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.

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.

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.

[Military Presence in Petén]

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.

[Everyone was filming] [Where there's a crowd, there are people to buy things]

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.

[Guatemalan Armadillo APC]

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.

[This guy's ringtone is Britney Spears' Toxic - no joke]

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.

Thoughts on La Torre and Mayamall.

Welcome to La Torre, home of Mayamall

I meant to include this story/photo series in the last post, but it got long, and bam! Now you get two posts instead of one.

These are a collection of photos I took on a recent trip to La Torre - Petén's new mega-mall. It was a pile of concrete and rebar when I first got here, and 4 months later, it has opened as the new commercial center. It's built right across the bridge from Flores on the Santa Elena side, next to the Burger King and Pollo Campero. The Baldizon family, as mentioned, owns most of the land along that shore, so I believe it's safe to assume they own (or at least rent the land to) this new construct.

Along with number of empty shop spaces and several stores selling dollar-store plastic crap, La Torre has a couple of high-end clothing, fashion and interior decorating stores, catering to the Flores elite. The main draw for everyone else (including my host family) is the new supermarket. When I walked in, I was surprised to see a rather familiar layout. Produce in front, hanging signs printed with gorgeous pictures of well-prepared food, interior design features... it was funny how these things are what made it feel like an American supermarket. I've been to the Maxibodega (the other supermarket/commercial center, a 5 minute tuktuk ride from Flores out by the airport), and the selection didn't seem impressively different - in fact the only product difference I noticed were really good looking granny smith apples, which I could not resist buying (and their delicious crispiness was more than enough to sooth my conscience - I miss New England). Other than that, it seemed to have a similar selection, and at similar, if not slightly higher prices.

The construction of the mall was very mall-esque. From the bottom, it appeared to have a very clean, pyramidal setup, with convenient central escalators. Of course, upon ascending to the second level, I realized that I would have to walk the entire loop of shops on this level to reach the escalator to the third level. There was no way to make a quick trip to a single shop. When did this become something desirable? This building is designed not to make my shopping experience easier/faster/more pleasant. It is designed to do the opposite - make me walk farther, taking more time, all for the purpose of "giving" me more opportunities to spend my money. Now I'll admit that this is something that bothers me about pretty much any modern commercial center I've been in, and is most definitely a 1st world problem.

La Torre will provide Petén's first movie theater.

I don't need to harp on the design though, because La Torre has plenty of other annoy effects. They brought out a search light last weekend, and sent it flashing around the sky all night, just in case anyone hadn't noticed their building. Vans with speakers roll through Flores blasting advertisements frequently - though La Torre is not the only offender in this case. I wonder why these advertising trucks, blasting obnoxiously loud club music and yelling unintelligibly through scratchy speakers, are so prevalent. They can't annoy the locals as much as they annoy me, otherwise they wouldn't be a viable marketing option.

The local love affair with loudness is quite something. Everyone (even the very poor) sets off (expensive) fireworks (not colorful ones, just loud ones) all the time. The fact that it's Thursday seems a good reason to celebrate with some fireworks. On mother's day - something taken rather seriously around here - I was awoken at 4:30 am by firecrackers and a truck driving circles around Flores, wishing everyone a happy Dia del la Madre, and reminding them of a mothers day sale somewhere. Had I been in Flores, I would have thrown furniture out my window in an attempt to crush the driver. Who wakes up the next morning feeling anything but sleep deprivation and loathing for whatever business hired that truck? La Torre goes along with this by having a DJ and a mountain of speakers set up at the entrance pretty much all day, again blasting club music, and apparently completely ignored by everyone passing by.

Unable to imagine a Guatemalan family sitting on their porch or walking down the street, listening to David Guetta yell "Damn you'sa sexy bitch" at 4:00 in the afternoon (this actuallyhappens) and thinking "It's so nice to hear free music" or "I want to get closer to the source of this sound, and buy whatever I find around it", I struggle to understand why this form of advertising persists.

La Torre, home of Mayamall, in its pyramidal glory, featuring statues and imitation stele - even walkways patterned with jaguar spots - clings to the trappings of culture, while promoting nothing but the sort of "development" that only truly benefits a small number of local elites tied into a global economic system.

