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Pyramids in the Jungle (1981)

Although there are Mayan remains in Mexico and Honduras the best pyramids are at Tikal, a remote site in north-eastern Guatemala .  It is possible to fly in a light aeroplane to a landing strip next to the ruins, but I wanted to see the countryside and so decided to take the bus from Guatemala City .

The South American Handbook warned that the first stage of the bus journey to Flores took at least fourteen hours, and upto twenty-eight hours in wet weather.  I fortified myself the night before with a large meal in one of Guatemala City 's many Chinese restaurants and went to bed early,  determined to catch the 5 a.m. bus. 

Although the bus was three hours late leaving, and so packed that there was no room even for the hens to flap their wings, we initially made good progress along the highway towards the Atlantic coast.   It was only after the modern bridge across the Rio Dulce that the tarmac disappeared and we hit the narrow, winding, pot holed track through the jungle which is the only land link between Guatemala City and the north-east.  On muddy stretches the driver's side-kick and some passengers jumped out to push.  Bridges across the many rivers were wooden affairs, straight out of Bridge over the River Kwai.  They were so rickety (or the bus was so over-loaded) that we had to get out and walk across them, and then stand and watch the driver gingerly bring the bus over the loose wooden planks. 

The bus stopped at small villages of wooden houses, sometimes raised off the ground on stilts, with thatched roofs.  After dark the bus halted at a military check point and, with all the other men, I was taken off the bus by soldiers, lined up on the edge of the jungle and searched at gun point.   It was a remarkably ineffective search - the soldiers did not examine the inside of the bus or the women left on board, but it was evidence of the tense political situation in the region.

I was fast asleep when the bus reached Flores at midnight and missed the stop.  I woke up at San Bonito, a couple of kilometres further on, more or less fell off the bus and staggered into a hotel.  San Bonito was a hole, consisting of bars playing raucous music and brothels where half the soldiers in the army seemed to spend the time when they were not searching buses or oppressing the local Indians.  Flores, on the other hand, is a little town with small pastel coloured houses on an island in the calm waters of Lake Peten , connected to the mainland by a causeway.  After a day's rest by the lake shore, watching fishermen in dug out canoes, and being watched by the inmates of the local gaol, it was another four hour bus ride along dirt tracks to Tikal itself.

The temples of Tikal are huge, steep pyramids in the middle of thick jungle.  Their dark grey limestone towers above tall trees with massive trunks.  At ground level, they are hidden by undergrowth of ferns and palm leaves, hanging creepers and epiphytes.  As I emerged from the jungle, into the Plaza Mayor, the tallest of the pyramids towered high above the trees.  Steep steps led up to small rooms beneath further structures which looked like head dresses.  I sat for hours at the top of the steps, staring across the flat jungle canopy towards other temples, poking out of the trees.  All this, to the sound of the jungle, the squawking of birds and the roaring of monkeys.  Macaws, toucans and vultures flew above.  Across the Plaza Mayor, black birds flew in and out of nests hanging from branches.  At ground level, a large cat walked across the Plaza.  Pixotes, small animals like lemurs, played on the lower steps of the temples.  A group of Americans, who had flown in, walked by.  “Mom, I never wanted to come to Guatemala .  I could be in Europe.” bawled a teen-age girl.  But when they had gone, the raucous tranquillity of the jungle returned.

 

 

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