Finca Tatin

El Rio Dulce pours in from the Caribbean Sea like honeyed coconut milk. The port town to Belize and Cuba, Livingston is unlike any other city in Guatemala. There are no colorful weavings or embroideries here, but instead rasta dreadlocks and conch shells. The local Garifuna people, originally from the West Indies slave trade, have island hopped to this Mayan heritaged country and claimed the city as their own.

Rhythms of steel drums stereo from corner bodegas; women cast corn shucks on their stoops as they watch boys chase by. A few backpackers hobble down the single road, one stumbling to put a cigarette in his mouth. Smells of salt spray into the air.

Just a 30-minute lancha ride from the Caribbean, Finca Tatin nestles in the jungle’s cool, green canopies. The motorboat pulls up to the lodge’s dock, where two backpackers are laughing in swinging hammocks. Wooden planks lead to the main room with more hammocks, wooden tables, reed-thatched rugs, the hotel manager’s desk, a fooseball table, ping-pong table, and a painted sign that maps stoned paths to animal-named bungalows. Fellow backpackers look up from their cardgame with welcoming nods and a young Guatemalan girl stops sweeping to say hola. Barefoot Alexis, the lancha driver and manager, shows me to Venison in just Hawaiian-print swim trunks.

There’s an honor system at Finca Tatin. A notebook rests on the manager’s desk and guests are asked to mark a tally for every beer, dinner, or kayak that’s taken. You pay at the end of your stay.

Rattled from being always on the go, I sit myself on the hammock at the river’s dock. I dip my hand into the silky water and listen to the sounds of the jungle. In a few moments, my thoughts clear and my breath slows like the tide. Alexis joins me on the adjacent hammock as silent company.

I met others, Erez and Asaf from Israel and a day later Vivanne and Thomas from Switzerland. We would take some kayaks out to explore some nearby caves and waterfalls; we even organized a trip out to sea for fishing. We ate family-style dinner together every night at Finca Tatin’s communal table, and we stayed up late talking, late sipping beer, playing cards, or singing along to the acoustic guitar. When we felt like it, we would take a night swim, floating on our backs under the stars. There was always Simone to play with, the hotel’s wild parrot who was generally perched in the kitchen.

Berti, a German ex-pat, has been living in Livingston for the last 8 years. He’s the town’s mechanic and got stuck at Finca Tatin for 3 days while waiting for a spare part for the generator. Both arms are decorated with tattoos, symbolizing good and evil, and another tattoo reads Harley Davidson from his young autobahn days. Berti is a jolly guy who likes to share stories from his past lives in Fiji and Croatia. He’s always smoking, despite not owning a lighter; he declares cigarettes his only vice.

Berti took the group on a fabulous day of fishing. I was the only one even to get a tug on the line: 4 Groupers! We cooked them Garifuna-style with breadfruit on the side and swigs of Guifiti, local rum infused with bitter herbs. It was a celebratory meal among new, but close friends.

What a magical place. For $18 dollars a day off the beaten path, Finca Tatin is my haven. I have the birds, the stars, a place to swim, friends to be made, adventure to be had, and peace to relish. I was happy here.

Goodbye Finca Tatin! Goodbye Sweet River! Goodbye Guatemala! It all happened to fast, but my adventure feels longer than just 2 weeks. I experienced an inner peace that I will cultivate and carry with me.

Tikal

Tikal, the ancient ruins of the great Mayan Empire. Grand plazas and steep pyramids settle in the peaceful jungle of northern Guatemala. I imagined, long ago, people climbing the same stairs, selling fresh vegetables and celebrating traditional festivals. I most enjoyed the quiet spot, emersed in the jungle near the oldest of the structures: Mundo Perdido, the Lost City.

I saw a black bird between the trees. I thought it was a turkey; but as I got a better look, I noticed his red neck and white spots on his belly. He flew to meet his woman on a branch. I spent over an hour with these two birds, Bob and Barb. I would hear the howler monkeys nearby and the birds overhead. Bob and Barb just sat and observed, just as I. There is so much to hear and see: flies in my ear, the twinkling leaves in the sunlight, the breeze, the cracks of the branches, the ants marching in their phalanx.

Returning the main ruins, I understand why the Mayans built their great city here. In Tikal, the Mayans proclaimed themselves the kings and queens of the land.

Semuc Champey

Meaning sacred water, Semuc Champey is the Indiana Jones-destination of Guatemala. Waterfalls of turquoise cascade from pool to pool along the Cahabon River. Orange butterflies gracefully survey from above, and the sun`s reflection places a golden sheen on everything below.