The view from the top level of La Torre provides a rather spectacular view of Flores and the surrounding lake - making this tower the modern commercial counterpart the the wooden mirador perched atop an earth-covered Mayan ruin on the Tayazal peninsula, overlooking Flores from the other side.

Politics

Monday was the kickoff of the Guatemalan presidential campaign, which, in concert with the death of Bin Laden and Barcelona’s victory over Real Madrid finally managed to push “the wedding” out of the headlines.

Now that the campaign has officially begun, candidates are allowed to begin putting up advertisements, and actively campaigning. You might think this means I’d have to start running around to get pictures of the ads going up, but I’ve had months to do that. No one really pays attention to the advertisement rule, since the fine for advertising early is a single $125 fee (though lawmakers are trying, unsuccessfully, to interpret it as $125/ad). So there are dozens of ads from a number of candidates all over the towns of Petén. Billboards are the most noticeable, but anything that sits still long enough can be spray-painted, and certain parties have been prolific in this activity.

Here’s a rundown of the parties most active in Petén (based on advertisements I see in my daily life). I can’t speak much to the political nuances of the parties – at the basic level they’re all slightly similar - most are fairly to the right and they’ve all broken constitutional election laws.

Sandra Torres (Colom)
Sandra is the (now ex) wife of Alvaro Colom, Guatemala’s current president. Her campaign is very illegal, because Guatemalan law forbids family members of presidents from running. Apart from trying to avoid family dynasties, this is because Sandra has significant access to government funds, which are being used for her private campaign. The Coloms recently got a divorce to lend her campaign a little credibility, but her access to taxpayer’s money is doubtless still the same.

Otto Pérez Molina

The Partido Patriota (read: military) candidate is possibly a leader in the race, according to Gabriel and others I’ve talked to around Flores. The retired general is one of the farthest right candidates, running on a security and crime platform, and has all sorts of ties to the civil war and human rights abuses.

Eduardo Suger
CREO is a more religiously-inclined party (creo means I believe, and the hand reaching down logo is not subtle). I’ve seen square CREO symbols spray painted on a lot more small houses and in rural areas, than others. I assume this either means that there are more CREO supporters among the poor, or that CREO supporters are more enthusiastic, and demonstrate their commitment more. The only other symbols I’ve see commonly in the communities are for UNE (National Union for Hope, the current ruling party) and faded URNG (Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity) marks.
Marta and Oscar hosted a CREO meeting in their hotel, and I got to hear a couple of local party members speak, and was given a pretty sweet headband.



Patricia de Arzú
The wife of Alvaro Arzú, the current mayor of Guatemala City and a former president, is the Partido Unionista candidate. Her campaign stands on shaky legal ground, similar to that of Sandra Torres, due to the constitutional ban on family members running. Arzú himself briefly considered running, but instead decided to promote his wife.

Dr. Manuel Baldizon
Baldizon is big in Petén. His Lider (leader) party is a relatively new addition to Guatemalan politics, but his family has been around Petén for a while, and owns lots of things. The strip of land along the lake between the airport and (I believe) points west of Flores in San Benito is theirs. They own the Pollo Campero, and at very least rent the land on which the Burger King and La Torre megamall are built, along with gas stations, several ranches, and numerous businesses around Santa Elena. Baldizon has his own sports arena, and (new this month!) his own boulevard. Anyone traveling from Santa Elena to the airport, shopping center or Tikal will drive down his street.

Lider isn’t very big outside of Petén, where the family’s wealth and power is consolidated, but within Petén they are everywhere. Baldizon has the greatest number of billboards, and numerous smaller (but professional) ads, often found along his boulevard and other main streets. Whole building have been painted with the Lider “thumbs up”, and I’ve seen houses in communities painted red, in preparation for the beginning of the campaign. The public at least seems to respect the early advertising ban, and hadn’t put up the white words when I passed through, but the intent was obvious.


Apart from advertisements, I had a personal brush with local politics on my way back from Belize. we encountered a roadblock strike in a little town between Flores and Melchior de Mencios on the border. The town was situated on a long stretch of unpaved road, and they were (in their words) “sick of waiting for Flores to pave our road. So we stop traffic to get their attention”. I’d say around 100 cars, trucks and busses were backed up on both sides of the roadblock. Everyone seemed to take it in stride – we all crowded around either the blockade and talked to the strikers, or around the local tienda, and drank soda. The strikers even had apologetic signs explaining to tourists why their travels were being interupted.

