an uneasy balance between newcomers and locals. Homes of expats and wealthy Guatemalans dot the shoreline, many quite extravagant and only accessible by boat, and it’s difficult not to be struck by the disparity.
We spent our first two nights in Panajechel, a town that’s apparently disliked by in-the-know travelers for its blatant (or perhaps just unrefined) tourism. Overall, we found Pana quite inoffensive, and were thrilled to find digs overlooking the lake with a porch, fireplace, and parking for a little over 30 bucks a night. And, naysayers be damned, the town has the lake’s best views: it’s direct and center in front of the three volcanoes, where the sun drops in an awesome display of colors.
Still, between the constant zooming of tuk-tuks and taunts of hawkers selling their goods, I wouldn’t say Pana's exactly a relaxing place. After we took a lancha (boat) to San Pedro for the afternoon, it was easy to appreciate what we were missing. Even this supposedly rowdy place was super chill, with great views, neat walking paths, and many good restaurants and cafés. If you’ve ever been to a small Caribbean island, it has a similar feel.
For our last night, we splurged and stayed at Isla Verde, a beautifully designed resort near the tiny village of Santa Cruz. Comprised of a dozen or so cabanas set in dense botanical gardens on the steep mountain-side, it’s here I got my first taste of pure, vacation-like escape. The food here, mostly grown on the grounds or locally sourced, was also quite excellent. After countless bean-and-tortilla meals, it was great to have more healthy fare.
From the hotel, we hiked 2-3km up the mountain to the quiet and fairly traditional town of Santa Cruz above us, where, as gringo tourists, we were a bit of a curiosity. It was fascinating, and the views were breathtaking.
Despite its natural beauty, Atitlán, like the country at large, is not without its troubles. Once you acclimate yourself, one of the first things you’ll notice is that water is overtaking everything: In the last several years, the lake has risen as much as 18 feet, leaving beaches and docks, and some walk-ways and houses, underwater.
No one really knows why it’s occurring, but as no streams or rivers directly exit the lake (all drainage is result of seepage), it may be part of long-term fluctuations, perhaps aggravated by recent severe weather. Others think the rising water is a symptom of even a bigger problem: algae blooms that have flared up in recent years, spurred by hot weather and increased nitrogen from sewage, hillside farms, and the volcanoes themselves. The theory is that algae has “clogged” drainage.
Though water level may be out of human control, the government has “developed a plan” to attack the blooms, including rebuilding sewage plants destroyed in hurricane Stan (in 2005) and subsidizing organic farming methods on the lake. But Guatemala is one of the poorest countries in Western Hemisphere, and as one gringa expat told us, so far, the only “solution to pollution is dilution.”
Let’s hope she’s proved wrong. If waters continue to rise, today’s lake-side settlements may one day sit alongside the ruins of Samabaj, deep underwater. Most locals, living far above, on higher ground, perhaps always knew better.
