Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Last Post
My computer's charger is dead, which means my battery charge has suddenly become particularly precious.
In all likelihood this will be the last chance I get to update my blog. I've stuffed one memory card with all the files I might need for work, and I've emptied the other to make sure I don't have to worry about running out of space for photos. It has been a great pleasure writing this - as an excuse to tell the stories I would be telling you if we were hanging out, as a place to mull over things that seem one way at first-lonely-gringo-impression, but turn out to be another, and to share* the pictures I've taken of this unique part of the world.
In 18 days I start my journey home, hopping to the capital and Antigua for one last day in the beautiful, refreshing (NOT sweltering and humid) mountains, and then I'm flying home. I'll be in boston sunday night, and I'll be seeing you sometime soon after. We've got a lot to catch up on, I can't wait to see you all!
Thanks for reading - here's a last dump of some pictures I've taken in the last couple days
*show off - somehow photography brings out the compliment whore in me.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tuk Tuk!
So I rode in a tuktuk today. Usually Guatemalan tuktuks have a regular horn, or a police siren (or if you're cool, some large, cheap speakers under the seat).
This on had both a horn and a siren, and the driver knew when each was most effective. The horn was vigorously abused whenever there was a traffic light in sight. It didn't matter if the light was green or red, or if there were any cars in front of us - his fist was going to pound the horn button. The horn was not a warning to other drivers that we were about to cross an intersection. it was not even an angry insistence that the assholes idling at the green light vamanos. It was a vengeful threat to the traffic lights themselves, warning that one day, he would come for them, and make them pay for every second wasted at a red light.
The siren was reserved especially for the ladies. Should we happen to pass a lady he deemed attractive (the criteria for which seemed to be 1) female, and 2) living) he would blare the siren, leaning out the door and waving his hand in case she might want to leap into our speeding motor taxi.
After a ride like this, there is nothing more appropriate than Tony Jaa's tuktuk chasescene masterpiece.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x58QctN0aaA&feature=related
This on had both a horn and a siren, and the driver knew when each was most effective. The horn was vigorously abused whenever there was a traffic light in sight. It didn't matter if the light was green or red, or if there were any cars in front of us - his fist was going to pound the horn button. The horn was not a warning to other drivers that we were about to cross an intersection. it was not even an angry insistence that the assholes idling at the green light vamanos. It was a vengeful threat to the traffic lights themselves, warning that one day, he would come for them, and make them pay for every second wasted at a red light.
The siren was reserved especially for the ladies. Should we happen to pass a lady he deemed attractive (the criteria for which seemed to be 1) female, and 2) living) he would blare the siren, leaning out the door and waving his hand in case she might want to leap into our speeding motor taxi.
After a ride like this, there is nothing more appropriate than Tony Jaa's tuktuk chasescene masterpiece.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x58QctN0aaA&feature=related
Lancha Update
It turns out that the Municipality-run situation that I had heard about was what was being threatened, in response to the lancheros raising prices. Which is unfortunate, because they only raised them from 1.50q to 2q. The people I talked to were generally in agreement that since fuel prices are high, and the lancheros are very accommodating - often crossing with only one passenger, rather than making people wait - this really wasn't a big problem. But apparently the Muni cracked down on them, because they all have signs saying prices are back to 1.50q, and they're handing out receipts as well.
Here's a picture of a happy horse.
Here's a picture of a happy horse.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Chatting with the Peche-Tuns last night
Last night I had a nice chat with Francisco (the younger grandson o my host family). He was telling me about all the delicious special foods I was going to miss out on, because I was leaving before his sister's quinceañera in July. The kid certainly knows how to make food sound good. He also told me about problems with the Lancheros - the boatmen that ferry people between Flores and San Miguel in their brightly colored boats. Apparently there was a problem between the Lanchero organization and the Muni (town hall). I don't fully understand what caused it, but recently the lancheros raised their prices from 1.5q to 2q, which was well publicized with notices on the lanchas. The taxi and shuttle bus organization did the same thing while I was living in San José and commuting 45 minutes to work by bus.