About half an hour after I got there, the police showed up in impressive force, along with the local media and the mayor of Flores (a Baldizon affiliate). Even with the police presence everything was pretty chill. One tourist couple from my bus kept wandering around and making nervous comments to each other, until the driver and I started joking around that “hey, they weren’t in Cairo, what were they so worried about?”. The mayor and a few officials were quickly surrounded by the folks at the roadblock, and their grievances were voiced. Some vague promises were made, which was apparently something they had heard before. Eventually a paper was written up, and after some delay, the mayor signed it. I don’t know what was written on it, but I assume it was a promise to pave the road, because the burning tires were doused right after, and the logs dragged off the street. The police proved useful in directing traffic as both backed up lines tried to move at once, and my travels continued, only delayed by about 2 hours.
I haven’t driven back that way since, so I have no idea if paving has begun, but it was very interesting to see a local community’s interaction with the municipality. I’m sure that when the paving is started, it will have some local politician’s name attached to it, and will take forever, like the bridge between San Benito and San Andrés. It took four years to construct, and the construction was “inaugurated” three separate times by different politicians looking to connect themselves with the project.

Jungle Hike

So I made the double mistake of being sad on the internet, and then going off and having fun in real life, and not writing about the fun on the internet, because, hey, I was busy with other stuff. So to those of you who only get to find out how I'm doing through what I write on the internet (including my parents), sorry, I was only momentarily sad, and subsequently lazy about describing the good stuff.

What sort of good stuff?

So because Semana Santa in Flores is really "a tarted-up pageant" according to one of my friends here

(when was the last time you saw 4-inch heels at easter?)
I had it in my mind to get out of town. A lack of planning on my part, and a change in the plans of my friends initially made that seem unlikely (hence, sad Sam). But actually more like momentarily disappointed Sam, because the change in plans came with the arrival of Tolo and Aranza, friends of Terry and Gabriel, from Mexico. They play the same Mexican folk music that Terry does (Tolo plays the Jalara and rewrites traditional songs while he sings them, and even made up a rap section to one!), so we've had many nights of singing (not that I can figure out spanish when it's sung - my brain just goes "oh that sounds nice" and drifts off) since they got here.

In spite of this distraction, I was still set on going to the jungle. So saturday morning I pulled out my Guatemala guide, and found Cerro Cahuí - a little reserve on the other side of the lake, near the town of El Remate. I threw my camera, lenses, hammock and bag of dried soup into my backpack, and caught a shuttle north. My plan was to spend the afternoon in the reserve, sleep in my hammock at the entrance park, and get up early the next morning for another hike to see all the early morning wildlife.

El Remate is on the far northeast corner of the lake, just about as far from Flores as you can get by boat, but on the road between Flores and Tikal. There's a solid tourist industry there, hotels for those not interested in staying at Tikal, horseback riding and the like. Gabriel's parents also live in El Remate. He had invited me (and Terry and all the other guests) to visit for his dad's birthday during Semana Santa, which was when I first met Tolo, Aranza and Rose, a gap-year volunteer from England working with Terry. So I knew a little bit about El Remate, and I had seen the sleeping-crocodile-shaped mountain where the reserve is located. In my excitement to get started, I left as soon as I was packed, and got to the park at noon, when the day is just getting to it's hottest. At that end, the lake is shallow and muddy, but there was a dock by the reserve that jutted out far enough to afford some decent swimming, so I floated around with all the families vacationing and picnicking.

