Writing With My Mouth Full

Killing Me Softly in Cerro Cahui, Guatemala

The knock was soft, but it woke me up. I pulled the curtains away from the door and peeked my head out, Gracias por la llamada.Thanks for the wake-up call. I started to walk away but the guy started to talk in halting English, Es eight o’clock. I turned to him and ask for the time again just to make sure I heard correctly. Es eight o’clock. Ah, shit, fucking howler monkeys woke me up in the middle of the night; I guess I passed out after that. I am not quite sure of the time difference, but frankly, I haven’t cared much the last two days. All I know is that I missed the tour to Tikal, which left, well, at eight o’clock this morning.

I quickly got ready to talk to front desk and see how I missed the morning tour, but I slowed down when I realized I’ve had three glasses of wine on my porch while typing yesterday’s entry, and another one during dinner. Oh, okay.

I was still groggy from the wake-up call that I turned down breakfast and just chose to have a cup of coffee. Evelyn showed me the tour book to let me pick my activity for the day. I remembered that my stay included free use of their mountain bikes, so I opted for that and went for a ride to Cerro Cahui alone. A very long ride.

It wasn’t even 9am when I left, but I was already drenched in sweat after the second hill. Before I reached the closest village, the road was unpaved and I realized that a stone-covered road gets very taxing after, oh, 15 minutes. I said my holas to cars which didn’t slow down upon spotting me on my bike and to children walking with logs of trees on their shoulders. One of the kids I biked past did the construction-worker whistle. Nice, I thought, start them off early. I spotted an old man with almost no teeth on the side of the road with a machete, clearing the tall brush, and I stopped to ask where the hell Cerro Cahui was. SeÃ±or, donde esta entrar para Cerro Cahui? because I’ve seen the bienvenidos sign a few pedals back but not any gates. He rambled an answer in fast Spanish. I nodded as I tried to decipher what he said. All I understood was four kilometers and two doors. Fuck, isn’t four kilometers, like, three more miles? Whatever it was, I knew I had a long way to go. I pedaled on.

I finally arrived at the pearly gates–well, more like rusting metal–and was very thankful. The security guard helped me with my bike up the steps and I paid my 20 quetzales to enter. He showed me the snakes preserved in glass jars which made me look down at my pants and hike my socks up. Great, serpientos in the fucking trail. He showed me the map, explained that there are two trails: one will take an hour and a half, and the other, three hours round-trip, and asked me which one I would do. Yo no se, I said, because after that bike ride, I seriously was not in the mood to walk more than six miles to the lookout points.

So I walked. And I walked. The trail is clearly marked and surrounded by old tree roots. It rained yesterday, so the path was a little damp and slippery. After catching my breath, I felt very calm and relaxed. I had the forest all to myself except for the ubiquitous howler monkeys. Birds, squirrels and a possum-looking orange thing moved around me. I wasn’t alone, but felt like I could scream and no one would hear me. I was short of breath again after a few steep climbs and I stopped at some rock to sit and rest. I only brought a small bottle of water with me and have drank most of it during my bike ride. I realized I could pass out right there and no one would know! My knees were hurting but I kept on.

When I reached the end of the short hike, I debated with myself if I should keep hiking to reach the mirador because I was so tired. I did anyway, thinking in that Cia proud way, I’m here already, so why not? The view of the lake from the lookout was beautiful. The sky was open and I could see soft ripples on the lake from the light breeze. I continued on to the second lookout point, and after I reached that, I just felt there was no reason to stop hiking the long way. (Well, except not having a drop of water to drink but, you know.) I felt a little woozy and I stopped several times before I gathered enough energy to continue.

After what seemed like another hour, I was back where I started. The guard smiled at me and said, Dos horas y media. Muy bien. Two and a half hours, but where’s my reward? There was no drinking water. I spotted a faucet near the toilets, but I didn’t dare drink it without making sure it was purified. If there is one thing worse than being dehydrated, I think it would be sick to my stomach because of unsafe drinking water.

I rested on the steps and watched two guys pay the fee and enter the park. Boys, I hope you have drinking water, I thought, but I realized the car outside was theirs–at least they didn’t have to bike to get there. Their driver saw me looking, stepped out of the car and walked to sit next to me. He introduced himself as Alberto, made small talk and offered to drive me to the nearest restaurant after he heard my stomach growl. I politely told him, Necessito volver en La Lancha to say no, and I said what I needed was water. He motioned for me to come with him, took my empty bottle and filled it with his water from the trunk of his car. Drinking water! I thanked him, short of giving him a hug, and I picked up my bike to go.