But according to Francisco (and the rest of the family) the lancheros were being put off the job. There would be two municipal boats that would ferry people across (10 people per boat, max), and the lancheros would be out of a job. We spent the evening complaining about the inevitable lines that would form on either bank during "rush hour", sympathizing the fate of the poor lancheros who would have no work, and abusing government officials in general. Francisco (age ten) was quick to tell me that his favored presidential candidate was Eduardo Suger, of Partido CREO (believe), the party supported by most of my neighbors. His reasons for support was that they were not millionaires, like Baldizon and his LIDER party, and that they gave away lots of things - sandals, hats, shirts, cell phones, stickers... Francisco was going to make his own shirt (out of an old shirt) and write "¡Soy de CREO!" across the front. He also said that Baldizon could eat the shit of a horse, for all he cared.
This morning the new Lancha situation was supposed to begin, but I couldn't tell if it had. There were more than two boats motoring back and forth (though less, I thought, than I usually see). The boat I was on was quite full, and I wasn't close enough to the Lanchero to chat about the new regulations, but hopefully I'll find out more this evening.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The Aftermath
[Black Hawk over the Flores iglesia]
During the recent "Arab Spring" uprisings, I was introduced to CNN's live coverage blog. As events like the Cairo riots unfolded, this page was updated with a twitter-esque blurb hourly, or whenever something of note happened. Since I was at work, and didn't feel like I should spend too much time watching CNN videos on company bandwidth, I appreciated the text version of breaking news. What I appreciated even more was the accuracy of the reports. Whoever was posting these things wasn't spouting their opinion, or making forecasts. They simply stated the observable facts.
I envied and respected that ability last week. During the first few days after the massacre, we had a very limited view of what was going on. Had I had access to twitter, and been required to make hourly updates, my timeline for the first few days would have looked something like this:
Apparently there was a massacre yesterday?
Stumbled on a police raid - I wonder how far ricocheting bullets fly?
State of siege declared!?!
What does that mean? I'm stuck on Flores and nothing seems different.
No wait, the docks are empty - all the tourists have buggered off.
General sense of uncertainty.
General sense of uncertainty.
Specific sense of uncertainty regarding the viability of my research project under a state of siege.
General sense of uncertainty.
Boredom.
Monday night, I stayed at Terry's house in Flores with Gabriel and Rosie, and we sat around and hit [refresh] on various news sites all evening. Around 9pm, President Colóm declared a state of siege over Petén. A similar state of siege had been in effect in Altaverapaz, a state south of Petén, when I arrived here in January, in response to drug-related violence. It was lifted after two months, and I can't say I've heard people singing praises of it's effectiveness. During the following days, Petén's situation shared national headlines with the election campaign.
We had a team meeting Tuesday morning at ProPetén, to share information and make a plan of action. The state of siege - while falling short of martial law and curfew - imposed a military presence in Petén for 30 days, and suspended certain rights. Most pertinent to our organization were the suspension of freedom of action, association and mobility. Traveling to a community (while dangerous in itself) and holding a meeting over our gardens project could be considered illegal. Furthermore, the government reserved the right to dissolve any organization it considered a threat or a problem, at once, without appeal. Thus, as ProPetén staff, we had to be particularly careful to protect our organization.
As things unfolded, the news became much less speculative. The owner of Los Cocos farm was the stepson of a man with ties to drug gangs. Apparently this gutsy father-in-law had stolen over 2,000 kilos of cocaine from the Zetas, a militarized arm of the mexican drug cartels, who have been increasing their activity in Guatemala as the US and Mexican governments increase anti-drug efforts from the north.
The massacre at Los Cocos was in direct response to this. Most of the violence was initially directed at the thief and his family. His stepson and daughter were kidnapped. When ransom was sent with two other family members, all four were killed. The 27 farm hands working on his ranch were beheaded, and a threatening message was written on the farmhouse wall in their blood, signed Zeta 200. The raid in Santa Elena was in response to the massacre, and resulted in the deaths of two presumed Zetas, and the capture of one man who turned out to be innocent (his bad luck to live next door to the other two).
In the following days, a bit of controversy emerged over the state of siege and the election. With rights like movement and association curtailed, there was significant fear that the election campaign would be effected, and the Congress considered repealing the state of siege. Eventually however, certain modifications were made to protect political parties and gatherings, and the siege stayed.
The Baldizon family (most famous now for the red billboards promoting Dr Baldizon for president) left Petén after receiving threatening calls, and wednesday and thursday there were bomb scares at two schools, though nothing came of them. I couldn't say what the situation in communities farther away (where threats and kidnappings for ransom most likely aren't anything that started just last week), but in the places where reporters go, this week things are more settled, though not yet tranquillo.
