I.III.II.I – El Mirador: Day One
EL MIRADOR
I.III.II.I – DAY ONE
02/10/22
Oh. My. God. I couldn’t believe the time had finally come. Months before, when my itinerary was still in the works, I had stumbled upon one of the coolest things to do in Petén.
Amongst the many Mayan ruins in Guatemala, there were a few hidden away in the depths of the subtropical Mesoamerican rainforest – a city called El Mirador, or, the Cradle of the Mayan civilisation. The second I read about it, I knew I had to do it. It had been five years since my trek to the Ciudad Perdida in Colombia and three years from that to Machu Picchu – probably the highlights of all my travels thus far.
And finally, the long-awaited day arrived. At the very inhumane hour of 5AM, the 4×4 carrying William, the driver, and three others, was in front of my homestay. Everyone promptly and giddily introduced themselves – Ethan and Hannah; a couple from Israel, and Natalie; a girl from the Netherlands. I thought I’d get some shut eye along the way there, but, between Ethan’s constant yammering (boy that guy talks), Hannah’s carsickness and the overly bumpy ride, I didn’t even manage to get one Z in. Natalie seemed to be going through the same struggle, though she seemed too quiet and polite to complain.
It didn’t take too long for me to forget all about my woes. Pretty soon, the sun started rising, revealing the until-then hidden beauty of our surroundings. By then, we had reached El Remate; the village bordering the north-eastern tip of lake Petén Itzá, the sky all shades of purple and red reflecting in the lake.
Starting Line
Two hours later, and we were at the starting point of the trek – El Carmelita, a small rural village known for the harvesting of gum from trees. Chickens, pigs and dogs dominate the scene, the locals seemingly enjoying the simplest of lives. Kids playing in the middle of the road, their parents going about their daily chores. Oh, and a couple of girls who surely were younger than ten years old driving a motorbike like it was the most normal thing to do. It had me wondering about their parents. Is it criminal negligence or are we just too spoiled? I feel inclined to say it’s the latter, having grown up in a family that took away my scooter after one day in view of it being too risky. And yes, it was a Christmas present. They took away my Christmas present.
As soon as we got there, the driver guided us to the office; a room painted in green with signatures of previous trekkers scribbled all over. There would be ours in five days’ time! A map was also drawn on the walls, showing the course of the trek; 23 kilometres on the first day, followed by 27 kilometres on the second, a third day dedicated to exploring the ruins and then two more days to retrace our steps back to El Carmelita.
Waiting in the office were Lina and Manu; siblings from Guatemala who grew up in LA, together with Sol; a Mexican who grew up in LA with the other two. They had come in the day before and spent the night in El Carmelita; savouring the relative comfort of rural life before delving into the jungle. Here, they all got an introduction to my blondeness as I inquired where the country “EIVGLAVIO”’s found, having seen it written on the logbook we were made to sign. Turns out, I misread the horribly written “ENGLAND” and that one can’t really peg such a mistake on bad penmanship. Guess trying to self-extricate myself out of the shame spiral that soon ensued did serve as a good ice-breaker.
By the time we had had our breakfast, we seemed to have already clicked, despite everyone being so groggy. All half asleep, Luis; the guide, Miguel; the assistant, and Doris; the cook, found us dozing on the table, surely expecting a better group. “¡Vamos!” Luis asserted without any niceties – a man of few words, with ‘vamos’ being his favourite as we’d come to learn. And with that, we started the adventure.
Of mud and mosquitoes...
Right from the very start, I felt relieved. Luis immediately let us know that the trek wouldn’t have many uphills; or, as I like to call them, my natural enemy. It was a pleasant, fast-paced hike along a multitude of trees, with our guide taking his time to explain each and every one of them.
The sapodilla trees were easily identified by the slash marks on their cortices; with chicleros using sap released from each stab to make chewing gum. Then there was the chechen tree; whose sap causes severe allergic reactions including rashes and itching, much like poison ivy which can be found right next to it. Also in close proximity to this tree, grows the gumbo-limbo tree, or, as the locals call it, the ’tourist tree’ – one who’s bark is red and flaky, much like a visiting tourist’s under the scorching Guatemalan sun. The sap of this one can be used as an antidote to the chechen tree. Conveniently. Both of them usually grow together in the same place. Oh and let’s not forget the Ramon breadnut tree which can grow as tall as fifty metres!
