El Remate and Tikal, November 11, 2006

At dawn’s early light I biked to Biotopo Cerro Cahui again. It had poured the night before and yesterday afternoon, making for slippery footing along the paths. I birded the clearings close to the entrance and just a short way up the path before deciding I might just as well cut a day off my stay at El Remate and head to Tikal. The birding was much better there and, hopefully, it would be quieter at night. It had even seemed a slight bit cooler at Tikal than at El Remate (maybe only low-nineties instead of mid-nineties!).

After returning to the hotel and packing my bags (what little I’d unpacked since there was no dresser), I paid my room and restaurant bill with a credit card and asked when the next shuttle left for Tikal. I was told the last shuttle had departed earlier in the morning. The regular desk clerk had assured me yesterday that the last one departed at 11am, noon at the latest, but she wasn’t around (home with a cold). Regular buses (“chicken buses”) stopped up a steep hill and on the next road across from the hotel, or I could take a taxi for about $20.

I hadn’t ridden the infamous chicken buses yet. I reasoned this would be a short (less than an hour) ride, so it might be a good time to do so. The hotel staff looked a little disbelieving when I told them my decision, and they watched skeptically as I made my way up the steep hill across the road—one pack/chair on my back and pulling the other.

An old woman was waiting at the bus stop with a young boy. She waved at a couple of buses going in the opposite direction from Tikal, but they didn’t stop. I wondered how good my chances were of getting a bus to stop if they wouldn’t stop for a native. We talked a little, but her Spanish was hard to understand. However, when an old school bus (chicken bus) approached, heading toward Tikal, she waved it down for me. It slowed, almost reluctantly, and stopped some way past the bus stop. I hesitated, thinking it might not be a public bus, but the old woman was frantically gesturing to me to get on. She even grabbed one of my bags and started carrying it toward the bus.

On board, I faced a sea of faces, all looking at me. I only had a moment to look, as bodies shoved together to make room for me and my luggage on the front seat. I asked the man who had made way for me to sit how much I owed, and he asked for ten quetzals (little more than a dollar). After I had settled in a bit, the man explained that this was a bus full of sixth grade school children on their way to Tikal for a day trip. I turned around to look and realized that half the passengers were children. “But what of the adults?” I asked, since there were many of them on the bus, as well as some smaller children and babies. “All parents and siblings,” I was told. There were also two other tourists on board who had been picked up along the way.

The man who had been talking to me was obviously in charge, a slight young man with the happiest face I’d ever seen. He never stopped smiling, and joy seemed to radiate from within. He told me he was the teacher, that the school was located in a small village near Quetzaltenango, and that they had been traveling since early morning. Many of the women and children slept. I’d seen Quetzaltenango on the Guatemala map and wondered how they could make such a long journey (both ways) and still have time to explore Tikal. In addition, they had picked up three tourists, taking more precious time. This would be the first trip to Tikal for everyone but the teacher, who had been there once before. I was grateful for their consideration. I heard not a sound from any of the children all the way to Tikal.

At the gate, the bus was stopped by a Tikal official, who got on board and explained to the children the rules of the park. Then the smiling teacher repeated the rules in their native tongue (which wasn’t Spanish). We tourists were told we would have to pay our fees to the official, rather than at the guard’s station at the parking lot (fifteen more miles ahead). I asked why the procedure was different than the day before, and the other two tourists weren’t even sure they would be staying if they couldn’t find suitable lodging. All three of us were asked to get off the bus, and it was explained that just entering the park from this point required payment of the fee. If we cared to wait another hour, until 3pm, our fee would entitle us to tomorrow’s entrance as well. The other two decided to wait. I told the guard I would rather pay right away and continue with the bus. As soon as I offered to pay, I was told I didn’t have to, so I reentered the bus and we drove on. The teacher continued to smile and be as friendly as before, but I felt terrible about having taken up even more of their sightseeing time.