During the recent "Arab Spring" uprisings, I was introduced to CNN's live coverage blog. As events like the Cairo riots unfolded, this page was updated with a twitter-esque blurb hourly, or whenever something of note happened. Since I was at work, and didn't feel like I should spend too much time watching CNN videos on company bandwidth, I appreciated the text version of breaking news. What I appreciated even more was the accuracy of the reports. Whoever was posting these things wasn't spouting their opinion, or making forecasts. They simply stated the observable facts.
I envied and respected that ability last week. During the first few days after the massacre, we had a very limited view of what was going on. Had I had access to twitter, and been required to make hourly updates, my timeline for the first few days would have looked something like this:
Apparently there was a massacre yesterday?
Stumbled on a police raid - I wonder how far ricocheting bullets fly?
State of siege declared!?!
What does that mean? I'm stuck on Flores and nothing seems different.
No wait, the docks are empty - all the tourists have buggered off.
General sense of uncertainty.
General sense of uncertainty.
Specific sense of uncertainty regarding the viability of my research project under a state of siege.
General sense of uncertainty.
Boredom.
Monday night, I stayed at Terry's house in Flores with Gabriel and Rosie, and we sat around and hit [refresh] on various news sites all evening. Around 9pm, President Colóm declared a state of siege over Petén. A similar state of siege had been in effect in Altaverapaz, a state south of Petén, when I arrived here in January, in response to drug-related violence. It was lifted after two months, and I can't say I've heard people singing praises of it's effectiveness. During the following days, Petén's situation shared national headlines with the election campaign.
We had a team meeting Tuesday morning at ProPetén, to share information and make a plan of action. The state of siege - while falling short of martial law and curfew - imposed a military presence in Petén for 30 days, and suspended certain rights. Most pertinent to our organization were the suspension of freedom of action, association and mobility. Traveling to a community (while dangerous in itself) and holding a meeting over our gardens project could be considered illegal. Furthermore, the government reserved the right to dissolve any organization it considered a threat or a problem, at once, without appeal. Thus, as ProPetén staff, we had to be particularly careful to protect our organization.
As things unfolded, the news became much less speculative. The owner of Los Cocos farm was the stepson of a man with ties to drug gangs. Apparently this gutsy father-in-law had stolen over 2,000 kilos of cocaine from the Zetas, a militarized arm of the mexican drug cartels, who have been increasing their activity in Guatemala as the US and Mexican governments increase anti-drug efforts from the north.
The massacre at Los Cocos was in direct response to this. Most of the violence was initially directed at the thief and his family. His stepson and daughter were kidnapped. When ransom was sent with two other family members, all four were killed. The 27 farm hands working on his ranch were beheaded, and a threatening message was written on the farmhouse wall in their blood, signed Zeta 200. The raid in Santa Elena was in response to the massacre, and resulted in the deaths of two presumed Zetas, and the capture of one man who turned out to be innocent (his bad luck to live next door to the other two).
In the following days, a bit of controversy emerged over the state of siege and the election. With rights like movement and association curtailed, there was significant fear that the election campaign would be effected, and the Congress considered repealing the state of siege. Eventually however, certain modifications were made to protect political parties and gatherings, and the siege stayed.
The Baldizon family (most famous now for the red billboards promoting Dr Baldizon for president) left Petén after receiving threatening calls, and wednesday and thursday there were bomb scares at two schools, though nothing came of them. I couldn't say what the situation in communities farther away (where threats and kidnappings for ransom most likely aren't anything that started just last week), but in the places where reporters go, this week things are more settled, though not yet tranquillo.
I've been up to Santa Elena a few times this week (for the joyous purpose of fighting with a cell phone company). The streets still bustle and people are still friendly. Tomorrow I'm driving south, with Carlos and Gabriel, to a town called Compuerta that I visited several weeks ago. They have a fantastic cave down there, and hopefully the ride will be interesting, informative - and safe. It is very good to get out of Flores and San Miguel.
Last Monday's Story
I must preface this post with an apology. The news of Petén's outbreak of gang violence and the subsequent military state of siege is over a week old, and I've already explained most of what's been going on to some. The reason I've taken so long to write this is because I didn't want to write all of it. I went to Santa Elena last monday morning, wondering what was going on, and stumbled across a police raid. I stayed and took pictures. In light of all the uncertainty that came to light that afternoon, I decided that this was not the sort of story many of the people I care about back home would appreciate hearing. I did not (and still do not, don't worry) intend to go news-chasing with my camera, so I decided I would wait to tell this part of the story, until I understood better what the situation in Petén was. I didn't want to cause any more uncertainty and anxiety than I had to - there was enough of that going on around me in Flores.