It only took a few minutes of walking for us to forget all about the trees. Pretty soon, the flat, unproblematic ground gave way to large pools of water and long stretches of mud which we’d have to cross. Now you see, normally I wouldn’t have a problem with this. But this time I did. I’d be on the road for another six months. Blister; my trusty hiking boots, would be in it with me for the long haul. We’d be in this together. But I’d have to throw it under the bus for this next part, or, rather, under the mud. I had no idea how I’d be able to save it after putting it through such a predicament. No laundry service, no matter how expensive or grandiose, could ever restore it back to its original splendour. Walking barefoot was not an option – the road was far too long and full of terrors, with many a sharp stone and murderous critters along the way.
The others carried on, embarking on this new journey, seemingly oblivious of their shoes’ demise. All resigned but still laundry-oriented, I proceeded to make my first step into the mud. A calculated one – using the footsteps of those who dared to brave the mud before me as a guide. One wrong step and my shoes would be as good as thrashed. I chose my path carefully. I sighed, closed my eyes, gulped, and put my foot forward – which steadily sunk into the grey paste. And just like that, I knew I was screwed. I’d be spending the next five days walking in soggy, mud-caked boots. Then I’d go back to Flores with a useless chunk of earth. Blister; my companion, my kindred, my partner in crime, gone too soon. We had been through so much together! From the first trek I had ever done in Ciudad Perdida in Colombia, to Machu Picchu in Peru and every other trek and hike in between.
I’m not one to exaggerate. Okay, I am definitely one to exaggerate, but every single step felt like someone was driving a dagger deeper into my heart. Much like an adulterous bastard who grows indifferent the more they cheat on their spouse, I felt less and less remorse with each and every step. With time, I grew accustomed to the idea that I’d be saying goodbye to Blister and that I might as well enjoy the hike; which, by now, felt more like an obstacle course – the viscosity of the mud making it much harder to walk.
“Mas lodo?” we’d ask Luis over and over, in hopes of getting to the next, mudless part. Wading into ankle-deep mud and water alike, we kept at it, mocked by the hoofprints of the mules that went on effortlessly before us, despite being laden with the group’s camping supplies. Many a time we’d encounter a large pool or swamp blocking our way, having to take a different route through the jungle, jump from one tree to another (and accidentally grabbing a tree’s spiky bark by mistake) or build a makeshift bridge from wood and sticks lying around, in order to continue. But we kept at it.
And to keep at it was the only way to rid ourselves of the heinous beasts from hell we call mosquitoes. Much throughout the first day, it felt as if we were in a race, competing against these hateful creatures. Entire swarms with hundreds of them chasing every single body, waiting for their victims to take a break and catch their breath. You stop, you lose, they win. The second you’re not moving, you can bet you’ll have at least fifty of the vile monsters sucking on whatever skin’s exposed at any one time. And that’s with the repellent. Whilst I’m usually accustomed to being bit by these detestable demons, hearing their buzzing close to my ears drives me into a wild frenzy where I flap my hands uncontrollably all over – an instinctual reaction that’s probably a remnant from when I had a mosquito stuck in my ear when I was twelve and had to get it out, piece by piece, using tweezers. You’d think tying my bandana over my ears would deter the little odious fiends, only they’d manage to pierce through it, seemingly more voracious than before. Did I mention I hate mosquitoes?
For some seven kilometres, it went on like this. Then the mud turned dry and craggy, then to soil, and then to soil covered by purple flowers that had fallen from the trees. Kinda like walking into an enchanted forest! Only instead of sparrows and Snow Whites, we set our eyes on the blue-green parrot snakes who’d evade our sight the second you spot them, spider monkeys who shook trees and ‘made it rain’ and crested guans whose cackles sounded just like the evil queen’s. We did stumble upon a few creatures that looked as if they came right out of a fairy-tale though, like the turquoise-browed motmot (which happens to be the national bird of El Salvador and Nicaragua) and the blue-orange sunrise morpho butterflies. Then there were the ordinary looking leaf-cutter ants, whose existence is nothing but. These marvels of nature, Luis told us, do not eat the leaves they harvest – rather the fungus that grows on them once back in the safe refuge of their colonies. Now that’s friggin extraordinary if you ask me!
Always ahead of the group with Natalie, we finally got to El Guacute, the first resting spot where we could finally relax and enjoy a couple (or five) of Doris’ delicious sandwiches. Another sixteen kilometres to go and we’d be at the first campsite, next to which were some ruins we’d be exploring later that day.
