Coban to Biotopo del Quetzal, November 16, 2006

I awoke at dawn, as usual. I’d slept all night with earplugs, a first for me. I was glad to know that I could. I made all of my morning preparations and went looking for some breakfast within the hotel. My room opened onto a courtyard. There were two ways in and out of the hotel, both through huge, metal garage-type doors. One opened onto one street, and the other opened onto a parallel street (the next city block). To get in or out, one had to summon a doorman (guard?) who had the key to the locked door.

When I spotted one of the maids, she told me breakfast wasn’t served until much later. She asked if I would be staying another night. I had never stayed in a noisier place, I said. She said I could have a better room if I stayed—that a group was checking out that day. Had they occupied all the rooms? I asked. No, she said, but I had wanted a room with private bath. Mine had been the only such room available. Ah, well. I was determined to see and enjoy the sights of Coban for half a day. Checkout time was 1pm. Then I would catch a bus to the Biotopo.

The doorman unlocked the garage door and I entered the still-dusky streets of Coban. It was cool enough that I needed a jacket. I was so glad I hadn’t given it away, as I’d considered doing. No need for insect repellant. That was a welcome change. I headed toward the center of town, about two blocks away. Nothing there was open. A huge white cathedral stood in the town center. I walked another block or so to the open market area. On my way I passed a shop with open doors. I peeked inside the tiny room and saw cages filled with baby animals and birds. There were bunnies, pigeons, chicks, turkeys, and some others I didn’t recognize. When I reached the open market area, vendors were just arriving with their wares. Men carried huge bundles on their backs, secured by a strap that went around their forehead. Women carried huge tubs of goods, balanced atop their heads. Usually, a plastic chair was attached to the side of the tub. No wonder these people were short!

I watched as they placed their handmade, woven blankets on the ground. Then they spread out their produce on top. There were lots of tomatoes, peppers, corn, bags of rice, and the largest carrots I’d ever seen. There were also lots of vegetables that were foreign to me. Here and there a woman had a huge, steaming black pot. Men were standing around it holding paper cups full of what appeared to be hot soup. I thought maybe the vendors had brought along their own breakfast, so I didn’t ask to buy any for myself. I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.

By now I hoped a café or bakery had opened in the town center, so I walked back there. On the way, I looked into the sky and saw a beautiful rainbow (it had been drizzling). That was a good sign! I walked into the white cathedral and looked around. There were quite a few statues of Christ, one lying in what looked like a transparent coffin. A few people were lighting candles and offering prayers. I sat for a moment and offered one, too. I took a few photos, but there wasn’t sufficient light.

When I left, several young men were standing at the top of the stairs, under the overhang of the cathedral, each eating something delicious-looking. I asked where they had bought the food, and they said, “Quieres?” (“Do you want?”). I assured them I did, and they waved down a young man on a bicycle. He had a cooler strapped to the back and several buckets of condiments, napkins, etc. strapped to the front. Another insulated container at the front held some steaming beverage (hot chocolate?). I had whatever they were having. Everything was delicious—and cheap! What an entrepreneur!

Happily filled, I set off in search of Finca Santa Margarita, a coffee plantation near the center of town that gave tours. It had been recommended by my guidebook. It would be nice to see plants and trees. The few I’d seen in Coban were behind walls of stone. I passed the place several times, because the only sign in evidence said only “Dieseldorff,” not “Finca Santa Margarita.” I finally asked a girl passing by, and she explained that the owners were named “Dieseldorff,” and that she worked there. She was the one who collected the 20-quetzal fees for the tours, and she called for an English-speaking guide to accompany me through the finca.

The guide was a short, older woman of Mayan-Kekchi descent. She spoke English well. She asked that I wear a poncho, since it looked like it would start raining any minute. As soon as we left the building from the rear and entered the grounds, I felt like I was in a tropical paradise. The grounds were lush, beautiful, and meticulously maintained. There were other fruit-bearing plants and trees in addition to the coffee. The guide gave me a wonderful tour, explaining the coffee operation in detail and allowing me as long as I wanted to observe each area. When we had completed the tour, she offered me a cup of the premium (gold) brewed beans. We spent longer talking than the tour had taken.

We shared some of our personal backgrounds, discovering that we were both Christians. We discussed the drinking of coffee—that it was really a drug, albeit a mild one. She had attended both the white cathedral I had seen and El Calvario, a hilltop cathedral I’d hoped to visit (and to go birding in the surrounding park). She warned me against the area, saying that tourists had been waylaid there. We talked of the differences and similarities of our religions—hers Catholic, mine Protestant. Our faith, though, was the same—resting in Jesus Christ and His shed blood for our sins. I asked her about the “pagan” rites of her church, mentioned in my guidebook (keeping in mind that I had needed to obliterate objectionable portions of the guidebook before I would carry it with me). The rite in question was the carrying of the statue of Jesus throughout the streets, believing that a miracle would result. She told me that some years earlier there had been no rain for a very long time. Crops were failing and people were hungry. Someone had suggested carrying the statue through the streets and praying for rain. When they did so, the rain had started immediately. Ever since, it had become a tradition. The woman knew that God could answer prayers without the statue being carried about, but she said it made the people feel good to do so. She saw no harm. The word “pagan” means “Godless.” This woman was obviously not without God.

When we ended our conversation it was pouring outside. The guide allowed me to wear the company’s poncho back to my room, where I put on my own poncho (first time I’d worn it) and got my umbrella. I returned the poncho and gave the guide fifty quetzals. Then I went to the Internet Café and emailed my family, letting them know that my spirits had lifted.