But a week later, things have settled down. Like all problems of uncertainty, this one was put to rest by information. Here's the story.
Monday's paper said that 27 farm hands had been massacred on a farm called Los Cocos, north and east from the lake. That morning, before, during and after our weekly meeting, it was the talk of the office - until the talk of the office became the bomb that someone said went off somewhere in Santa Elena. Information filtered in in bits and pieces and was churned around amongst the staff, like an article in a blender, but no one could say what was happening.
At lunch, I took my camera and walked across the bridge to the Santa Elena shore. Flores had been completely normal, and I wanted to see if things were any different on the other side. There had been a bombing, some said - what was going on? The streets were busy as people went about their business. I stopped to chat with a parked tuctuc driver, to see if he knew what was going on. "Did you hear about the bomb?" "Yes, close to the bus station." "Would you take me there?" "Of course!". So I rode off to the bus station. I'll admit, I had in my mind an image of a street covered in the remains of a café, splintered chairs and table cloths strewn about - like I'd read about in Iraq, and Israel. The bus station had not been bombed though. I snapped a picture of the bustling station, and the young men standing in the shade, asking me where I wanted to go, and then crossed the road to follow what appeared to be the edge of a crowd.
Two blocks down a side street, past shops and houses, a crowd had gathered. Black Guatemalan police pickups crowded one side of the street, and I spotted a pair of soldiers looking over the roof of a car. I asked the people in the crowd what was happening, but no one knew. "Then why are you here?" "Because the police are here!". Half the crowd had their cell phones out, filming whatever was happening farther down the street. I could see black-uniformed cops and camouflaged soldiers entering a low, abandoned stretch of concrete cubicles (one of many ambitions construction projects abandoned after the building's concrete structure had been completed) along one side of the street. I heard the "pop" of a gunshot, and the whole crowd ahead of me reflexively flinched - and then craned their necks and inched forward. With a rumble, a green APC rolled up from a side street, pausing to idle in the middle of the street like a fat, menacing alligator, and then pushed its way through the courtyard gate of an apartment building up the street.
Soldiers sprinted across the street and formed up against the wall by the door, occasionally one leaned in a fired off a few shots. I put myself behind a concrete building, sat down and made myself a set of "don't get shot" rules.
1. Keep behind the soldiers and cops - even the ones relaxing back here, leaning against their truck and talking on their phones.
2. Stay behind solid objects (in order of preference: buildings, vehicles, crowds of fat people, crowds of skinny people).
3. Don't get surrounded by people - always be able to move without bumping into people or getting stuck in the middle of a crowd.
4. Leave before anything bad happens.
I'd never been around live gunfire, except target shooting, and then the gun was in MY hands. I haven't even heard any of the occasional shots that go off in worcester. Any excitement was well tempered by surprise - I hadn't intended to stumble upon a situation like this, and the knowledge that several people I care about would be very annoyed with me if I got myself shot in the streets of Santa Elena. The presence of the crowd gave me confidence that I wasn't a complete idiot, being there. The police would doubtless have told them to move back if they were in immediate danger, and I was staying behind them.
The crowd had moved forward more than a block since the firing started. They flinched and jogged back a few steps when they heard a particularly loud or sharp crack of a shot, nervous and smiling at each other, but would return almost immediately. The bass "Knock Knock Knock" of the APC's .50cal machine gun from within the concrete walls was ignored. I stayed behind them, and hard things. One soldier, pointing his rifle over the roof of a car, watching the building down the street, jumped an insignificant sound, and the crowd gathered behind him giggled. I felt bad. We were over 400 yards from the building, but this man had a job to do, and it must have been hell to have an audience.
The firing was very sporadic and (though my personal experience with gunfire is limited to Die Hard and Shoot 'Em Up) seemed hesitant and uncertain. For all the people around me speculating at what the sort of gangfight bloodbath was occurring within the complex, this felt like a probe, not a battle. I bought a bottle of water from a lady who, noticing the crowd on her doorstep, was making a fair amount of money selling drinks from a cooler she had quickly dragged out. I asked what was happening, and what the story with the bomb was. Her son said the gang members inside had thrown a grenade out the window, which had injured a cop, before I got there.
