This wasn't the first time I had fallen into this state of mind when first arriving to a destination, and wouldn't be the last. I proceeded to undergo my normal routine in figuring out what to do next in a situation like this: I stand in that same spot for about a minute with a blank, lost look on my face and millions of thoughts racing through my mind of what to do next, heart pounding wildly, thinking why do I continue to do this to myself?; then, I come to, realizing that nothing at all will be accomplished unless I actually do something; then, I pull out my guidebook for a little help, or, I try to find a friendly (enough) looking local and ask where I can find the place I am looking for; finally, I head in that direction after understanding only about half of what that person told me (if I am lucky) and hope for the best!
I headed down the street in the direction that a scruffy-faced, slightly unfriendly and slightly overweight Guatemalan man in a dirty white t-shirt and jeans told me to go. I had decided on a hostel from the guidebook, called Casa Perico. By this time I had let go of all anxieties about my situation and was once again in my relaxed, I-can-do-anything, live-in the-moment state of mind that I had begun to master on this trip. I could feel that the rains were coming as I continued along the busy and narrow road, having to weave in and out of food carts and people and parked (as well as moving) vehicles. At one point I had to stand and wait beside a huge semi-truck full of cows trying to make its way up the street. There was another truck and several food stalls blocking the area of the road that I could only assume was the unofficially designated 'sidewalk' so me and a handful of others waited patiently for an opening to proceed. We were literally underneath the back sides of these cows and all I remember thinking was don't you dare shit on me...
I made it safely to the end of the road (shit free) just before what Lonely Planet says is believed to be the longest bridge in Central America at 3.5 kilometers (Rio Dulce town sits on the Rio Dulce, or, the Sweet River, that eventually ends up in the Caribbean Sea). I must have appeared slightly lost again (or perhaps it was my obvious traveler appearance that gave me away) when I was approached by a man asking if I was going to Casa Perico. Yes! Perfect! He sent me in the direction of the docks and told me to sit and wait for the boat that would come pick me up in about twenty minutes (this place is only reachable by boat). I took a seat and set myself up on the dock; a fully stuffed backpack makes for a great and versatile chair back to lean back on anytime, anywhere. The sun was long out of sight and it was getting darker by the minute, the rains still looming in the near future. As I waited I watched locals hopping on and off the lanchas that pulled up to any of the several docks along the water's edge, probably heading home after another day's work.
When the boat arrived, me and--go figure--an Israeli guy hopped on; you may or may not be surprised that he was my friend for the evening. We arrived in the dark, the hostel crowd already having staked out their spots for the evening in the common area, half-eaten plates of food and half-empty bottles of Gallo or Cabro decorating the table and bar tops. The entire hostel itself was just a group of floating structures on the water connected by three-foot wide wooden pathways--like a maze of small wooden docks. The options of where I could go in and around the hostel were limited: the main part of the hostel, which included a common area, the bar and above on the second story a dorm room (where me and my Israeli friend decided to camp for the night), the small kitchen (that was not for travelers' use), any of the three-ish little cabin-like structures that housed all of the private rooms, or, the bathrooms.
My Israeli friend was a strange duck, to say the least, but that's neither her nor there right now. My best guess is that he was on a post-army trip, perhaps an unfortunate victim of what four years of service can do to a person. Then again, what do I know? We settled ourselves and our bags next to our twin-sized beds, mine with pink sheets and a pink lacey mosquito net--no joke, I was definitely in a princess bed that night. Ugh. Not hungry, the two of us took a seat in a couple of chairs out on one of the docks (see photo below). The stars were out that night, so our time in those chairs was a combination of conversation and silently soaking it all in. The only thing I really remember about our conversation is how at one point, my "friend" came up with the idea of taking a few silent moments and seeing how many different individual sounds we could decipher among many. We sat there, straining our ears to hear what sounds surrounded us: frogs, crickets, a few different bird calls, perhaps a bat, countless numbers of insects... I think we agreed upon about seven different sounds, but also that we were probably missing at least twenty.