I’d not given much attention to the special foods of Guatemala up to this point, but now I decided to find a restaurant that served “Coban’s specialty: kak’ik, a terrific turkey soup,” according to my guidebook. I was the only customer in the restaurant since it was still early for lunch. My waiter, very friendly and efficient, pointed out a small bell hanging from a cord over the table. I was to ring it if I needed him. That was a nice touch. I browsed through some postcards, choosing a couple, while I waited for the soup. I’d also ordered what I supposed was the equivalent of our American cappuccino. It was hot chocolate with milk and flavoring, and quite bitter, so I just drank water from the bottle I was carrying.

The turkey soup was not what I expected. A huge bowl held some broth in which had been placed a large, whole turkey wing. I guessed I wasn’t expected to eat the wing, as I couldn’t figure out how, short of picking it up with my fingers out of the soup. I wasn’t very hungry, anyway, so I concentrated on the soup. It was awful. Or maybe I should say I didn’t care for the taste. I still didn’t care for tortillas, either, so there was nothing left to eat (or drink). I summoned the waiter with the little bell (I liked the bell!) and explained that I really didn’t care for the soup but that I had wanted to try it at least once. I also told him that I wasn’t really that hungry and asked for the bill. The cook soon came out of the kitchen, obviously displeased. The waiter explained that I wasn’t really hungry. I understood his Spanish and more fully explained the situation to her. I was happy to pay for the food and hoped she could give it to someone who needed a meal (there were beggars in the streets). That seemed to satisfy her.

Next I needed to get some more quetzals. Few places wanted to accept traveler’s checks or credit cards. I’d passed a bank a few blocks away. The armed guard opened the door and directed me to one of two long lines. After finally getting to the front of the line, I was asked for my passport. I didn’t think I needed it to cash traveler’s checks. Wrong! They wouldn’t accept the photocopy I was carrying (as guidebooks suggested). Back to the hotel I went, the teller saying I could come to the front of the line when I returned. After I got my passport, I went to a bank closer to the hotel. When I got to the front of the line and handed them my passport and checks, they said they couldn’t cash them. The passport had my middle initial and the checks did not. They said other banks would cash them, but they could not. I returned to the first bank, waited in line (the guard wouldn’t let me go to the front) and finally cashed some checks (less than I wanted, because the bank had a limit).

Quite ready to leave Coban, I checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the Monja Blanca bus station for ten quetzals (about a dollar). That was the going rate to go anywhere around town, I’d learned, despite the first driver asking for fifty. The ticket man behind the counter told me to go take a seat at the front of the bus and I would pay the fare after the bus was on its way. This bus was pretty nice. I stowed my luggage on the overhead rack and settled down. Before long a young woman with a baby sat down across from me. As we talked, she told me I should have a ticket in hand (as did she), and she agreed to watch my things while I went back inside to buy one. When I approached the ticket man again, another man standing in line had agreed to help me with the purchase (he spoke both Spanish and English). The ticket man seemed agitated for some reason, but he sold me a ticket for five quetzals, bearing a seat number.

Returning to the bus, I walked down the aisle looking for my seat. It was a window seat halfway back in the bus. I sat down and took off the mini-backpack I was wearing, which had a few snacks and some water in it. Then I realized I should move my luggage closer to me. After I’d managed to get it down, I returned to my seat only to find it occupied by a young man. I explained he was in my seat (“Es mi asiento”), but he insisted my seat was the aisle seat. Two other men across the aisle, who seemed to be with him, joined in to assure me that I was mistaken. Their seats were 17 and 18. My seat was 20, obviously the window seat across the aisle. There was no convincing them, though, so I went to fetch the bus driver. He returned with me and told the young man that he was sitting in my seat. The young man scooted over in a rather strange way. Then I realized he was sitting on my mini-backpack. Instinctively, I reached over and shoved him off it. He didn’t protest. I retrieved my property and took my seat, quite angry. “Tu no eres muy simpatico,” I emphatically told him. I was too upset to think of Spanish words that would express my feelings better than telling him he wasn’t very nice. He didn’t respond. Soon he began calling people on his cell phone. After the bus had started off and we had been on the road about ten minutes, the young man turned to me and asked me pleasantly where I was from. I sputtered out that I had no intention of talking to him.

As my anger subsided, I began to reconsider the situation. This young man was obviously a thief and a liar. But should I refuse to talk to him? What if he wanted to apologize? Could I refuse to forgive him? Finally, I turned to him and explained that he at least owed me an apology. He gave me an expressionless look but kept silent. Maybe I hadn’t said what I thought I had. Maybe I told him not to talk to me because he had not said he was sorry. Should I keep trying? I talked to God about the situation. “Save some with compassion; others save with fear…” Those words from the Bible ran through my head. I let the matter drop.

I’d asked the bus driver (twice), the young woman with the baby, and a woman sitting in front of me to alert me when we approached the Biotopo. The guidebooks said it was easy to miss. I’m pretty sure the bus driver would have driven by if the two women had not called out. He let me out somewhat beyond a bus stop with benches and a thatched roof. I’d called earlier that morning to reserve a room at the Hospedaje Ranchito del Quetzal for 100 quetzals. I’d chosen the hotel because the rare Resplendent Quetzal had often been seen on their grounds. I could see the hotel ahead, but it was too dangerous to wheel my suitcase along the edge of the curvy mountain road. Traffic was heavy (and noisy). I hailed a boy walking across the street and he carried my bag to the hotel. When I gave him twenty quetzals, he beamed. I don’t think he expected a tip.