This, I decided, was the time to leave. I had seen enough new things for the day, and in compliance with rule 4, left before anything bad happened.
I caught a tuctuc back to Flores, and ate lunch at my usual crowded restaurant. When I returned to the office, it was closed - doors locked, lights off, completely empty. I had everyone wondering about the morning's events, but still working. I walked towards a main street, wondering if it would be as empty as the one I was on. The only person I saw was an old man on a bike, and he quickly peddled out of sight. I told myself that it was after lunch, and hot, legitimate reasons for the streets being empty, but I also noticed that I could here the same news program coming from the windows of five or six houses on the street. This had to be bigger than what I had seen.
I found Gabriel and our friends in our favorite Cafe. There had been rumors of a bomb threat against the municipal building just around the corner from ProPetén, so the office was closed. Everyone wasaround the TV, watching the scene I had left half an hour ago. The camouflaged APC rolled up and down the street before pushing its way back through the open courtyard doors. We spent the rest of the afternoon in Cafe Chilero, discussing what had happened, and what might happen next. Janette and Chapo, who run Chilero and live uphill from me in San Miguel, had thought enough about an incident like this to have an emergency plan. Half-joking, half serious, we made sure cars were filled with gas, we had enough toilet paper, we all knew that north to Mexico via Belize, or south to the highlands were viable escape routes, should things really go downhill in Petén. Things were very uncertain, and it was advised that we (with perhaps an emphasis on me) all stay in Flores and not go galavanting around Santa Elena.
Sitting in the café, drinking a smoothy and watching TV, I was more nervous than I had been at any point during the day. Plans were discussed based on the experience and knowledge of the locals around me. I have no doubt that I would have been more reluctant to explore Santa Elena "just to see what's going on" if I had their background knowledge. Yet none of them had any idea what was actually happening. We could make assumptions, but we could not know. Gabriel and I stayed at Terry's house that night, rather than travel in the dark.
But a week later, things have settled down. Like all problems of uncertainty, this one was put to rest by information. Here's the story.
Monday's paper said that 27 farm hands had been massacred on a farm called Los Cocos, north and east from the lake. That morning, before, during and after our weekly meeting, it was the talk of the office - until the talk of the office became the bomb that someone said went off somewhere in Santa Elena. Information filtered in in bits and pieces and was churned around amongst the staff, like an article in a blender, but no one could say what was happening.
At lunch, I took my camera and walked across the bridge to the Santa Elena shore. Flores had been completely normal, and I wanted to see if things were any different on the other side. There had been a bombing, some said - what was going on? The streets were busy as people went about their business. I stopped to chat with a parked tuctuc driver, to see if he knew what was going on. "Did you hear about the bomb?" "Yes, close to the bus station." "Would you take me there?" "Of course!". So I rode off to the bus station. I'll admit, I had in my mind an image of a street covered in the remains of a café, splintered chairs and table cloths strewn about - like I'd read about in Iraq, and Israel. The bus station had not been bombed though. I snapped a picture of the bustling station, and the young men standing in the shade, asking me where I wanted to go, and then crossed the road to follow what appeared to be the edge of a crowd.
Two blocks down a side street, past shops and houses, a crowd had gathered. Black Guatemalan police pickups crowded one side of the street, and I spotted a pair of soldiers looking over the roof of a car. I asked the people in the crowd what was happening, but no one knew. "Then why are you here?" "Because the police are here!". Half the crowd had their cell phones out, filming whatever was happening farther down the street. I could see black-uniformed cops and camouflaged soldiers entering a low, abandoned stretch of concrete cubicles (one of many ambitions construction projects abandoned after the building's concrete structure had been completed) along one side of the street. I heard the "pop" of a gunshot, and the whole crowd ahead of me reflexively flinched - and then craned their necks and inched forward. With a rumble, a green APC rolled up from a side street, pausing to idle in the middle of the street like a fat, menacing alligator, and then pushed its way through the courtyard gate of an apartment building up the street.
Soldiers sprinted across the street and formed up against the wall by the door, occasionally one leaned in a fired off a few shots. I put myself behind a concrete building, sat down and made myself a set of "don't get shot" rules.
1. Keep behind the soldiers and cops - even the ones relaxing back here, leaning against their truck and talking on their phones.
2. Stay behind solid objects (in order of preference: buildings, vehicles, crowds of fat people, crowds of skinny people).