What transpired next was a very difficult hour. When I left, the guard told me that it was 15 minutes to one. When I returned to La Lancha with jelly legs, it was two. I fell to a chair, unlaced my boots and steadied my hands. Carlos was serving a family that just arrived, so I had to wait before I got some ice water. He served me cold lime juice because he knew I was tired. Not only did I look it, he told me that he knew I left at 9am and I was out the entire time. I ate my lunch of chile rellenos, roasted peppers stuffed with ground meat, hungrily.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool reading. I took a break only to order coffee upstairs so that I don’t fall asleep. Dinner last night was a civilized salad of lettuce and cucumbers, with fish caught from the lake drizzled with coriander sauce. Tonight, I will order the steak. If I’m going to Tikal tomorrow, I will need all the protein I can get.

Alone with My Thoughts in La Lancha, Peten, Guatemala

The sound started off as a deep howl. I knew it was coming from the howler monkeys because I’ve heard the same haunting sound before in other parts of Central America and in the jungles of Palawan in the Philippines. I’ve even had to dodge shit thrown by a family of them in Nicaragua! It was the Darth Vader-like hiss that made me go outside my room to get closer to the source. If you don’t know what it’s like, imagine standing next to a jumbo jet taking off without wearing any headphones. As far as I can tell, it was only early afternoon–I swore off checking the time the moment I checked-in–so I was mesmerized by how long the monkeys made their noise. I realized I’ve never heard them this loud and this close before.

I look around me and I see an inviting hammock. If I look past the trees, I can see a lake, the Lake Peten Itza of Guatemala. I’ve just checked in La Lancha, one of Francis Ford Coppola’s three resorts in Central America. Alone. I’ve planned four nights here, including Thanksgiving, to spend time by myself, collect my thoughts and just be at peace. I’ll try not to play too much Cat Power–there is an iPod speaker in my room; how brilliant!–and enjoy my time alone with the bottle of Crianza I brought with me.

My flight landed at 7:30am local time after a quick connection from Guatemala City to Flores. Funnily enough, I didn’t go through Customs before I made my connection. With this trip, I am completing Central America, but I won’t have that stamp on my passport. But I also swore off worrying about trivial things as soon as I got on a cab to the airport. I did get a little nervous when the security dogs were placed on the conveyor belt to sniff all the luggages that came through, but as soon as my backpack cleared, I waved at Henry, the La Lancha driver who was holding a piece of paper with my name on it. I was on my way to my small bit of paradise.

We drove the 45-minute journey to the resort. I was groggy from lack of comfortable sleep on the plane. Looking out the mini-van window, my first reaction was: how green! My surroundings was so lush. Past the tall trees, a thin sheet of fog covered the hills. When we finally reached the first town, I had my first glimpse of the lake. We continued to drive along its side, on rocky road, until we reached La Lancha.

The staff knew I was going to be alone and it showed. Ernesto welcomed me as “Miss Cia”–I got used to it easily–and showed me my room. You’ve come to the right place, Miss Cia, if you wanted to relax, reminding me of my first email request to book a cottage a couple of weeks ago. My room smells of fragrant soap, and the slow movement of the ceiling fan seems to dance with how I am feeling: it’s quiet, and inside, I feel completely relaxed, even subdued.

From outside my cottage, steep steps lead down to the lake. As soon as I changed to an outfit more appropriate for the 80-degree weather, I walked down until I reached the water. The lounge chairs were wet because it had been raining on and off for the past few days. There was a smaller chair that was dry, so I used that to drift in and out of sleep the rest of the afternoon. When I woke up and started to feel the pangs of hunger, I walked back up to my cottage and to the restaurant.

Carlos served me a bowl of hot carrot soup and homemade tortillas with spicy longaniza. Both filled me quickly, but I had watermelon juice with rum to push everything down. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading by the pool and then napping on the hammock. It’s raining now and it’s quite peaceful to hear water pelt on leaves; an occasional lizard tsk-tsks to remind me that I’m far away from any concrete at this moment.

I am that type of person who reads a travel-related article, looks it up online and bookmarks the results for just-in-cases. When I was planning my getaway, I looked through numerous Web sites I’ve saved to help me decide where to go. I was going alone, and I figured, I should at least check one thing off my list while I’m at it. With this trip, I consider Central America completely crossed off that list, and oh, “travel alone” accomplished, too.

