To All New Arrivals

Thinking back to last time I went away, I don' t think I was as stressed that time as I was this. Maybe it was the anticipation of weeks in the very hot and humid jungle, maybe it was missing Hannah, or maybe it was the paranoia associated with lugging around my digital SLR - not exactly a small and inconspicuous piece of equipment and probably equivalent to several months pay for many people in Central America.

The Delta flight over was great except for the somewhat surly and almost aggressive hostesses. I asked one if I could borrow a pen; she shouted out,
"Has anybody got a pen? This guy needs a pen!"
A small forest of timid hands shot up with a collection of biros.

US Immigration was breeze: friendly, fast and efficient. I began to worry I had flown to the wrong country, until I was told to "Have a nice day". It was all a breeze really, the connection to Cancun, arrival and slipping back into Spanish. I caught a bus to the centre, then walked to a hostel where I arrived drenched in sweat. It was 8pm and about 30 degrees.


Playa del Carmen

The next day I headed down the coast of the Yucatan peninsula to Playa del Carmen - smaller than Cancun's huge hotel zone, but rapidly expanding with tourists, Burger King and Starbucks liberally spread over the town and it's white, sandy beach. It was full of people selling authentic Cuban cigars, horrific t-shirts, poor jewellery and Haagen Daaz. A least one chap told it like it was: "Come into my shop so I can rip you off". It brought a smile and added weight to the impression of mistrust. A couple of days here was all I needed before heading on to my intended destination of Flores, Guatemala, via Belize.

The next day I caught a bus to Chetumal, on the Mexican/Belize border, and hooked up with a group of English folks traveling the same way. Chetumal was hot and spread out; I got a deliciously cool aircon room by the bus terminal, and enjoyed it for less time than I should as I was up at 4.30am then next day for the bus.

Yesterday, then, was a mission. The plan: cross into Belize, travel down to Belize City ("city", as in small, crowded and slightly edgy) then change onto a bus westwards, cross into Guatemala and travel a slightly questionable road to Flores, tourist centre of the El Peten region.

It started off smoothly, and perhaps predictably: the bus was on time, but we all got stung for an "official fee" to keep our Mexican tourist cards that would allow us free entry next time as we crossed into Belize.

Belize - British Honduras until 1981 - speaks English as the first language and Spanish when you're not listening. Outside the city, it's beautiful, green and almost orderly; everywhere there are signs in the English/Creole patois that advertise businesses, spray-painted like graffiti onto walls. The Queen is on the coins and the Police don't have guns, and lots of large black men guide you loudly to where you may, or may not, want to be. In Belize City we took a very expensive taxi for about 600m across town to the other bus terminal from where we picked up our Guatemala bus. So far, so good. We met an Irish girl who, for reasons best know to herself, had spend two nights in Belize City listening to domestic violence and rats crawling over her bed.

Our aircon, luxury tourist bus turned out to be a minibus with windows, but at least left promptly. After two amusing and bewildering circuits of Belize City we finally made it onto the Western Highway heading for the Guatemalan border. Again, the landscape was a lush green with jungle bordering the road, tiny clapboard houses on stilts forcing back the trees in places and providing shade for flea ridden dogs.

At the border, we changed the minimal amount of cash necessary at a rate that made your eyes water, and left Belize after 8 hours of mainly good impressions - except the $15 exit tax. Two hundred yards away in Guatemala was the second bribe of the day - 10 Quetzals (about 66p) to "Enter the Country". No receipt provided, but the chap did have the decency not to put it directly in his pocket. I wasn't about to argue, and was more annoyed that he only asked 3 out of the 6 of us to pay it. Obviously I should have worn a dirty t-shirt, or maybe not shaved.


Looking to Lake Péten Itza from Flores

After a few warnings about highway robberies along the stretch of the road to Flores I kept my eyes peeled, not that it would have helped. Concrete gave way to gravel and we bumped along for a couple of hours at back-jarring speed, before picking up the potholed tarmac that signified out approach to Guatemala's most famous tourist destination. It was safe and friendly, and just as pretty as Belize. And hotter.

Flores, a small island on Lake Péten Itza is a pretty place filled with cobbled streets, quiet hotels, restaurants and internet cafes. It's tourist purpose in life is serving the visitors to Tikal - 65km away to the north in thick jungle, and probably the most significant Mayan ruins in the country. For those who haven't heard of it, refresh your memory by watching the first Star Wars film - it's the rebel base seen at the end of the film on the moon of Yavin (Please note, I had to look that up to find it out). I found myself a nice hostel only half-full of Israelis, took a "luxury dorm" bed, and turned on the fan. I may have to get used to the feeling of being drenched in sweat.


Hot water, in the suicide shower style

My volunteer place is 10 minutes away by boat but they don't come at the weekend, so I think I may go on Monday. That leaves the weekend for a visit to Tikal (a 3.30am start) and checking out things to do when Hannah comes along. And a bit of time for sitting in the shade under a very large fan, drinking an iced smoothie, and trying not to sweat.