The chairs I spent my first evening sitting in with my Israeli friend.
A view of the common area; restaurant/bar below, dorm room above.I was tired that night, and my strange friend was leaving sometime around 2am in order to catch a bus to his next destination. I headed upstairs to my bed by 8 o'clock and situated myself under the pink sheets and lacey mosquito net. I was thankful the next morning when he was gone, for I wasn't quite in the mood to have constant company--especially of his kind--on this day.
I had heard the rains were coming, but I had had so much good luck with weather throughout my entire trip, I didn't really believe that anything--including an approaching storm during the rainy season--would interfere that much with my travel plans. I was up earlier than anybody else and before the coffee was made, so I did some reading and writing out on the chairs I had sat in the night before. Soon I was watching a father and his young daughter--tourists--kayaking through the swamp-like waters surrounding the hostel. I could see people's homes, also floating on the water and only accessible by boat, through openings in the flora. Sitting out there, a light rain started to drop water on the pages of my book so I moved to a table underneath a tree to keep me and my book dry. Somehow myself and a woman whom I had assumed to be the wife and mother of the father/daughter duo were soon engaged in conversation that had lasted for a while. When we parted ways, I remember thinking that this was one of the more touching and meaningful conversations I had held with anybody on my trip. Long story short, her and her husband had adopted their little girl from Guatemala about four years prior, when the girl was about three. This was their first trip back to Guatemala as a family, their main goal being to find said daughter's birth mother. It was a typical heart-warming story of such an adventure, the family only having one piece of information about the birth mother, no solidified plan of how to find her, and a stream of good luck and fortune in meeting the right people in the right places at the right time. The family had been on their way out just as the birth mother's sister contacted them after a sequence of several unanticipated and unimaginable events. The three of them were able to meet the birth mother, whom the daughter had remembered, and were soon heading back to the girl's home town to meet the rest of the family before the end of their trip. A happy ending indeed.
That was the touching story, having brought tears to both of our eyes. The more personally meaningful part of the conversation came when the woman asked me about myself and my life back home. And of course, without a doubt, when you tell a middle-aged person that you went after an education in gerontology, you will undoubtedly end up talking--or, listening--about their aging parents. This woman and I talked for quite some time about her mother and father who both have dementia and live with the family and in a nursing home, respectively. It was a great exchange of knowledge, experience, wisdom and insight between the both of us, since we both offered two very different perspectives with her living it but not studying it, and my studying it but not living it. It was this conversation the reminded me what I had so easily forgotten over the course of a year or two--that I still was passionate about the lives and well-being of old people and that my studies and career aspirations were important in the world.
Despite the constant light sprinkling of rain drops that never really subsided that morning, I decided the last thing I wanted to do with my day was sit around on a 200 square foot block of floating wood. So, I asked the hostel staff to call the boat driver out to take me into town. I spent about 20 minutes walking around, making a necessary stop at the local grocery store to stock up on a few snacks--and another one of my Guatemalan staples, strawberry flavored, vitamin-fortified liquid, drinkable yogurt (not that you can't find those in the US, I just never drink them at home). I then decided to find the proper collectivo that would take me to Castillo San Felipe, the 17th century castle built to keep out the pirates of the Caribbean. No joke. I was the only one there, perhaps due to the cold and rainy weather. But, I was determined to accomplish something that day, and by that I mean explore the area a bit. Being the only visitor has its perks--the security guard who roamed inside the castle walls gave me my own little personal tour. Most of the cannons were the original Spanish cannons from long ago... and I stood in the same room--or dungeon, should I say?--that many a prisoner was tortured when his hands were tied above his head and a sudden rush of cold river water was let in to fill the room up to the mens' heads. A slightly eerie thought, yet enticing at the same time...
A view from the castle out to the river.