3. Don't get surrounded by people - always be able to move without bumping into people or getting stuck in the middle of a crowd.
4. Leave before anything bad happens.
I'd never been around live gunfire, except target shooting, and then the gun was in MY hands. I haven't even heard any of the occasional shots that go off in worcester. Any excitement was well tempered by surprise - I hadn't intended to stumble upon a situation like this, and the knowledge that several people I care about would be very annoyed with me if I got myself shot in the streets of Santa Elena. The presence of the crowd gave me confidence that I wasn't a complete idiot, being there. The police would doubtless have told them to move back if they were in immediate danger, and I was staying behind them.
The crowd had moved forward more than a block since the firing started. They flinched and jogged back a few steps when they heard a particularly loud or sharp crack of a shot, nervous and smiling at each other, but would return almost immediately. The bass "Knock Knock Knock" of the APC's .50cal machine gun from within the concrete walls was ignored. I stayed behind them, and hard things. One soldier, pointing his rifle over the roof of a car, watching the building down the street, jumped an insignificant sound, and the crowd gathered behind him giggled. I felt bad. We were over 400 yards from the building, but this man had a job to do, and it must have been hell to have an audience.
The firing was very sporadic and (though my personal experience with gunfire is limited to Die Hard and Shoot 'Em Up) seemed hesitant and uncertain. For all the people around me speculating at what the sort of gangfight bloodbath was occurring within the complex, this felt like a probe, not a battle. I bought a bottle of water from a lady who, noticing the crowd on her doorstep, was making a fair amount of money selling drinks from a cooler she had quickly dragged out. I asked what was happening, and what the story with the bomb was. Her son said the gang members inside had thrown a grenade out the window, which had injured a cop, before I got there.
I drank my water and watched. A quarter hour had gone by since the last shot. There were soldiers crouching in a ditch, watching the building, and a handful of men wearing berets were walking on the top of the building, poking at the water tank with their rifles. Periodically, one of the soldiers standing against the wall by the door would lean around and fire a shot. Suddenly there was a commotion behind me, and the press arrived. They charged down the street with as much intensity as any soldier, TV cameras mounted on their shoulders, and surrounded the officer in charge, only to push on forward minutes later. The APC rumbled out of the apartment complex, and one photographer ran and crouched behind its wheel, taking pictures through the open door. I took a picture of him, mainly as proof that I was being comparatively safe, hanging in the back with my zoom lens.
[Charge of the light camera brigade] [Pictured: photographers being less safe than I]
This, I decided, was the time to leave. I had seen enough new things for the day, and in compliance with rule 4, left before anything bad happened.
I caught a tuctuc back to Flores, and ate lunch at my usual crowded restaurant. When I returned to the office, it was closed - doors locked, lights off, completely empty. I had everyone wondering about the morning's events, but still working. I walked towards a main street, wondering if it would be as empty as the one I was on. The only person I saw was an old man on a bike, and he quickly peddled out of sight. I told myself that it was after lunch, and hot, legitimate reasons for the streets being empty, but I also noticed that I could here the same news program coming from the windows of five or six houses on the street. This had to be bigger than what I had seen.
I found Gabriel and our friends in our favorite Cafe. There had been rumors of a bomb threat against the municipal building just around the corner from ProPetén, so the office was closed. Everyone wasaround the TV, watching the scene I had left half an hour ago. The camouflaged APC rolled up and down the street before pushing its way back through the open courtyard doors. We spent the rest of the afternoon in Cafe Chilero, discussing what had happened, and what might happen next. Janette and Chapo, who run Chilero and live uphill from me in San Miguel, had thought enough about an incident like this to have an emergency plan. Half-joking, half serious, we made sure cars were filled with gas, we had enough toilet paper, we all knew that north to Mexico via Belize, or south to the highlands were viable escape routes, should things really go downhill in Petén. Things were very uncertain, and it was advised that we (with perhaps an emphasis on me) all stay in Flores and not go galavanting around Santa Elena.
Sitting in the café, drinking a smoothy and watching TV, I was more nervous than I had been at any point during the day. Plans were discussed based on the experience and knowledge of the locals around me. I have no doubt that I would have been more reluctant to explore Santa Elena "just to see what's going on" if I had their background knowledge. Yet none of them had any idea what was actually happening. We could make assumptions, but we could not know. Gabriel and I stayed at Terry's house that night, rather than travel in the dark.
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