When we arrived at the parking lot, we went our separate ways. I stood in the middle of the stony parking lot with my two bags, not seeing anyone to ask for help. I’d decided to stay at the Jungle Lodge, but I wondered how I would get my bags across the parking lot and up the long, steep path to the hotel. “Slowly,” I told myself. I hoisted one pack onto my back and pulled the wheeled one. In just a short time the handle came off, jostled out of its fitting by the uneven (but beautiful!) stone path. I had to lean down so that I could hold the handle together at the fitting and proceed with care the rest of the way.

When I finally reached the lobby, a different desk clerk was there. Thankfully, he was friendly and efficient and spoke English. I told him I would like a room with shared bath (I had a flashlight and was feeling daring) and would like to see it first. He took me around to the back of a building with a row of rooms overlooking some huge plants with red flowers and the jungle beyond. Beautiful! The room was small, with a double bed, a nightstand with lamp, and an open-slatted stand with shelves and a clothes rod with one bent hanger. The floors were the same hard surface (stone?) as the former rooms had been. There was a window looking out over the jungle, and the panes opened. It suited me fine. The shared bathroom was within 100 feet, and was sparkling clean, with hot water showers. Towels, soap, and shampoo were provided, but no washcloth. I’ve always used a washcloth and, thankfully, brought one with me, since none of the hotels provided them. I’d asked for one in El Remate and had been given a guest towel.

I hadn’t eaten lunch and it was about 3pm, so I checked out the daily specials at the comedores, hoping for a quick meal. Two were not serving the lunch specials (too late), and by the time I got to the third, I just ordered from the menu. I had asparagus soup, a fruit plate (yup, already peeled fruit!), and a piece of white bread (where was all the crusty, homemade bread I’d read about?) and butter (yup, more unpasteurized dairy products). Everything was delicious and cost about $6 (the daily specials were cheaper).

I felt it was too late in the day to venture far into the jungle, so I birded around the comedores and hotel grounds and was not disappointed. I was very, very hot and sticky, so I then decided to take a dip in the pool at the Jungle Lodge. It was a beautiful little pool, with mini-fountains and lounge chairs on the deck surrounding it. The water felt wonderfully cool. Only one other person was at the pool, a tourist from California. He had been traveling on business (some kind of stock trading company) and was now on a week’s vacation. Since I was once a stockbroker with Merrill Lynch, we discussed our similar professions. It soon became apparent that I needed to return to my room for my binoculars. The trees were filling with parrots, toucans, and monkeys.

Soon after I returned with the binoculars, another tourist joined us, a woman from Boston. I taught both of my companions how to spot wildlife through binoculars and they were awed. As dusk crept over us, we talked of more serious things. The woman turned to the man and said, “You’re Jewish, aren’t you? I can always tell.” He was Jewish, as was she. That was the beginning of a long conversation on religion. The Jewish man said he wasn’t sure there was a God at all. The Jewish woman said she was not an Orthodox Jew. She didn’t seem to know much of what the Old Testament said. She felt culture was more important. I told them that I believed that Jesus was God’s Son because God said so in His Word (the Bible), that mankind had never managed to live up to God’s holy standard and had to be redeemed from their sinful state by the sacrifice of Jesus’ death on the cross and by his resurrection. They both said, “Isn’t that being intolerant of others’ religions?” I explained that Christianity was, indeed, an intolerant religion by very definition—that Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh unto the Father but by me.” And God said, of Jesus, “This is my beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased. Hear him.” It would be impossible to obey God and accept any other religion. As night fell and we parted company to go to our rooms, we all acknowledged that it had been nice to discuss a sensitive topic with no one getting upset.

The electric was scheduled to go off every night at 9pm, throughout Tikal, so I showered and got ready for bed. When the lights went out, it was completely black. I’d been told gas lanterns would be delivered to our front doors at 11pm. I was glad I had brought both a small flashlight, a booklight, and a headlamp!