After leaving the castle I headed up the street toward where I was told by a group of local boys and men to catch the collectivo back to town. Apparently they were either (a) clueless, or (b) screwing with me, because all I really needed to do was stand right where they were standing and wait for the collectivo to come by and pick me up there. Either way, along my little walk I met a friendly woman who spoke English and invited me to sit on her porch with her until my ride to town came by. Turns out she was originally from Guatemala, but had lived in the states a solid 14 years and had married a Texan man who recently passed away. The woman had recently sold her house in Texas and moved back to Guatemala--essentially, to spend her remaining years in her motherland. She was also very keen on talking about herself and her new apartment that would be built across the street and how nice it was going to be and how she would have this and that--I can only imagine when and where in her life she learned to boast--and to even care--about her ability to have such grand things in life. Anyways, she was heading back into town for lunch and offered me a ride. A very kind act by a very kind stranger.
Back in town, it was time to find the bus that would take me out to a place called Finca El Paraiso, una cascada de agua caliente. A waterfall of hot water! The hour-ish long bus ride through very rural country was a slow one along a nearly flooded out dirt--no, mud--road that previous passing vehicles had formed tracks so deep that I just knew we were going to get stuck. Well, turns out we didn't; take that pessimism! At some point along the ride I was totally caught off guard and confused by probably about 40 men who got on the bus and who looked like the just came from working in the fields. The driver had unexpectedly stopped where these men were sitting on the side of the road, yelled something out the window to them, then exchanged a few more words before they all suddenly headed over and hopped on the bus. Everybody was laughing like it was some ironic coincidence of sorts, or some kind of joke, but I was left clueless as to why these men got on the bus or where they were all going at the same time or why it was all so funny to begin with. I exchanged a few looks with a woman who had also gotten on the bus with this group, our facial expressions the only means of communication. It was as if both of us had a mutual understanding that despite this extremely random and rare circumstance in addition to my not knowing what was going on, everything was still fine--and a little amusing! I just laughed, literally, along with everybody else as the men yelled out the window jokingly to people walking along the road as we passed them by. To this day I have no idea what that was all about.
I was dropped off in what felt like the middle of nowhere in front of a vacant building and parking lot. Not really knowing where I was heading, I just started walking in hopes that the hot water falls would just magically appear in front of me. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man on a bike came right at me and informed me that I needed to buy a ticket to see the falls. Alright then, maybe somebody should have been at the entrance to tell me that I thought to myself. Ticket in hand, I was pointed in the direction of a dirt pathway along a little river and eventually approached by two small girls who wanted to sell me some oranges. When I said I didn't want to buy an orange, they asked for money. When I said I had no money to give, it was pencils they wanted, "for school." When I said I had no pencils on me, it was "one quetzal" for "un foto." (I was always so impressed that so many little children in Guatemala knew how to say numbers in English; I wonder why...). Fine, I settled on a picture. Besides, cute children in foreign countries, I hate to say, are pretty much irresistible.
No sooner than it took me to hand over my golden coins to the first two girls, did an entire gaggle of little girls spot me in the act and started running in my direction. They all wanted the same thing, knowing that if I gave in to the first two girls, there may be a chance I'd give in to the other four. They insisted on leading me to their "art" (also known as a tourist trap), which they assured me I would want to take a photo of. They had lined up tiny little sticks into some unrecognizable shape that they called a house (see second picture below). They wanted me to take a picture of them in their house. I searched my wallet for coins, and literally had just enough to give the four girls one quetzal each and the original two some smaller change for the second picture. You can see all the girls and their work of art below:
Finca El Paraiso is apparently set up to where each visitor or group of visitors get their own personal guide to walk them down to the falls and then watch their belongings while the foreigners splash around. They also take pictures of cute couples flirting and kissing while standing on the rocks under the down pour of hot water... Or, at least that's what I walked into when I arrived to the falls. In all actuality, I was quite thankful that this Californian couple were there at the falls, as it not only provided me with some conversation and company while swimming around, but I think I would have otherwise felt really strange swimming alone, trying to enjoy the moment with my "guide" standing across the way. The water felt amazing, even in the rain, which hadn't yet begun to pick up to more than a light--yet continous--drizzle.