Around 2:00, a breeze picked up, and I decided it was time to go. The park guard gave me a little map of the trail, and pointed out the two miradores (lookouts) that would give me a good view of the lake. I decided to head for those first. The trail saw sort of a triple-eight figure, a long oval loop with two connections cutting through the center. The first kilometer brought me through dry, low scrub forest. The rainy season was coming soon, but for now the vegetation was more brown and tan than green. I passed the tin-roofed rest point at the first fork, and headed left, up and around the lakeside of the mountain without having seen much more than a few sparrow-like birds. I was starting to wonder whether I would return with anything better than pictures of dry underbrush ("See that fast-moving brown spot? That's a bird that looks a lot like a common sparrow, but might not be!"). Where were all the animals?
All of the animals, having the advantages of "being in tune with nature" and "noticing the huge thunderheads building behind me" were all hiding from the coming rain. I had felt a few drops when I turned left at the fork, but the sky was only sort of grey, and I figured a little rain would cool things down, so I pressed on. Now the sky was getting dark, and the forest even darker. I hurried along the path, and almost had a heart attack when I surprised a Coati (those raccoon/fox animals) and it tore off into the underbrush, making one hell of a racket. In dark woods, with the sounds of a building storm overhead, my imagination took off and I heard jaguars following me and saw snakes on every vine. I made it to the first mirador in time to take a few photos of the clouds racing across the lake before the rain hit, and let me tell you, rainforest is a damned accurate name. I was sweat-soaked and exhausted from my dash up the last 200 meters of stairs to the lookout building, and the rain was incredibly refreshing. The lightning turning the misty air pure bright white for split seconds was less so. I pulled out my camera's memory card, put my backpack on the ground and crouched in the middle of the floor, as far from the posts supporting the metal roof as I could get while staying dry.

The storm lasted about 40 minutes, and the jungle came to life afterwards. The second half of my hike took me along the deepest trail of the reserve, around the mountain and down its back slope. Whether with the rain, or the change in elevation, the jungle got thick and green as I descended. Fifteen minutes later I heard howler monkeys and saw branches shaking above me. With the return of daylight, sounds in the forest were things to be chased and explored. Wandering down lush green trails under towering trees is just about as wonderful as it sounds. There were no mosquitos and lots of birds flitting by too fast for my camera, but the best part of the afternoon was the butterfly I found.

He was magnificent - blue/black and yellow on the back, and camouflage brown with his wings up. unfortunately, I could only see the bright colors while he was flying, and butterflies have this maddeningly erratic manner of flight that makes photographing them on the wing near impossible. Getting him in the frame was an accomplishment - I abandoned all hope of proper focus. Luckily, this butterfly was rather attached to a ten-foot section of trail, and even though he'd take off whenever my flash popped, he would return after a few seconds of flitting about. Eventually I narrowed down his preferred landing spots to a handful of palm leaves, picked one, set the focus and waited. This shot was culled from around 70 flash-assisted failures

Extremely satisfied with my success, I followed the trail back towards the entrance around 5:30. Having hiked the entire trail, and returned with good pictures and a really sweaty shirt, I figured I'd catch the last bus back to Flores from El Remate and sleep in a real bed. Unfortunately, I missed the last bus by about 15 minutes, and found myself reverting to my original plan - eat ramen and soup-from-a-bag, and sleep in my hammock. Luckily they had a campfire with a kettle, and a couple of open-air thatched roofs where I could hang my hammock. I traded some soup for some tortillas, and ate dinner with an old park guard, who kept asking me if I knew the other volunteers in El Remate. The dinner was filling, and I was pretty happy that it was hot. After the rain, and breeze came up, and the air was still pretty chilly. I spent the night trying to sleep and only occasionally succeeding. The combination of being outdoors, chilly, and in a hammock kept me from sleeping for longer than an hour at a time. I was wide awake at 4:00am, and by 5:00 I got out of the hammock, ate a can of refried beans and stale tortillas, and headed for the jungle.

Moving was infinitely better than twisting around in the hammock, and I immediately felt better, though not enthusiastic. In the pre-dawn light, I couldn't find the birds I could hear singing around me, and for the first hour, walking down trails I'd walked down less than 8 hours before was rather boring.

This isn't a harpy eagle, like I thought it was when I first saw it. I've since identified it as a juvenile Ornate Hawk-Eagle, but either way, it was a large bird of prey, perched less than 40 feet from the trail, and watching my every move. The next 4 hours that I spent chasing spider monkeys, yelling at howler monkeys that dropped branches on me, and finding a common relative of the rare Quetzal (Guatemala's national bird) were thoroughly enjoyable, but the 6 minutes I spent in the woods staring back at this bird were what made the whole night before completely worth it.

it's kind of hard to see, but the top monkey is actually dangling the lower monkey at me by its tail. The bottom one isn't holding on to anything. I can imagine them doing this to each other over jaguars as a practical joke.

I'll finish this up with some howler monkeys!