Flores, Guatemala

I´m writing this in the town of Flores, which is a tiny island on a tropical lake in Guatemala. It´s joined to the mainland by a 500-yard causeway (with a triumphal arch in the middle) and, with its colonial architecture and cobbled streets, it should be one of the pleasantest spots in the world. But on first impressions it ain´t, and I can´t really put my finger on why. Perhaps it´s the furious competition between every hotel, restaurant and private home to offer tours to Tikal (another Mayan city hidden in the jungle). Or maybe it´s the elderly drunks on every street corner, who, it strikes me, haven´t been to the mainland for years.

I had a remarkably uneventful birthday yesterday. I arrived here at four in the afternoon, had a bite to eat and a walk round the island, then decided to have a short nap at about six. I woke up just a few hours ago. I didn´t even have any interesting dreams, so I´ll have to have an official birthday at a later date, like the queen. I didn´t feel much better for my 15-hour sleep, but I soon perked up when my shower gave me an electric shock. Why it should be plugged into the mains when there´s no hot water I´ll never know.

Yesterday started at six in the morning when I was picked up by a minibus to start the journey over the border. Actually, it started much earlier due to my correctional bed and the fan in my room that sounded like a winged Messerschmitt on a slow descent into the English Channel (that´s for Coventry, Fritz). I also spent quite some time with a torch trying to locate a pair of amorous frogs who were rivetting at each other all night. I thought if I could put them in a cardboard box together with a bit of light music and perhaps some wine they might get on with the job and stop their bloody racket.

The bus ride to the Usumacinta River went by quickly a semi-conscious state, but as the sun rose we were passing through some lovely scenery. All around this area are small hills, about the size of Glastonbury Tor. They are shaped exactly like pyramids, so it´s tempting to assume they all have temples hidden under their foliage. They don´t, the road cut through some of them and they were only rock, but they must have been the inspiration for the Mayan architects (unless it really was refugees from Atlantis or aliens).

Also, I got a closer look at the birds that keep the cows company here and they aren´t Indian runner ducks as I had thought, but, I think, some sort of egret.

After passing swiftly through customs on the Mexican side we went down to the river to get onto one of the long, narrow boats, called lanchas. In hindsight, if somebody had suggested that I cruise down one of the world´s most unpredictable rivers, which is full of crocodiles, in a leaking canoe, without a life-jacket and with a bored-looking eight-year-old at the helm navigating our passage through the many rocks and rapids, I may have hesitated.

But it passed without incident, and I didn´t even get to see any crocodiles (so I couldn´t test the advice that if menaced by one of these creatures you should fend them off by delivering a smart blow to their nose with a rolled-up newspaper. I did try a few practice swipes at the water, but found that the paper got soggy very quickly. I suppose you only get one chance).
After about an hour chugging along the river, which was about 400 yards across with thick jungle to the port and starboard (me hearties), we landed on the Guatemalan side and it was instantly apparent that we were in a different country. The photo below shows the passport control at the point of entry, a village called Bethel, which had more pigs than people it seemed to me.
We were then driven to the immigration desk, which was in a village a few miles away. Bizarrely this shared a building with a village football club. As we arrived a match was taking place, so we had to weave our way through the press of supporters and (for some reason) heavily-armed soldiers to the desk in a little concrete room. Suddenly, there was a huge volley of what sounded like machine-gun fire. Two Israeli girls who had pushed their way in front of me (who were probably straight out of national service and don´t queue for anybody) went into the crouch position and there was a fair bit of alarm among the other tourists. I was able to remain unflappably English (and smug) as I recognised the sound as Chinese crackers. When we got outside there were two fat middle-aged blokes with handlebar moustaches dancing about like little boys arguing over who was going to light the next strip.

After a brief stop here, which gave me the chance to try my first Gallo (the most popular Guatemalan beer, which is dark like British bitter but very refreshing on a hot day) we started off on the four-hour journey over unpaved roads to Flores, which is where I began this entry.

Tomorrow, I´m going to try to get to Tikal, and then I´m thinking of catching a bus to Belize city. From there, I´m told, I can get a boat down to Honduras. Alternatively, I might head down to the south of Guatemala and pick up the Pan-American highway and reach Honduras via El Salvador.