All the water coming down from the falls and the rocks to the left is hot. You can actually swim under the rock along the bottom and sit in your own little cave of warmth!
When the friendly young couple decided to leave, I left with them. We headed back to the road to wait for the bus back to Rio Dulce. Somewhere between getting on the bus and arriving back to town the rain had picked up. I was nearing dark again, and I was starving. Earlier, while waiting for the bus with the Californian couple, I had watched them cut up a bunch of fresh vegetables and make a delicious looking sandwich, so that's all I could picture in my head. I walked along the main road in Rio Dulce trying to balance my bag and umbrella as I weaved through people and traffic, trying my best to avoid getting too wet. By the time my search for freshly baked bread had landed me the very last bun I could find anywhere, I had given up on the idea of a healthy dinner of a veggie sandwich and instead turned around and headed right to one of the taco stands I had passed by earlier. The smell of these taco stands could lure just about anyone. Three steak tacos to go, please. I sat there, trying to hide from the rain under the narrow roof of the stand, and watched the man make my tacos. I normally avoided the steak in these situations, but my mouth watered as I watched the entire process. Three freshly made thick corn tortillas warming on the grill, small chunks of freshly grilled steak, onions, guacemole, cabbage and hot salsa piled on each of the tortillas wrapped nicely on an (environmentally friendly) styrofoam tray to go. I was SO hungry, but needed to call the hostel to send over the boat to pick me up, so I took care of that and took a seat at a table on the dock. Just as I was taking my first bite of a taco, the boat pulled up. I had been told it would take about 20 minutes, plenty of time to eat. Turns out it took about two minutes, so on the boat in the rain I sat, holding a large sheet of yellow plastic over my head to keep me and my bag--and my tacos--dry, staring at my feet. The rain was getting intense.
Arriving back at the hostel, I was happy to see my Israeli friends from Finca Ixobel. I took a seat next to them and proceeded to shove the juicy tacos into my mouth while they continued on with their card game (everybody commented on how good these tacos smelled; seriously, being so hungry this meal was one of the best and most memorable ones from the entire trip!). My friends had already made some new Israeli friends at the hostel so I felt a little out of place, like I normally did when the only non-Israeli in a group of Israelis. But, they were enjoyable company nonetheless.
Later that evening, a group of about six to eight people showed up at the hostel, soaked from head to toe from the rains. Their bags were soaked as well. Once settled into dry clothes, they joined all of us downstairs. So, I spent the remainder of my evening chatting with a Belgian girl and two guys, a Canadian and Israeli who had become travel mates somewhere along the way. This would be the first of five unanticipated encounters with Sean and Noam...
I went to bed that night to the sound of rain and with a plan of leaving Rio Dulce in the morning to make the one-hour boat ride up river to Livingston, also only reachable by boat. I should have known better than to think I'd be going anywhere that day with all the rain that had fallen. I woke up early to the same sound of rain. Everyone else was still asleep and so I headed down with a book and sat at one of the tables to read for a while. I had noticed just how high the surrounded water had become, having risen several inches since the prior evening. I was soon joined by a group of several people who wanted to head into town to go I don't know where. There was a curious energy lingering in the air, everybody so dismayed by this rain and how it was impacting our travel plans. It was obvious that the rain would not be letting up anytime soon, and nobody seemed quite sure what to do about it. Luckily for me, I wasn't on as strict of a time line as some people, so sitting around for a day wasn't really going to disturb my non-existent travel plans. However, the last thing I wanted to do that day was to sit around on a floating wooden structure above a swamp and watch the water below us rise well over a foot in a matter of hours. Too bad for me, because that's exactly what I did with my day.
