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.