Tikal to Sayaxche to Coban, November 15, 2006

Which area of Tikal should I bird this day? I didn’t relish the thought of another long hike in the heat. I had blisters and my legs ached. Should I have left Tikal for Coban with the girl I met last night? Well, it was too late now.

When I got outside the hotel lobby, however, I saw the girl I had talked to about Coban the night before sitting in a minibus. They were to have left Tikal at 5:30am, but she said they were running very late. Well, I said, maybe I should just pack in a hurry and join her. She was very fluent in Spanish and it would be a relief to let someone else do the talking. I hurried to ask the desk clerk if he could get my bill ready. When I got back out front, the girl said the driver wouldn’t wait.

As they drove away, I decided to pack my things and find another minibus. Lots of tourist-bearing vehicles came to Tikal early in the morning. Surely I could find one that was returning to Flores right away. Or maybe I could even find one that was going to Coban. I didn’t take the time to check my guidebook for travel advice. I just hurried to my room and started packing. I left the pile of “things I no longer needed” on the bed, along with the torn backpack. I stuffed everything else into my other suitcase, including the still-wet socks in a plastic bag, attaching the birding chair to it with a bungee cord. Then I hurried to the lobby to settle my account and retrieve my passport.

The desk clerk (the efficient one) told me there was nothing going directly to Coban. I would have to go to Flores first. There was a minibus returning to Flores after dropping off some workers, but it was leaving in fifteen minutes from the guard’s hut. I would have to hurry.

I stood at the guard’s hut for quite a while, waiting for the minibus. It never arrived. Or maybe it had left early. I left my suitcase there, in the care of the guards, and walked back to the hotel lobby. The desk clerk suggested I take a taxi to Flores and then the 600-quetzal shuttle in the afternoon (which I would reserve through the desk clerk). The shuttle would arrive in Coban after dark. That didn’t suit me. I was sure there must be a better way.

The desk clerk offered to talk to the various minibus drivers arriving with tourists to see if any were returning to Flores, or if any would drive to Coban. There were no takers. The desk clerk returned to the hotel and I was left at the guard’s hut with my luggage, no room, and no ride. After standing around for a while, talking to the guards and asking for suggestions, one of the guards went to talk to a driver about my situation. The man said he would drive me to Flores. His price seemed high, but what other choice was there?

The taxi driver said he had been driving tourists around the area for twenty years. He said he knew all the schedules and prices. I had missed the first class bus to Coban from Flores, he said. Couldn’t he drive me all the way to Coban? “For 245,” he said. That seemed cheap, until I found out he meant dollars. Why, that was much more than my flight from Guatemala City to Flores, I objected. But gas was expensive, he explained, and there were no flights between Tikal and Coban. After thinking about it for a bit, I declined his offer. Then he suggested that he drive me to Sayaxche, between Flores and Coban. He thought we could get there in time for me to catch the early bus to Coban, which would get me into Coban by 1pm (three hours). He would charge me $80. It seemed like the only option.

We sped along and made it to the river, Rio de la Pasion, about 10am. I knew there was a ferry that had to be crossed near Sayaxche, but I assumed that it was a vehicle ferry. Wrong! The ferry was a small, canoe-like boat with some tarps thrown over some posts to keep the sun off a part of the boat. No life preservers or vests in sight. I could see to the other side of the river, but I saw no bus station. The taxi driver lifted my luggage from his car and set it on the ground. Wasn’t he going to come with me to the bus station? I asked, anxiety obvious in my voice. After a moment’s hesitation, he agreed, and paid our fare (less than a quetzal). We got aboard and sat on one side, the only passengers. Within fifteen minutes, the boat had filled with passengers and baggage. It was so filled, in fact, that the water rose to within a couple inches of the top. I would never be able to swim to the other side if the boat overturned or was filled with water. Maybe this would be the way I would die. Ah well, I comforted myself, it would be quicker than a painful disease. Several others (all natives, as I was the only tourist) seemed fearful as well, or maybe they were just teasing the tourist.

In a very short time we reached the other side, but I had very little time to appreciate my safe voyage. The taxi driver hurried me over to an old bus near the river. I’d thought it was a junked bus, or one waiting for repairs. He talked to the bus driver in rapid Spanish, arranging the fare that I would pay after the bus was underway. At the end of their conversation the taxi driver said, “No mas,” (“No more”), with a reproving look at the bus driver, suggesting that he thought the negotiated price might be changed later. I was told to sit in the front single seat, behind the driver. I put my suitcase/chair in a space to the left of the driver’s seat. I paid the taxi driver 560 quetzals ($80), which I’d gotten from an ATM in Flores (my new debit card had worked!). Then he left.

Now that I had a moment to catch my breath, I looked at my surroundings. Sayaxche seemed very rundown. There were lots of skinny dogs in the dirt streets, and one swimming across the river. The bus was pretty rundown, too. Across the front was a sign that read, “Dios Bendiga Este Bus.” I think that meant, “God blesses this bus.” I hoped so. The bus didn’t leave for another half hour, and I sat baking inside, sweat running down my body. There had been only two other passengers when I arrived, clear at the back of the bus. When I saw they were obviously tourists, I went back to talk to them. They told me what they had paid to ride to Coban, and it was less than my fare. Ah, well.

The bus driver had a helper. The helper carried the passengers’ large bundles and bags onto the bus. A lot of the stuff ended up on a platform at the front of the bus, right next to me. Most of the men carried machetes, and those were wrapped and placed with the parcels. It was fascinating to see all of the different types of things that people carried onto the bus, some of the cargo probably bound for the market in Coban. When the bus pulled away, the helper leaned out of the open door, soliciting passengers and calling out warnings to the driver when he came too close to vehicles or pedestrians along the very crowded streets of Sayaxche. I was so glad I hadn’t rented a car.