I had tried to get on one of the boats heading to Livingston that morning, but due to the rains they canceled all of them. I was trying to be optimistic so I had spent a good portion that morning re-packing my bags, gathering all of the plastic bags I could find (I knew I saved them for a reason!) so I could keep all of my belongings dry. I organized everything into a plastic bag somehow, all of my pants in one, shirts in another, books in another, all of my precious Guatemalan textiles in yet another, and two large garbage bags placed around the entire backpack itself. If my bags and I were going to have to face the elements, at least we were going to stay (moderately) dry. Obviously I went no where that day and was so annoyed about the entire situation that I kept my bags packed just the way they were all day and all night, even sleeping in the same clothes I had already been wearing for the past two days because I just didn't have the patience and I was highly irritated that I couldn't go anywhere. Let's just say this wasn't one of my finer moments of allowing myself to just live in the moment.
(An excerpt from my journal on this day):
I'll write more about my brilliant yesterday later... right now I'm not in the mood because I'm stuck here, at Casa Perico, a lone, isolated hostel standing solitary over a swamp in the middle--no, beginning--of Tropical Depression Sixteen. It feels like this should be the middle of it, but I fear this is only the beginning. The rain started yesterday, perhaps around 9am, but it was light--light enough that I left Perico at around 10-11am for the day and it was never really that bad. However, when I returned to Rio Dulce town around 5:15pm, it had picked up. And after grabbing my dinner of three steak tacos, tortillas deliciously soaked in the juices of the meat, picante, guacemole and the like (and for only Q10), by the time I got on the boat to Perico and arrived back here the rain was beginning to have no remorse for those of us who were left unsheltered. It is now 12 noon on Thursday (the following day), and since yesterday evening the intensity of the rain has not mellowed; in fact, the only changes in the rain have been the enlargment of the drops of water and (at least the deception) that there are more of them falling harder and faster. What remains curious to me, however, watching and listening to all of this rain pour down from the sky, is that it does not come from massive, haunting dark grey clouds as one might expect from a tropical depression. Rather, they sky remains optimistically bright, as one big sheet of white hanging overhead. Then again, who am I to say what one might expect in this situation; it is, afterall, my very first tropical depression.
So here I sit, watching the Guatemalans of the next 'floating structure' over from Perico use their cupped hands to scoop the accumulated rainwater out of their boats. I'm sheltered only by Perico's 20 x 20 meter palm-leaved pyramid-shaped roof. There is next to no escape here, as my dorm bed sits underneath that same pyramid-shaped roof top that is above where I sit now, at one of the three dry tables. The docks that connect the restaurant and dorm to the kitchen, to the bathrooms, to the bungalows, they only go so far and besides, there's no shelter there for me anyway unless I'm using the toilet or taking a shower. I suppose, then, I shall continue to pass the time reading, writing, eating, exchanging a few words here and there with one of the five--seven?--others (all Israelis) who sit here with me, and use this evening to play tomorrow's great escape.
Boats full of rainwater; the water turned brown overnight and notice how high it is at the trees to the left.
I just like the combination bright colors in this photo.The day ended just fine, but the rain still hadn't let up as I was going to bed. As much as I enjoy falling asleep to the sound of rain, this was not the time nor the place. And once again, I woke up to that same sound of heavy drops falling from above my head. No way in hell was I going to stay here another day. But, as always, the world has a way of working itself out and turns out enough people wanted that boat ride to Livingston that morning. I was able to get my way afterall. Lucky for me I didn't unpack anything because when I found out a boat was heading to Livingston, I had all of about five minutes before they showed up to get me. See? Despite my stubborn and irritated ways, things do work themselves out one way or another. That's why it's so healthy, as cliche as it is, to live in the moment! So looooong Rio Dulce and Perico... Hellllloooo Livingston!
No comments:
Post a Comment