A part of a van of tourists, our guide invited us to bathe and basque on the wet rocks while he secured the rope. What rope!? We canyoned down a 15 foot water-fall on rope ladder, the water flushing us in the face. Then, we jumped off a 30-foot ledge, my legs cycling in fright as I screamed in exhilaration. We toured some caves as water percolated onto my shoulders. Finally, we climbed vines and roots, sprouted from the side of the canyon, to make our way back up for a riverside lunch.

In the afternoon, we trekked up to El Mirador for a view of the entire area. Meditatively, I observed every breathe: pacing, relaxed, active. Narrow tree trunks aided me in the ascent and gentle ferns brushed my legs with encouragement. At the top, I overlooked the sparkling pools, the gushing falls, the shadows of the caves, the forested mountains, and the glorious sky. Mother Nature held me in her arms and rocked me in her canyon breeze. In this moment of peace, I felt as if I were El Mirador, the seer of truth.

San Juan

Throw the [backpacker´s] bible out the window! I´m growing as a traveler, I don´t need to follow Lonely Planet´s every recommendation. My anticipated itinerary has changed. I´m not heading to Chichi for its acclaimed market nor Queztaltenango for its traditional weaving lessons. Authenticity is right here.

Just a 10 minutes´walk from San Pedro, San Juan is a peaceful town without much tourist presence. There´s only one restaurant in the town, vacant. Weavers peacefully work in the shady courtyards of their homes, and children play in the street. Passing by, I´m invited into homes and I have the opportunity to learn for myself: How do you make the dye for the cloth? How do you get running water in the house? At what age did you marry? What kind of tree is this? Do you learn Mayan or Spanish language in school? What kind of work does your husband do?

Here, people are kind and welcoming. Que paz!

Antiqua and Lake Atitlan

Founded in 1524, Antigua was the Spaniard´s first capital city of Guatemala, before relocating to the present location, due to distastrous earthquakes. Every building is modeled in a typical Spanish fashion: single-floored stucco buildings with tiles roofs, painted yellows and terracottas. All the doors are handcrafted from weathered wood. Flowered vines grow out of the cobblestone streets and cling to the corners of wooden window frames. Churches, both in ruins and in operation, scatter the city. A Disneyland of antiquity, the cityscape seems surreally preserved.


Onboard 3 different "chicken buses," I arrived in Panajachel, a small backpacker-packed city along the shore of Lago de Atitlan. The lake is surrounded by volcanos and steep hillsides of farmland. Various Guatemalan pueblitos are settled along the perimeter, each with their own flair of dress: some with intricately embroidered animals, others in colorful stripes. Some men dress like Mariachis with cowboy duds and sombreros. Their wears line every street, endless markets of local textiles and trinkets.

I met an Israeli named Nimi, and we decided to head over to San Pedro, a smaller town on the other end of the lake. Located between two ports, brick roads carve into the hillside. Old women shuck corn on their cement stoop and motorbikes bravely dare the downhill streets. Girls sell breads from baskets on their heads, and farmers till their modest fields. Sounds of hammers echo in the valley, yet another hostel under construction.

Nimi and I headed away from the streets to the shore lined with piles of volcanic rocks and fisherman boats. Horses swatted flies in a nearby wooden stable. Hungry, we stumbled into Zoola Restaurant, the Shangri-La for backpackers: Free Wi-Fi, hammocks, low tables with bamboo mats and pillows, Israeli food, board games, a library, private gardens perfect for reading, and a narrow path leading to the water.

An older man entered the restaurant playing a simple melody on a bamboo flute. The minstrel wore a Nike baseball cap and jacket my grandfather must have owned. He gently played up to our table and took other reeds from his bag. Drawn in magic marker, Mayan figures adorned the tops. I wondered what the flutes must have looked like in the Golden Age of Mayan culture: finely whittled wood and painted by careful eye. Minstrels´ music would inspire evenings of celebration. How could I resist - I bought the first flute he presented me.

Nimi and are looking into horseback rides tomorrow and guided treks up the volcanoes (yes Mom, they are inactive). Beyond the tourist activities though, I´m just enamored by the Mayan´s thriving culture: the minstrel, the weavers, and the women selling bread are succeeding generations of a long and thriving cultural heritage.

La familia de Alby

On a narrow street lined with white stucco tenants, the taxi stopped in front of a house labeled "8-12." On the first floor, a mechanic clanged away. "Eso es la casa de Hilda Monasterio Galvez?" I asked. A bit confused, he introduced himself as Gustavo, su hijo, and I, soy Julie. His eyes lit in recognition and led me upstairs to the garden and home of Alby´s mother.