El Tintal
The next part was by far easier, with less mud and fewer mosquitoes. After a few hours of steady walking, we had finally gotten to our first goal; the ruin of El Tintal.
This city, which, to this day, is mostly still covered by jungle, dates back to the Pre-Classical period and is named after the tinto tree whose bark releases a red colour when slashed. It has been heavily looted, and many trenches have been dug throughout the site in order to reveal buried riches and artefacts – amongst which potsherds and human remains have been found. Its most notable area; the Mano de León complex, is a residential area that is surrounded by a ditch that is said to have been used to supply water to the city and, also, possibly for defensive purposes. The sacbe; a white stone causeway, connects the city to the nearby city of Nakbé and El Mirador.
Much of this we couldn’t appreciate what with all the jungle in the way. It even took us a moment or two to realise that we were standing on a pelote court at one point, with the sides of the court all covered in plants and the centre full of huge trees. Large pyramids were hidden under larger mounds of rubble and soil, the jungle unaware of its own treasures. Then we got to the main pyramid of El Tintal – one that towers above the canopy at 44 metres in height. Fortunately, this pyramid has been fully excavated and we’d be able to climb it!
Normally I would’ve complained about having to climb such a steep pyramid at the end of such a long day. But this is what we had been walking towards all day! Natalie and I sped up to the top where we were welcomed by one of the most incredible views I have ever seen in my life. The vast expanse of the verdant green jungle stretching further than the horizon, hummingbirds and dragonflies fluttering peacefully around us, the sounds of birds and monkeys disturbing the quiet but somehow complementing it. Far away in the distance, Luis pointed to us a hill with a singular tree at its top. That was it – that was El Mirador. The following day, we’d be crossing the entire jungle and head right there. Trying to keep myself from thinking how much walking we’d have to do to actually get there, I sat down facing the west, where the sun was busying itself before the great voyage into Xibalba.
There’s just something about sunsets, especially those accompanied by a great view and when they are so well-earned, that’s very hard to explain. A mixture of anticipation to see the colours of the sky unfold themselves, and apprehension when realising how ephemeral it all is – that pretty soon, all those colours will turn to black, that the day is over, that the dark, bleak night is all that remains. Also the having to climb all the way down the pyramid in the dark once it’d be over!
Respite
The rest was a walk in the park – literally. The campsite was a much-awaited sight after a day spent trekking in the jungle. There, we were greeted by a bunch of ocellated mountain turkeys, the mules, Miguel and Doris and another group of hikers who had just come back from El Mirador. Somehow, they seemed clean. Almost too clean. Suspiciously clean. They ascertained that the first day was the worst and that the next few days would be easier. Looking and smelling like zombies, we could only hope that what they were saying was true.
All sat down and ready from a day’s worth of walking, we finally got to enjoy a couple of Gallo beers and Doris’s grilled chicken, rice and beans. By the time we finished, it was already dark and our tents had already been pitched by Miguel and Luis. Having forgotten my headlamp, I somehow made my way to the ‘toilet’ which was well away from the campsite. Now mind you, by ‘toilet’ I am referring to a wooden cube with a hole at the top that leads to an empty, underground vault. Undeterred by the overwhelming stench and the hundreds of flies swarming over the box, I approached the thing with as much caution as you would a white van with “free candy” written all over it in the middle of the night, and, for a reason I cannot even begin to fathom, I decided to flash my phone light over the hole. Yep, just like anyone would expect. A mound of excrement.
Then it was my turn to ‘shower’. And the ‘shower’? A cubicle where a bucket of water was waiting for each and every one of us. Yep, that’s right. A bucket. If there’s one thing I don’t quite compromise on, it’s hygiene. And there I was, all covered in sweat, mud and mosquito remains, having to make do with a bucket of unfiltered rainwater. That said, it was still water and it was definitely cleaner than the dirt I was covered in. And so, with one final leap of faith, I took the plunge. Or, really, plunged the entire thing over my head. And boy was it the best thing ever. I scrubbed hard and fast, making the most out of every millilitre, washing the entire day’s exhaustion and grime away.
Pretty soon, we started referring to the bucket as the ‘buckét’ and the toilet as the ‘holé’ in an effort to make them sound fancier. Whilst to the others it didn’t seem like much of a big deal considering some of them had done longer treks without any access to showers or toilets, I can’t say I quite shared their optimism. At the same time, they were not jumped by a cockroach in the face whilst on the holé! Maybe I was being a tad overdramatic, or maybe, I might have been the snowflake of the group…