Related post/s:
La Lancha Resort photos on Flickr

Christmas in Caibarien and Remedios, Cuba (2003 Archives)

In Caibarien, our room at SeÃ±ora Virginia’s casa is occupied. She arranged for us to stay at her friend SeÃ±or Eladio’s house until the lone Italian tenant leaves Christmas day. SeÃ±ora Virginia’s husband, SeÃ±or Osmany, reminded us that we should consider eating inside the casas for the rest of our stay in Caibarien because the holidays are the only time the town is mobbed by tourists.

Eating home-cooked meals in Caibarien was an easy request for us to fulfill: the town doesn’t have much to show for except for horse carriages. We asked SeÃ±or Eladio for chicken for dinner because it was the simplest meal to prepare. But when it was time to eat, we were also served pork and shrimps. He told us that it is tradition to eat a feast on Christmas Eve. We are grateful each time we are shown hospitality and abundance at meal times.

Remedios, the next town over, is famous for its parrandas, festivals that go all night and into the dawn. We arranged for a cab to drive us there to witness the two sections of the town “compete” for the honor of having the best light show. The two districts, Carmen and San Salvador, prepare long in advance, and in secret, build tall towers of lights and fireworks with a different theme each year. Tonight we saw Indonesian gods and Egyptian-style temples erected on giant static floats situated in each corner of the town plaza. We bought a couple of beers inside the El Louvre bar and people watch in the main square. We even bought a “champagne” bottle for US$2.40 to celebrate!

We read that the event originated when a local priest told the children to wake the residents up for midnight mass by making noise. It soon became a tradition. We sat in on the mass, which continued even though the noise from the festivities outside and of people milling about inside made it impossible to hear any part of the service. Imagine trying to listen to the priest while the person next to you has his video camera on recording every detail of the light show outside. Imagine trying to hear the prayers while vendors continued to walk around selling souvenirs. We decided to leave in the middle of the sermon as soon as churchgoers started running out to witness the fireworks show, all while the priest was delivering his homily. We stepped out to find several men relieving themselves on the church walls from all the beer they have been drinking since the afternoon.

Our driver was waiting for us. He drove us home while he listened to us, amused as we describe the whole party as loco, crazy. It’s officially December 25th and I’m a year older, but it’s also time to sleep so that we can wake up in a couple of hours and celebrate Christmas on the beach.

We awake to the jingle that I will most often repeat and use to annoy the boy throughout the rest of the trip: Calieeente! El paaan! The bread man was doing his early rounds and he was loudly selling his hot bread just like the balut men of the Philippines. I drink my coffee on the balcony and watch the cookie man pass by with his Styrofoam box full of freshly-baked cookies (Koooki! Koooki! Koooki!). The ice man unloaded his melting goods from his horse carriage (Hielo! Hielo! Hielo!).

We say good-bye to SeÃ±or Eladio and move back to SeÃ±ora Virginia’s a few blocks away. We settle in and unpack our belongings. For the first time since our Belize trip a few months ago, I pack a day bag containing our bathing suits, beach blankets and towels. I prepare our reading books and my compact Scrabble, ready to spend six hours on the beach.

Che’s Monument in Santa Clara, Cuba (2003 Archives)

It’s only our third day in Cuba and we’ve already made plans to get out of Havana. We visited the primary school across from Aleida’s house to give the principal a few boxes of pencils, Crayons and coloring pens for the children. They were thankful, uttering Qué bueno as we told them about our impressions of the county.

Vicente drove us to the Viazul bus station where we had reservations to Santa Clara in the province of Villa Clara, the home of Che’s monument. We pulled into the Santa Clara bus station before 8pm where an older gentleman from our casa particular greeted us. A cab ride later, his family, Señora Consuelo and their daughter welcomed us into their home with a couple cold beers. Their place is booked but they’ve already talked to another SeÃ±ora about us staying for the night. This is the case with most of our casas in Cuba–reservations would be given up if other guests arrived first. But our hosts would also go out of their way to make sure that a Plan B was available. We walked to Señora Berta’s house and unpacked for the night. We did however eat dinner back at Señora Consuelo’s house because they had lobsters. As dinner was being prepared we talked to a French couple and drank our Cuba libres, rum and cola. Our lobster and chicken dinner was excellent, an unexpected feast.