With a glowing, aged face and extended arms, Hilda waited at the landing; ¨Mi carino! Mi Julie!" The short and big bosomed woman squeezed me in her arms like long-lost family. She rattled in Spanish much faster than I could translate. We examined each other´s faces with big smiles, and she with bittersweet tears. We embraced again. Awaiting introductions, other members of Alby´s family waited to give me hugs and kisses. Lorena, Alby´s sister; Reme, Alby´s cousin; and their 6 total six young children.

A two-floored garden hangs in the center of an encasing corridor, lined with 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and small dining room. We sat in the small dining room, just fit for a large cupboard and a yellow-clothed table for six, pushed to the wall to allow for more space. La mesa was set with floral placemats and a tray of mismatching glassware, many with the sales-tags still on the bottoms. We poured limonada fresca for the occassion. Hilda passed me a plaid photo album, preset on the table. Los niños reached for the plastic pages, but Hilda shooed them away, giving me peace for my memories. For some photos, I didn´t even recognize her; at her holy communion, her hair was short and her face thin. But then, there was her unmistakable smile, ebullient and joyous. She was not classically beautiful by American standards, but she became radiant when she smiled.

We sat in the dining room table and talked. They told stories of Alby: the family trip to the Dominican Republic, her job at a travel agency, her friends, and how she cared for her nieces and nephews. They said Alby spoke of me like her own daughter. Hilda replayed phone conversations, reproducing Alby´s voice perfectly, "Aye Joolie!" A screw turned quickly in my chest and my eyes swelled. I relayed how Alby would do my nails and welcome me with hugs when I returned home from school. We watched Telemundo together and she would translate my daily horoscope from the Cristina Show. I would watch her cook dinner, and sometimes she would let me help. We loved baking together, especially Guatemalan rice pudding with raisins. Alby called me her little cochina (pig) and we all burst out laughing. Hilda handed me a napkin for my tear.

I continued to page through the album and was surprised when I recognized photos of my own home: the immaculately clean family room, polished dining room with chandelier. Inviting and regal, it showed a place of luxury and utter comfort. I myself wanted to visit! The photos depicted a golden age of the Fefferman household, now neglected and cluttered. The house is no longer cared for by a person who loves it, but by 2 parents who simply return to it at the end of the day and sleep.

I toured around Hilda´s house and up to the roof that overlooked the city: the neighborhood, downtown´s towering office buildings, the airport, the mountains. Los niños followed, playing with junk and jungle-gyming on the large water heater. Back on the main floor, I walked through Alby´s room. Her bureau still displayed her personal photos, a figurine of Mary, and a jewelry box, disappointedly, I didn´t recognize any of them.

In the kitchen, almuerzo was ready. The main meal of the day in Guatemala, I sat in front of a plate of rice, beef, limonada, and black bean soup with a dollop of fresh cream. I was also offered fresh tortillas, homemade pickled chiles, and carrots. Everything was delicious, and I ate until full. Soon, Gustav headed back to work, and the others headed home. We took pictures, exchanged emails, and gave farewell kisses. Proximo vez in Nuevo York!

I helped Hilda around the house. She´s 76 years old, living alone for 25 years since the passing of her husband. I helped her remove the old sheets from Reme´s stay, and she started to cry: "Soy triste! Soy triste! Soy solita!" Her family gave her so much joy and now everyone returned to their busy lives, while she paced through her chored to save her energy.

She said that Reme and her 3 children would be moving in with her in October. Reme has been separated from her husband for 2 years now, after catching him in an extramarital affair. In Guatemala, divorce was only legalized one year ago and legislation for alimony is still not in place. As an English teacher, Reme is on her own. She settled near her husband´s family initially, but now she needs the support of family, and Hilda needs the company.

Tired from the laundry and dishes, Hilda and I watched TV together and I took a nap on Alby´s bed. My brain needed to shut down from all the Spanish! When I awoke, Gustav´s oldest daughter of 20 years old, Diana arrived. We drank coffee together and she offered to take me out: shopping, movies, bowling, billards? I said goodbye to Hilda, promising to return at the end of my trip and to celebrate both of our August birthdays. My Guatemalan grandmother gave me more hugs, and Diana and I headed out to play pool with her friends.

Another adventure. Each trip gets easier as I become more comfortable with my solitude. I relish living out my own desires, no matter how small: sleep, food, company, activity, place. I choose my path, however scary, magical, disappointing, or enlightening. More to come...