Planet of the Apes

Today, several of us from the Kanga Hotel took Gary’s recommendations (again) for nearby places to explore. He boated us across the river and dropped us at the colectivo stop in Rio Dulce. Let me remind you about colectivos. They are similar in size to those extra-big-family-sized vans you see around the States. Unlike most vans in the U.S., they’re bashed up outside, torn up inside, and they rattle. The idea is for the van to stay parked until full. Usually there are some grown people on laps, and children patch any crevices. When the absolute maximum is inside, the door slides shut and the van careens off to pick up more people. Eventually the occasional passenger is disgorged. We rode cozily for about 45 minutes, and got off at Finca El Paraí­so. Finca means a small plantation (often coffee), and I’ll bet you can guess what Paraí­so is.

We walked down a dirt path into the woods along the river. Indigenous mothers, some naked from waist up, and little kids, naked from waist up and waist down, were in the water, washing and cooling off. It was stinking hot. A quarter of a mile later we reach a waterfall. I clambered across the sharp volcanic rocks to find a safe place to put my stuff, peeled down to my bathing suit, and launched. Cold! I paddled over to the falls, spun around and threw myself into reverse so I could back into them. Hot! It was lovely: far and away the best Central American shower I’ve ever had. I asked one of my waterfall-mates to take a picture of me. We’ll see if he ever sends it.

Like others before me, I held on to vines and climbed the muddy slope next to the falls, to see what I could see. The creek above didn’t look like it had enough water to feed the falls with such force. It just lay there innocently. I put my feet in. I took my feet out. Very hot. Climbing back down, I was nearly overcome by a foul odor blasting out from shallow caves in the rock. I couldn’t see inside but there was a peeping noise. To test my theory, I fired my flash into the darkness. Suddenly and with great regret, I realized I was standing where red ants dwelled. My flight to water was just a blur. Ankle deep, I squoodged my toes into the tiny pebbles. My flight to dry land was just a blur—because immediately under the stones were vents to the center of the Earth.

A woman came trotting over to me: The Bitch from the Bus. My companions were playing in the water but it was time for me to go. Two Americans whose Spanish was even worse than mine came with me, since they were under the impression that I knew what I was doing.

We waited by the road for another colectivo, and rode five minutes further to El Boquerón. I don’t know what that means. Let me look it up.

Anchovy? That can’t be. Okay, here: it must mean wide opening or a large hole. At this spot, the river runs between flat fields, but just around the corner it enters a steep canyon. Just a few hundred meters further, the canyon just as suddenly yields to plains. In the cliff a little above the river is a cave used for Maya rituals. As I understand it, it is still used, and especially for rituals to bring the rain. That must be the boquerón. It’s a Maya village, though I didn’t see houses. I did find a big pile of bird feathers. Many were burned at the ends, evidence of recent ceremonies.

Anyway, the guidebook says that at El Boquerón, some boys will paddle you fifteen minutes upriver, drop you off at a beautiful beach, and return to pick you up at an appointed hour. So about ten of us tourists stood eagerly on the dusty riverbank and waited as a fiberglass canoe approached. The Bitch was there with us. She had caught up.

A few of us stepped in and perched on the wooden boards that immediately collapsed under our weight. The boys (12 and 15 years old) kept signaling more people to get on, until all ten of us were aboard (twelve, including them). The river was calm, but with only two inches of clearance, even the twitch of someone’s finger threatened to overturn us. I was sure that my camera was doomed. The boys were nonplussed.

The 12-year-old did the paddling, against the current, as we entered the canyon. Five minutes later, we reached a bed of smooth rocks and got off. It was dark and cold between the high rocky flanks of the canyon. Is this the lovely beach and great swimming spot Lonely Planet was talking about? I wondered. Yup, one and the same. As the boys got ready to paddle away, the older one asked me, of all people, when they should come back to get us. I tried to find out from the others what they wanted, but no one would say, so I told the boys half an hour. Then The Bitch ran over. Half an hour? I don’t want to stay that long! She said. Then you tell him, I said.

On the float back, resident howler monkeys (as you heard earlier) were doing what they do best. Back in the sun, others wanted to stay and swim but I’d had enough, so I got on the next colectivo, followed by the two who didn’t speak Spanish, but not by The Bitch, whom I will never see again.