Isla de Flores

Flores is a small, circular island in the middle of Lago de Peten Itza, surrounded by the dense forests and jungle of the remote Peten region of Guatemala.  It is something of a tourist Mecca with its undeniable Old World charm, rocky cobblestone streets, pastel cubist buildings, and tropical foliage all set against the backdrop of the bluish lake.  Every building it seems is a potential hotel.  Or restaurant.  Or travel agency.  Or hybrid of all three.  I think we might have had dinner on some woman's back porch the other night.  It is an easy and forgiveable error.  Everything is for sale in Guatemala.

Flores is a revolving door of international tourism, everyone coming here to eventually see one of Central America's greatest attractions, the ruins of the ancient Mayan city of Tikal.  But we decide to put off the ruins for a few days.  We are hot, tired, and smelly and Flores is a welcoming little island paradise.  Almost European-feeling with its cafes and restaurants and idyllic scenery.  Our money buys us a real vacation pad at the Hotel La Union - a clean, private room with a private bath, a ceiling fan, and a balcony that boasts sunset views over the lake.  For only $17 a night it is a few dollars more than we should spend, but we are still happily within budget.  It is a vacation from our vacation life.

We dive into the refreshing waters on the lake, soak up some sun, eat, drink some real coffee and local Guatemalan beer (El Gallo) and spiritually recharge.  We also have our clothes washed.  This was a way overdue and most necessary chore.  When boarding the bus in Mexico, William looks at me, pauses and says:  "No offense, but can you find another seat?  You stink."

Our clothes are filthy, wrinkled, mildewy.  William sweat through most of his wardrobe during his jungle fevers.  My t-shirts are like greasy car wash rags.  When the laundry lady (do people still say "laundress?") returns our clothes to us, it is akin to receiving a bag full of freshly picked cotton.  Nothing has ever been fresher or cleaner.  Now we can rest.

Except we can't.  For a tiny little place, Flores is offensively noisy.  Afternoon naps are an impossibility and, we soon discover, sleeping in is a Herculean task.  Flores wakes up at 4:30.  In the morning.

There are few actual cars here, which is logical, as one can easily walk the entire circumfrence of the island in fifteen minutes or less.  But despite this, the streets are overrun with dozens and dozens of little moto-taxis, like Asian tuk-tuks - basically a motorcycle pulling a covered backseat - their engines constantly revving and puttering and sputtering at all hours of the day and night.  They are bright red with lots of Jesus stickers.  "Cristo Salvo," "Jesus es mi conductor," and other hilariously ironic sayings emblazoned across the front windows as they dangerously whip around the bumpy streets, an army of angry bugs, mostly driving no one to no where because, honestly, where is there to go?!  When they aren't threatening to mow you down, they are beeping horns at you to advertise their availability.  Of course they are available.  Everyone who is able is walking the fifteen feet to their destination.  The only people I ever see riding these things are old Guatemalan grannies coming from the neighboring market town of Santa Elena on the mainland. 

The good news is that they mostly stop running around 10 at night, as Flores is not particularly known for its nightlife.  Most tourists turn in early because, as we found out, everyone wakes up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 to catch the sunrise buses to Tikal.  The minibuses with their ancient, creaking diesel engines begin their orbit of the island in the pre-dawn darkness, stopping every few feet to yell, "TIKAL!!"  Even if you have not planned a trip, you cannot help but be awake.  At the urging of some French friends that we met back in San Cristobal, we agree to take the early trip to Tikal, arriving at the jungle park around 6:30 in the morning, early enough to miss the oppressive heat of midday.  We are also treated to an amazing wildlife show.  In the early morning mist and clouds, the jungle is alive with sounds and calls and bird tweets.  Almost immediately we spot a spider monkey swinging high in the jungle canopy, feasting on leaves and fruit. 

(In the interest of full disclosure, we did not take this photo.  These suckers are fast and my Wal-Mart digital camera did not come equipped with a tele-photo zoom lense.  But it's cute anyway, yeah?)

We also saw Toucans, howler monkeys, big crazy jungle turkeys (not their official name), cotamundis...

(thought you might need a visual of that one...)
...and some weird mammal that looked like a giant hamster.  We didn't get a picture of the giant hamsters.  But they were kind of upsetting.  Like a big ol' jungle rat.

Tikal was impressive and vast and, like Palenque, in the middle of the jungle.  I call it the New York City of the ancient Mayan world.

(Yup, there she is....)
But after a few hours roaming and climbing and trekking, we were exhausted and kind of over it.  And only three hours left until our bus was scheduled to travel back to Flores.  We both passed out reclined on top of a stone wall.  Intrepid travellers.

Next stop: San Ignacio, Belize.  A few hours from Flores.  And then we'll have the Carribbean in our sights at last.