The Burly Unknown!

Utila

Day 15

1800 hours

Fear. Fear pervades our every thought. Conditions are deteriorating rapidly. The rain has forced a hasty retreat beyond our former entrenched position. The platoon remains pinned down on the south side of the island. Scenes of Iwo Jima flash across our battle scarred minds. Except for the death. And the artillery. And there are no Japanese whatsoever.

The once joyful and gay streets are now cratered and littered with the remains of once enjoyed candy bars. The carefree laughter of Honduran festivity replaced by a swampy no mans land populated only by the weakening moans of the injured.

Our repeated amphibious evac calls have gone unheeded. It seems high command has left us here to rot. Our offensives have been brutally repressed by the impenetrable aquatic defenses of the Honduran 63^rd National Socialist Paramilitary Ferry Company.

Casualties are swiftly mounting. Those that are not dead or dying are sinking slowly into a deadly cocktail of malaise and moderately priced rum.

The innocent youth of our younger years has been cruelly ravaged.

All that remain of the original 300 strong platoon are a wearied and malnourished half dozen. Our once proud fighting force has been decimated by the slow cruel attrition of disease and sporadic napping. The wrecked remnants are in a pitiable state.

Private Watson is nearing death. He remains motionless under the burden of his murder mystery novel, his chest rising and falling with the loathsome rhythm of his own impending mortality. The incessant screams of Lt. Tom are taking an emotional toll on all of us. His glazed eyes betray no remaining vestige of humanity. I fear that we must take extreme action to salvage the waning sanity of our unit.

I fear this may be my last communication. My laptop’s lifeblood is slowly and inexorably draining. Our only chance is a dawn offensive that is likely to prove suicidal. Dusk is falling, and with it, our hope of salvation.

Silence. Terrible silence. For now.

Spanglish is, by its very nature, hilarious. However, not all Spanglish is created equal. If this example of Spanglish were an animal, it would be a fire breathing lizard/tiger/shark that can shoot laser beams out of its eyes and crap diamond necklaces.

This is the description of a movie (The Black Pimpernel) advertised on a flier outside of a bootleg movie house.

Here is the transcript:

Santiago Chile, 11 of September of 1973. Beyond it is defeated. Based on the life of Swedish ambassador Jared Edelstam (Michael Nyqvist) and his fight to help Chilean refugees. During the terror that sembro the coup d’etat, Edelstam fights for human rights, justice, and the dignity. That it reason?! That price had to pay to become jumbled? Tormented by the past, we followed the busquedad of a desperate man to find love once again.

That is just plain inspirational. If I knew how to do a slow clap over the internet, I would.

That it reason?!?!

Livingston… oh Livingston…

After my adventure filled travel day, Rio Dulce became somewhat of a misplaced focal point for my frustration. I needed to get out. It was raining when I awoke, so I decided to hop on a boat to somewhere that I never really thought about going: Livingston.

After a two hour boat ride on Rio Dulce (the name of the river and the town at its termination in Lake Izabel), I arrived in Livingston. I had heard some talk about a hostel called Casa de la Iguana, so I consulted the guide and set about finding it.  I walked into the hostel and was greeted by the owner, a youngish Londoner named Rusty. Unlike at other hostels, he sat me down and gave me an overview of the town and explained everything about my stay at the Iguana.

That night I questioned him about owning and operating a hostel and made the offhand comment that I thought it would be really fun to work at a hostel. The next day he offered me a job. It would be free board, free food, and cheap drinks ($1 beers and $0.50 liquor drinks… dangerous). My duties were basically to help run the hostel from 3 p.m. until “death” as Rusty put it in his colorful manner. This involved checking people in and out of the hostel, running orientation sessions for any newcomers, managing the supplies needed to run a hostel (most notably, beer), and getting people social at night (pardon the euphemism, my mom reads this).

As a recent initiate to the prestigious position of hostel worker, I moved from the shared dorm room to a room I’ve lovingly dubbed “the crow’s nest.” Here’s a video of a walk from my room down to the common area of the hostel. The two guys in the video are two of the other employees, Josh and Sid.

My days consisted of going for runs through the rural Mayan villages, splitting my time between the pool and the beach, exploring the town, and hanging out in hammocks. It was backbreaking and grueling labor, but someone has to be the hero.

One feature of Livingston is a place called the Siete Altares (Seven Altars), a series of seven pools connected by waterfalls. I would go there every few days and swim around and just kind of hang out.

Here is a picture of my perfect swan dive from the Seventh Altar.

I ended up working there for about two weeks. Just long enough to explore Livingston and get used to the routine of the hostel, but not long enough for it to get old. It was a good time and I met a lot of great people, but I’m excited to continue my travels. My next stop is Utila for some scuba diving.

I departed Semuc Champey unsure where I wanted to go. I knew I eventually wanted to get to Honduras for scuba diving, but that was a several day trip and I wanted to find a way to break it up in an interesting manner.

I looked on a map and saw that Rio Dulce was somewhat on my route to Honduras, so I decided to head that way. I arranged for a shuttle to pick me up in the morning at 7 a.m. to transport me to Rio Dulce. Around 9 a.m. (official travel time [“OTT”]: 2 hours) it became apparent to me that the shuttle was not merely running on “Guatemala time”, it was not going to arrive at all. My choice at this point was to either stay in Semuc Champey for another week or try to get to Rio Dulce on my own.

