One Day in Flores

Yesterday was just one of those days where nothing spectacular happened, but was a good reason for travel.

Flores is a town on an island in a lake in northern Guatemala. A causeway connects it to the more commercial town of Santa Elena on the shoreline, leaving Flores to develop as a tourist-focussed destination.t It's not really the town that's the destination - it's the nearby ruins of ancient Mayan cities (Tikal being the most famous, but there are at least five others within a few hours drive [over terrible roads]) - but as long as you've come this far for the ruins you might as well stay in a pretty place.

We spent Wednesday at Tikal (the day begins early, bribing the guards so that we can be sitting atop Temple IV for the rising of the sun [or, in our case that day, the rising of the mists]) following our guide around temples and plazas and stretches of jungle still covering what has not been unearthed, with spider monkeys and howler monkeys active overhead. So Thursday, rather than drive hours to head for another ruin, we took it easy.

A small motor boat took us to another village on the shoreline where we looked around, saw some crude homemade boats pulled up on shore, and transacted a few hours rental from the owner. The boat was made from hand carved planks of timber, including the oar which was carved out of one piece of wood. I say this not to suggest to you that we were entrusted with a quaint and precious piece of folk art, but rather to convey that we were encumbered by the heaviest, slowest, most primitive boat/canoe we have ever tried to paddle. But the sun was shining, the winds were light, and we worked our way around the reeds to the trail to a lookout tower. The trail begins by passing a few homes among the coconut palms. On the trail a young child - maybe he was two, maybe not yet - was occupying himself with a giant machete, hacking away at a bunch of wood. OK, I think the machete was dull, and so had been relegated to toy status. But when I think back on the three and four year olds playing with fireworks we have seen, plus the young kids who play in the streets, perhaps being overseen by a seven-year old sibling, I shake my head at North American playgrounds that remove all climbing structures deemed "too dangerous" lest the predatory wolves of litigious lawyers pounce upon unsuspecting municipalities.

On our way back from the lookout tower (I'll not bother to describe the wobbly handrail or the missing step) we stopped outside the family home where coconuts were piled. Elie tells me coconut milk is the new fad food in NYC. Well this was a lot fresher - the coconut came from a tree overhead - and I'm sure the cocoistas in New York are not seven year olds wielding machetes with amazing accuracy. But then, how many New York coconut severs have been in training since age two? The coconut, by the way, was delicious with a full load of sweet liquid and a thin but tasty layer of soft flesh. I bet they don't taste like THAT in The Big Coconut!

After the boat back to Flores, the hot sun and the clear lake called me to swim. It didn't call to Elie, but he's the one who is drawn to biking on a day I'd go the beach. So of the three docks that extend from this island town's lakefront promenade I chose the one that did not have a crowd of energetic teenagers pushing each other and cannonballing into the lake. It was a swim in a lake Ruth would love - which is to say one that was so warm that this Canadian did not really find it refreshing - plus some bake time in the sun on the dock. Think. What was it like where you were on Thursday? Is my gloating succeeding in antagonizing you?

Back to the hostel where Elie and I had fruit smoothies ("liquados") with guacamole & chips over a game of jotto and some quality alone time with the Internet before heading out for a final dinner together at a fancy restaurant. The walk along the quiet promenade brought us to an area by a boat landing, alive with families eating dinner. Understand that we'd been eating a lot of street food over the past two weeks. And without any benighted bowel regrets. But it's only so often you can face another señora frying up gristly beef that probably has spent the day by a dusty roadside at air temperature, now to be plopped down on a tortilla made soggy by the overlay of three-day old tomato salsa. So when we saw fresh beet salad being spread on crisp tostadas or the fried bananas stuffed with refried beans, our hearts and stomachs skipped a beat. You must realize that for the slightly jaded traveller, confronted with the repetitive limits of the local diet, uniqueness frequently trumps quality when making choices. Witness our earlier forays into sliced green mangos, sugared tamarinds, or pan-fried mystery fish chewed whole (yes, head and bones included). Mixed results. But here were chicken preparations and vegetable salads previously unencountered. And this place even had dessert! One woman was selling slabs of homemade banana cake (with rings of blackened bananas baked into the surface) and pineapple upside-down cake! Be still, my heart. Suffice to say, 35 quetzales ($4.50) later the two of us were full and we never made it to the fancy restaurant.

Carrying on with our evening stroll we found ourselves back on the dock where I had earlier swum and sunned. But now, at night with our feet dangling over the dock, we stared at a mysterious large illuminated magen david mounted on a smaller island offshore. This big glowing star gave me ideas, and so Elie and I lay on our backs as I taught him some of the constellations I knew. I'm not really sure how much of my scientific instruction will stick, but after two weeks of receiving valuable instruction in biology from Elie, and sadly knowing how much of that will stick, it just seemed time to repay favors. Besides, it was late December, on a warm short-sleeve evening, and what could be pleasanter than lying on our backs looking at the stars ?
For one, maybe a warm shirt-sleeve evening accompanied by a good bottle of beer. Except that this is Guatemala and there is no good beer. Beer yes, good no. So up the hill we go.

"Up the hill" speaks to a pattern we had seen before - during our stay in San Pedro on Lake Atitlan. A ring of streets at water level bearing hotels and nice restaurants with a view, all geared to the tourists whose natural habitat this is. And up the hill, among the streets in disrepair, the late-night tiendas selling cheap rum and sad vegetables, the old people sitting on doorsteps, the darkened church fronted by the plaza where teenagers gather on rusted benches, the soccer field or basketball court where local teams played for honour and the dream of somehow getting scouted out of poverty - this is the ecosphere of the average Guatemalan and one rarely visited by many of those below, those seeking wifi and the exchange of good travel stories.

We grabbed a couple of beer (or "beers"? What's the proper plural?) and joined the small cheering crowd to watch a basketball game. I think these were the senior teams in the local state league - if that is at all impressive. It was for me. I don't want much basketball, so the accuracy and drive of these fellows impressed me. Or maybe I was just in the mood to be impressed. Elie, who has seen NBA and has different standards than me, was less impressed. But no matter, drinking a beer and watching a game with the locals was a nice slice of ordinariness.

Beer finished, we wandered on. Music drew us to some house or hall where an audience of well-dressed locals with their well-behaved children was listening to a concert by a sort of classical quartet of guitar, two violins, plus percussion. We stood at the door until intermission, when ladies came around offering cookies and drinks to all. I never quite caught the occasion; one fellow I didn't clearly understand told me something about honoring The Baby. So maybe it was a Christmas spillover. But it was another nice slice of the ordinary.

Moving on, a different music caught our ears. Hanging at the door of some community hall we now found ourselves listening in on a much hyped Youth Talent Show. Very earnest singers, the group we hung around for, but if they are also hoping to get scouted out of poverty, they've got a long wait. But for us, Slice Three!

That's it. Just one nice day for two travellers. Our last together. Today Elie flew back to New York, and I'm alone, sitting in the cathedral in Quetzaltenango, head bowed reverently over my iPod.

Avi