Palenque, or One Dose of Cipro Does Not Make One Laura Croft:Tomb Raider

It is a relief that William is feeling better.  And he really has been a trouper through all of this.  My short fuse and penchant for the dramatic would have already sent me far over the proverbial edge had I been in his shoes.  I would have demanded an emergency airlift evacuation and full CNN coverage. 

"I can't believe this!  You've made a 180 degree turn-around."

"More like 162 degrees, " William retorts.  Whatever.  We'll take it.

We move out of the Ritz Carlton to what had been our original destination, the neo-hippie jungle camps of El Panchan, a few kilometers outside of town on the road to the famed ruins.  Here we pay 120 pesos for a hut at El Jaguar, a sort of eco-lodge of rustic cabañas set amongst some truly beautiful jungle scenery.  Our hut actually has no walls, just mosquito netting and a domed palm-thatched roof.  A wobbly ceiling fan and a bare light bulb hang over the beds nd the view is pretty priceless.  There is a murky green stream snaking in front of us (despite the cliche´, it is literally a babbling brook) and thick jungle foliage all round, hanging vines, broad palm fronds, brilliant red and yellow blooms, accmpanied by the squeaks and squawks of birds and insects and the chirps of unknown jungle creatures.  And there are monkeys.  Specifically, black howler monkeys.  Their deep, raspy, throaty calls are unlike anything you've ever heard.  Unless you've heard, um, howler monkeys before.  They sound other-wordly.  Not like animals.  They are damn loud.  And angry.  Scary angry.  Like a jet engine.  Or Bea Arthur.

In the late afternoon there isa heavy mist that hangs low in the trees and we get a bit of hot rain.  It is supremely relaxing and I cannot help but feel very far away from the rest of the world.  In a sort of Henry David Thoreau way.

Having injested a dose of the miraculous Cipro, William feels well enough to conquer the ruins, and since I'm no Florence Nightingale, I say why not?  So we rise early the next morning, have a small breakfast of papaya, granola, yogurt, and bread, and begin our jungle trek.  Now, unlike most people, we opt to walk the two plus miles to the ruins directly through the hot and humid jungle.  Forgettin that William was flatlining a mere 24 hours ago, we push on as dozens of shuttle buses and taxis pass us on the road, offering us rides that we flatly refuse.  OK, looking back, it is probably I tat flatly refuse.  William wants a ride and is too noble to insist.  Apparently, I'm Indiana Jones.  20 pesos for a bus?!  Why waste money when we can walk ourselves?

The walk is, of course, tuher andlonger than Ihad anticipated and by the time we reach the entrance to the ruins, William is beat.  I feel awful and he feels worse.  We sit/collapse on the ground and try to regroup.  William suggests that he return to our hut and sleep, which is probably the smartest thing to do, but it would be a shame to miss the ruins, seeing as how we have come to the middle of the jungle and all. 

Rest.  Agua.  Pep Talk.

He decides he can do it if he takes it easy.  No climbing, frequent pit stops in the shade.  I think it was the right decision, all things considered.  The ruins are truly spectacular.  This is one of those magical places that words and pictures fail to do justice.  William´s spirits seem to soar almost right away as we get our first glimpse of the stone temples and pyramids rising from the jungle floor, landscaped by well-manicured emerald green grass and hemmed in on all sides by the mighty, dense, and encroaching jungle.  Groups of tourists, like ants, climb and swarm the ruins.  It is a United Nations of plump and sweaty fanny-pack toting seniors, clamboring over each other to snap one impossibly gorgeous photo after another.  Tour groups trail in obedient single file and a crazy symphony of languages entertwine in a foreign tossed salad of French, German, English, Spanish, Japanese.

At one point we approach the towering Temple of the Cross, rising dozens of meters into the sky. 

In the interest of health, Wlliam offers to sit this one out as I take the camera and climb the hundred or so tiny steep steps.  Almost to the top, I look down to find William, who is waving his hands at me and screaming something I cannot possibly make out from this far away.  He points at me, behind me... I can't figure out what he is doing.  From up here he is tiny.  I turn my back to him for a second and before I know it, he is bounding up the temple steps, running, taking them two, three at a time.

"MONKEYS!!!!!"

He has just sprinted up the side of this huge pyramid in ten seconds. (See above photo for what an achievement this was.)  So much for taking it easy...

"MONKEYS!!!!"

And there they are, a family of monkeys playing in the trees that overhang the top of the temple.  Right there, almost close enough to touch.  The little baby, hanging by his tail, climbing on his mother, swinging from vine to vine.  This is our Gorillas in the Mist moment.

The day at the ruins is an unqualified success. 

Totally awesome.  In the true sense of the word.  Not the 1983 version.

We leave Palenque ad Mexico behind us but not before another ridiculous day of travel.  At 8AM we take a mini bus out of Palenque a few hours away to the town of Tenosique.  Our bus unceremoniously drops us off on the side of the road and we are rushed by a taxi driver who offers to drive us.  I tell him we are taking a bus to the Guatemalan border and need to go to the bus terminal.  He ignores this, throws our packs in his trunk, and drives off.  After a few minutes, we notice we are heading away from town.  I ask him where he is going and he says he is taking us to Guatemala.  What?!  How much does that cost?  "200 pesos."  Oh no, Señor.  We want the bus.  He sulks and pouts but takes us back into town and drops us off at the bus for El Ceibo, the Mexican border town.  We board the hot, airless bus and wait.  Almost immediately I am surprised by a short little man standing over me.  OK, he's a dwarf.  Little Person.  Whatever.  And he has Down Syndrome.  He grins and holds his hand out for money and I think he is selling the bus tickets.  Heis literally on top of me.  I hand him 10 pesos and he leaps acrss the aisle to William who looks at me and does the same.  "Is this for the bus tickets?", I ask.  He grins and runs off the bus.  Everyone else on the bus laughs at us.  We just got swindled.  How was I supposed to know?  I wasn't going to fight with him, for chrissake.  He was a midget!

"Guess we just paid the retarded tax," says William.

Two or three hours on the bus to El Ceibo where we get off, walk across the border and step foot for the first time on Guatemalan soil.

The Guatemalan officials happily accept (demand) a 40 peso bribe to let us into their country.  We pay up.  Another mini-bus takes us the remaining four hours to Santa Elena where we take a quick taxi to the charming and beautiful Isla de la Flores, in the middle of Lago de Peten Itza, in the northern Peten region of Guatemala.

And it is here we will stay and happily rest for a few days...