The next morning, the town center was buzzing with Cubans going about their own business. We decided to walk to the Plaza de la Revolución Ernesto Guevara where a huge bronze statue of Che stands next to an inscription of a letter he wrote to Fidel Castro when he left Cuba. The plaza has enough spotlights to light a stadium and commemorative events still take place here on a regular basis. The plaza is immaculately manicured with a group of men gardening the lawns and more than five guarding the monument and Che’s mausoleum below where
Che is interred together with thirty-eight of his comrades. The memorial is very tranquil and is indeed a room for contemplation and silence; no cameras are allowed inside.

Santa Clara is also the site of the last battle of the Cuban revolution before Castro entered Havana. Batista sent a train full of military weapons to the other side of the country but on the way to Santa Clara, Che and his troops ambushed the train. It is said that this is the beginning of the triumph of the Revolution. The Monumento a la Toma del Tren Blindado is now also a tourist attraction where four of the train cars and a bulldozer that was used to derail the train are preserved.

Our stay in Santa Clara was brief because it’s Christmas Eve and we have to go to the next town to celebrate. Señora Consuelo arranged for a cab to take us to the next town over, in Caibarien, where we will stay for the next three days. Our driver is keen on pointing out sugar cane factories, universities and tobacco fields as we drive past. Our cab was built in 1957, of French make. Even in its worn condition, we arrived in Caibarien an hour later.

Day Trip to Vinales and Pinar del Rio, Cuba (2003 Archives)

We felt like we’ve had enough of Havana. So the next morning we woke up to our second omelette with sausages while SeÃ±or Paolo waited for us to finish eating. There’s bread and butter on the table. But there is no milk like yesterday. We didn’t ask and drank our coffee blacker than the sky last night. We arranged for Paolo to drive us out to the province of Pinar del Rio, west of Havana, to the small town of ViÃ±ales in the valley of Sierra de los Organos. It’s a three-hour drive, but Paolo kept us company by telling us about his life and about Cuban life in general.

During the drive, we witness a lot of Cubans waiting for rides. If our car had not been privately hired, it most likely would have been flagged down as Cubans are sometimes required to pick up other Cubans. Uniformed policemen stop big trucks, herd groups of passengers into the back, and keep the country moving. There were constant reminders of the RevoluciÃ³n and of the country’s most admired men. The highway is almost empty and our drive is smooth. We could have swerved from lane to lane if we wanted to!

As in so much of rural Cuba, there are chickens, pigs, goats, horses and cows everywhere. The drive to ViÃ±ales is pleasant because we are finally out of the city and into more lush surroundings. Mogotes, limestone mountains formed during the Jurassic period, rise from fertile red-soil valleys. We pass farmers cultivating tobacco and vegetables while vultures circle overhead.

In the town center, we find Las Brisas, a small restaurant with no other amenities aside from a few chairs and tables. We order pollo frito, fried chicken, with rice and a salad. But today, there is no lettuce. So we are served sliced green tomatoes on the side. We eat with Paolo as he flirts with our waitress. They banter with an easy sort of intimacy that you’d think it’s how all conversations between strangers are carried. We finish our Cristals and head out.

After lunch we drive to the Mural de la Prehistoria painted under the direction of Lovigildo Gonzalez, a disciple of Diego Rivera. It depicts the story of evolution on the island. If you don’t read about the process of how it was painted stone by stone, you can’t help but think that it looks like a rock face that has been slapped with graffiti.

We visited two caves as well. Inside Cueva del Indio we drifted on a subterranean river and looked up at stalactite formations. At the other end of Cueva de San Miguel we came upon El Palenque de los Cimarrones, a hokey re-creation of a hideout used by cimarrones or runaway slaves. Both venues were touristy and somewhat cheesy.

Before sunset, we arrived at Soroa, another small town in the Pinar del Rio province, known mostly known for its spas and a visitor’s center. We got the chance to hike to some nearby waterfalls before closing time. The Orquideario or Orchid Gardens was already closed as was El Mirador, the most accessible point for views of the surrounding landscape.

Our drive back to Havana was uneventful except for the sight of young men selling blocks of cheese and guava jelly by the side of the highway. We ask Paolo to stop so that we can sample some of their goods. Lacking knife or a fork, we ended up buying the whole block for about P13. I asked Paolo why they were selling it on the side of the road. Clandestino, he says. Clandestine, a catchy word that sticks with us for the duration of our travels in Cuba. We would have something in common with the Cubans after all.

Back in Havana and we’re looking for something to eat. We ask a gas station attendant if he knows of a place where we can eat a real meal. At El Hueco down the road we have bistek Creolan and Uruguayan styles. We congratulate ourselves for getting a recommendation from a Cuban instead of settling for the sketchy-looking Yang-Tse “Chinese” restaurant down the block.