I shouldered my backpack and started up the hill to try to find a ride to Coban. I waited an hour and a half before a minibus showed up that was going my way. I arrived in Coban just in time to catch the bus to El Rancho, which is just a huge bus stop in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately for me, I was not aware of this. My ignorance of the specific geography combined with the lack of any signs or announcements for bus stops resulted in me overshooting El Rancho by a good two hours. The bus attendant thought it was great fun that I missed my stop so grievously. Needless to say, I disagreed.

They were kind enough to drop me in the middle of nowhere, sweating and seething, to try to flag a bus going in the opposite direction.

After another hour wait (OTT: 8 hours), I finally found a bus going in the right direction… or so I thought. The conversation with the bus attendant went something like this:

Me: Does this bus go to Rio Dulce?

Bus guy: Yes, to Morales.

Me: Oh, so I change buses in Morales to get to Rio Dulce?

Bus guy: No, Rio Dulce and Morales are the same place.

Me: Ok, so if I’m in Morales, I can take a boat to the coast.

Bus guy: No, you have to go to Rio Dulce to get a boat.

Me: …

Me: …

Me: …

Me: So can I get a bus to Rio Dulce from Morales?

Bus guy: No, they’re the same place.

I don’t really remember what happened at this point as I was distracted by the sound of my head exploding.

Lady luck smiled upon me; the only seat left on the bus was directly above the engine and next to the bathroom (my theory about this bathroom is that it eventually became so disgusting, that rather than cleaning it, the owner of the bus simply locked it. Problem solved.). It was obvious that the other passengers were saving the best seat for the lost gringo. The heat of the engine simmering all of the bathroom’s typical contents made for a fragrant stew.

I finally arrived in Morales (OTT: 12 hours), which apparently co-exists at the same location as Rio Dulce but is a bus trip away. I had a sandwich and a refreshing vomit and then set about fumigating my nostrils with whatever industrial cleaning solvents were at hand.

I found someone that existed on the same ethereal plane as me who gave me directions to Rio Dulce that didn’t involve bending the fabric of space-time. Turns out it was only another half hour bus ride to Rio Dulce and there was a bus coming in 15 minutes!

Obviously, the bus was a good 2 hours late and standing room only. If anything can be said about my luck on this trip, it was at least consistent.

I finally got to Rio Dulce at around 10 p.m. It felt more like 27 p.m.

The one saving grace on the trip was that I had a book in which I was completely engrossed.

I left my book on the last bus. A final parting shot from the gods.

DGB: The trip wasn’t as awful as it sounded. Just long and frustrating. I met a couple of Guatemalans on the buses who were awesome. That’s the beauty of traveling on the buses.

Dear Website,

Having conquered all of Guatemala above ground.  I decided that it was time to discover if there were any subterranean challenges to withstand my awful might.  I had heard about the Caves of Unthinkable Danger and Painful Mutilation (The Caves of Lanquin), so I journeyed there to test my mettle against the abominations belched forth from the steamy and hellish depths of the earth.

As I approached the entrance to the cave, a dank breeze whispered promises of slow death, but did I despair?  Nay.

Suddenly, a giant spider appeared!  I stared it down with cold determination, the icy ice of my stare penetrating it’s cruel black heart.  I discovered he liked Wake Forest football.  So we shared a cup of self pity for the Navy loss.  Eh.

This is Rupert.  He´s an evil man eating spider.  He likes Deacon football and is crunchy and tastes delicious with ketchup.

After my encounter with the spider, and exchanging email addresses with some cave trolls (Braves fans, incidentally), I journey downwards toward unknown terrors.

Said unknown terrors were on vacation, so I just enjoyed the rest of the cave.  As I was leaving, the bats were coming out.  It was a wild experience to stand in the small opening of a cave while thousands of bats fly past you within the space of an inch.  I tried to take a picture of it, but this was the best I got.

After San Marco, I decided to skip town and travel to a little gem called Semuc Champey. Semuc Champey is a watershed area that is essentially a limestone bridge 300 meters long under which runs the Cahabon River. It’s hard to explain, but half the river runs above ground, while the remainder sinks underneath the limestone rock and forms an underground river that runs parallel to the above ground portion.  The two rivers rejoin each other via a spectacular 50 meter waterfall at the end.  Most of the caves underneath are inaccessible (due to the fact that its an underground river), but there’s a small section that one can climb down to with the aid of a rope ladder.

So after a quick stopover in Antigua and dinner with some friends I made my first time in the city, I rode on an incredibly overcrowded shuttle to Coban, and then to Lanquin, which is around 10 miles of rocky road from Semuc Champey. I stayed at a hostel called El Retiro, where I slept in a hammock in an open hut for three blissful nights.

Here is a video from the Mirador (overlook). What you are looking at is the limestone bridge that covers the river. Part of the river flows above ground here, forming the pools and waterfalls for me to play in.

Here is a picture of the waterfalls towards the base of the river system.

This is one of my happy spots.

Thanks for reading!

San Marco has thus far been the most relaxing part of my trip.  Everyone here is pretty hippied out, which is hilarious and awesome at the same time.  So yesterday I did a yoga class (when in Rome…).  It was a great workout, but I am perhaps the most unflexible person in the entire world, so I feel that I would need  nine more sessions in order to really start to enjoy it.  Oh well.  C’est la vie.

I stayed in a hostel called Aaculax.  It was a wee bit more expensive ($10 per night…eegad!), but it is the coolest place I’ve stayed in Guatemala.  In the grand tradition of hostel walkthroughs, I present to you:  Aaculax.

Hmmm… well this ended up being sort of a town walkthrough as well as an opportunity to freak out two Guatemalans.  Well, I’m not one to pass up a good freak out when it presents itself.

Enjoy the post!  Well, enjoy it as much as you can…