Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma–which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary. – Steve Jobs
Tuesday, March 13, 2012 (DAY 9)
Ding, dong….ding, dong. It is 5:30am, and our fear of staying directly across the street from a Catholic Church continues to be our arch nemesis. The constant clanging of the bells, every fifteen minutes, causes each of us to yell out noises that lack any meaning from underneath our covers at various times throughout the morning as we fight to ignore the early call for Mass and blatantly refuse to answer.
Lying in our beds we find solace in the fact that we are leaving shortly for Guatemala and away from the church bells. My first overland border crossing of my travels and I can’t help but be a little excited, and nervous for the experience. Due to the absolute annoying and incessant presence of Rudy, much worse than being followed around by the clueless neighborhood kid, previously we had foolishly agreed to his services to take us the 16km (10 miles) across the border and to the Island of Flores at $40 BZD ($20 USD) per person. Later, we realized this is the fare for transportation all the way from Belize City to the small island. Learn and let live I suppose, as there is no sense in getting angry after the mistake has been made. 9:30am and we pile nine people, six large backpacks, and six smaller backpacks into a minivan that should seat seven for the fifteen minute drive to the border. Stopping and parking forty feet from the building that rests before the entrance to Guatemala, one by one we uncomfortably contort our way out of the door and stand staring in to Guatemala.
Ding, dong….ding, dong. It is 5:30am, and our fear of staying directly across the street from a Catholic Church continues to be our arch nemesis. The constant clanging of the bells, every fifteen minutes, causes each of us to yell out noises that lack any meaning from underneath our covers at various times throughout the morning as we fight to ignore the early call for Mass and blatantly refuse to answer.
Lying in our beds we find solace in the fact that we are leaving shortly for Guatemala and away from the church bells. My first overland border crossing of my travels and I can’t help but be a little excited, and nervous for the experience. Due to the absolute annoying and incessant presence of Rudy, much worse than being followed around by the clueless neighborhood kid, previously we had foolishly agreed to his services to take us the 16km (10 miles) across the border and to the Island of Flores at $40 BZD ($20 USD) per person. Later, we realized this is the fare for transportation all the way from Belize City to the small island. Learn and let live I suppose, as there is no sense in getting angry after the mistake has been made. 9:30am and we pile nine people, six large backpacks, and six smaller backpacks into a minivan that should seat seven for the fifteen minute drive to the border. Stopping and parking forty feet from the building that rests before the entrance to Guatemala, one by one we uncomfortably contort our way out of the door and stand staring in to Guatemala.
Each person straps on their respective pack and begins walking toward the customs and immigration building. After paying the non-negotiable departure tax $30 BZD ($15 USD) and PACT (Protected Areas Conservation Tax, $7.50 BZD ($3.75 USD), we relinquish our passports with little ease to Rudy as he speaks with the border agents, but each of us keeps an attentive eye and close reach as none of us feel at ease until our passports are back in our possession.
Fifteen minutes later, we walk out of the narrow building that separates Belize from Guatemala. The dusty dirt road is my first witness of camouflage-dressed military guards holding M-16s tightly to their chest as they stare without any emotion with hardened eyes scanning each one of us as we pass. A more spacious mode of transportation with Guatemalan license plates greet us, a cargo van that allows us to sit without touching or practically sitting on the person on either side, and within minutes we are headed West through the countryside. Sprawling farmland and rolling hills are visible in every direction. I sit taking in the scenery in silence and awe.
After a few hours, we cross the bridge to the Flores. I find myself tilting my head around Kelly, sitting in front of me, to grab my first glimpse of the small island that sits on the Lago de Peten Itza. Tangerine orange, fluorescent greens, magentas, rich blues, these are just a few of the brightly colored buildings that are surrounded by narrow cobblestone streets, and, in just an instant I am taken back to Italy. After just a few short turns, we park in front of the Mesa De Los Mayas Hotel and Restaurant. The charming three-story building has the hotel entrance off the narrow alley around the corner and overhead each of the balconies have an arrangement of hanging plants that add more color to an already crayon box like assortment.
Since our group of six has developed a bond in what can only be described as the backpackers community–existing outside of traditional tourists, but rather as travelers that embrace a unique lifestyle–I find myself sharing a hotel room with Char, Tim, and Kelly. Later we joke that it is a division between North American and Europe since Eva and David share a room at the end of the hall. Wi-fi has been exactly what I had heard and expected, dial-up type speeds in areas with the tendency to drop out faster than the chubby kid in a game of dodgeball. I find myself sitting in the lobby of the hotel straining for a connection, which according to the standards in the States is more the size of a small kitchen. As I wait painfully for my email to load, I find myself talking with the only English-speaking employee, Luis, a very friendly kid from Belize that is eager to discuss with travelers where they have been and where they are going next–the source and limitation of his travels. As our friendship grows over an introductory discussion he is kind enough to show us around from a local’s perspective and even assist us with booking our transportation to Tikal.
Since our group of six has developed a bond in what can only be described as the backpackers community–existing outside of traditional tourists, but rather as travelers that embrace a unique lifestyle–I find myself sharing a hotel room with Char, Tim, and Kelly. Later we joke that it is a division between North American and Europe since Eva and David share a room at the end of the hall. Wi-fi has been exactly what I had heard and expected, dial-up type speeds in areas with the tendency to drop out faster than the chubby kid in a game of dodgeball. I find myself sitting in the lobby of the hotel straining for a connection, which according to the standards in the States is more the size of a small kitchen. As I wait painfully for my email to load, I find myself talking with the only English-speaking employee, Luis, a very friendly kid from Belize that is eager to discuss with travelers where they have been and where they are going next–the source and limitation of his travels. As our friendship grows over an introductory discussion he is kind enough to show us around from a local’s perspective and even assist us with booking our transportation to Tikal.
Q60 ($7.50 USD) later and we have our roundtrip bus tickets, departing at 4:30am the next morning. Walking out of the small corner shop I feel compelled to ask Luis if he would like to join us since he mentioned that he has never been to Tikal and how sad it is for someone that meets so many travelers with the only intention of staying in Flores to take day trips to Tikal and to have never experienced it for himself. Upon my invitation to pay for his bus ticket and entry fee, as well as the encouraging words of Char and Tim, his smile says everything. Later we find out that his pay is only Q1000 a month, which equates to about $0.50 an hour and works seven days a week–eight hours a day. In order for him to get the day off to go with us his father has to work both Luis’ day shift from 7am-3pm as well as his normal night shift from 4pm-midnight, so I know they are both very grateful for this opportunity and I know that my $10.63 is the best investment I have made thus far.
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