When the engine of the bus had roared to life it was unbelievably loud. The driver solved that problem by playing his music of choice at a volume that exceeded the roar. I solved both problems by inserting earplugs. Wonderful earplugs. I had brought several pairs after testing different kinds at home before my trip. The bus raced through the streets of Sayaxche at about 10mph. I was anxious to get out on the open road, hoping for a breeze through the open window. Even after that happened, however, the bus would pull over frequently to pick up anyone who waved them down from the side of the road. The door was never closed, and the helper stood leaning out of the open door the whole trip. He was a handsome young man (teenager?) of boundless energy and smiling demeanor. As soon as the bus would slow for a new passenger, the helper would jump off, grab the cargo, and stow it on the bus. Later he would collect the fares.

The view was spectacular. Tall mountains. Lush green valleys. The higher we climbed into the mountains, the slower went the bus. I’m pretty sure that at least a quarter of the way it only managed 5-10mph. Several times on a steep incline I actually thought the bus would stop altogether and begin rolling back down the hill. A couple of weeks before my trip I had read of a bus with forty passengers that had plunged off a mountain road, killing everyone aboard.

The bus stopped at a tiny village along the way and the driver hopped off. About ten minutes later he returned, carrying some food and pop. How I wished I’d known I could have done the same. I was very hungry. I’d had a few cookies at breakfast and nothing since. It was well past noon. An hour or more later, the driver stopped at another tiny village and hopped off. This time I followed and explained to him that I would like to get something to eat. He led me to a grubby row of food stands. There were several large, steaming, black pots. I pointed to one and they filled a small paper plate with what looked like pork hocks and small kidney beans. They put a few tortillas inside a paper and handed everything to me. I requested an eating utensil (with motions, since I’d forgotten the Spanish word for “fork”), and a lengthy search for one ensued. Then I got a bottle of orange soda from an icy wheelbarrow and re-boarded the bus.

I soon understood why no one else used a plastic fork. It was of no use. I gingerly picked up one of the bones and tried to gnaw off some meat. There was no meat. Just fat and gristle. I ate the few mouthfuls of beans and handed my plate to the helper to do with as he chose. At least I had an ice-cold drink. When I unscrewed the lid, I found out just how icy. Bits of orange ice exploded out of the bottle, all over my pants. I held the bottle in such a way that the rest of the explosion went onto the floor in front—where my suitcase was sitting. I lifted it off the floor with my left foot so that it wouldn’t rest in the growing orange puddle. I managed only one or two sips from the bottle, the rest of its contents frozen solid. I passed it to the helper. He handed me a rag to wipe my hands.

The bus ride seemed never ending. I was sure it had been more than three hours, but I didn’t have a watch and couldn’t get to my clock. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. The driver was obviously bored, as well. A woman had boarded the bus several miles from Sayaxche and had asked if she and her children could sit in the front seat next to him. I wished I’d asked to sit there, with an unblocked view. The two were talking non-stop. When a vehicle approached, coming toward us, the driver would pull slightly to the left, over the white line (this was a narrow, two-lane road). The other driver always gave way and pulled onto the berm. Then our driver would look at the woman as if to say, “Now what do you think of me?” The woman seemed impressed. I’d thought these buses were called “chicken buses” only because passengers carried chickens on board at times. Now I realized that there was another reason for the name.

Another long time had passed. The bus slowed to a stop. The helper hopped out with a large can. Down the hill he scrambled, to a creek, where he filled the can. He poured the contents into a hole in the floor of the bus and returned for a second can of water. Then we were on our way again.

After five uncomfortable hours, we finally arrived in Coban. The bus driver called over a taxi driver for me and told me not to pay him more than ten quetzals for a ride to the town center. I asked the driver to take me to Casa D’Acuna, a hotel recommended in my guidebook. They were full. They recommended another hotel a couple of blocks away. It was also full, as was a third. The fourth stop, at Pension Monja Blanca, was a success. They had a room with a private bath for about $35. The taxi driver wanted fifty quetzals for the several extra blocks. I knew he was ripping me off, but I was beyond caring.

The room was dark and small, but I was glad to be there. There was even a television, but the remote didn’t work. After talking to several people, a refined-looking older woman came to my room and loaned me her remote. I guessed she was the owner. I lay on the bed for a while and watched a tennis match. I had to turn the volume up pretty loud, because the head of my bed was against a wall that was only a few yards from the busy, one-way street into town. Most of the vehicles that passed were trucks. Huge trucks. Few, if any, of them had mufflers. Soon, a car equipped with a loudspeaker parked across the street. The driver turned the volume to “blare” and began advertising his wares. I left the room, after being assured that the traffic would die down by 8pm.

I walked back to the Casa D’Acuna, since their restaurant was also highly recommended. I had a very large chef’s salad and a cola. It was so-so, and overpriced. Worse, the music in the restaurant was much too loud to enjoy. I ate quickly and left in search of an Internet Café. The street I had to ascend to the main square was almost vertical. I was out of breath after the climb. But I did find the Internet Café and emailed my family. I poured out my woes to them, asked them to pray for me, and ended with the statement, “I may never travel again.”

Back in my room, I prepared for bed. The traffic was still rumbling by outside my window at 8pm…and at 9pm…and at 10pm. I inserted my earplugs, knowing I would have to wear them the whole night. That helped with the noise, but the vibrations shook the bed.