Lakestuck

It's an interesting thing to feel stuck, really stuck, on a lake from which highways depart in three directions.  Not a bad thing.  Interesting, though.  And we're glad to finally have moved on to Coban.  (I may write about Coban later, in a post entitled "Why State Department Warnings Are Ill-Informed, Outdated, and Should Be Ignored (or at least taken with a grain of salt).")  

A few days ago, we arrived in Flores, a quaint, safe, touristically-oriented island an hour south from the spot on the same lake where we'd been camping for the several days previous.

   

Rattling into Flores involved a certain degree of culture shock.  There we were, rattly and slightly rough-looking, having happily used the kick-ass lake as our shower for four or five days.  And there Flores was, clean and tidy, like a pastel-colored colonial Disneyland.  A tourist wonderland next to the camping we had been doing.  (Coffee shops! Laundromat! Post Office!) 

The island of Flores is only about 1 kilometer across in any direction, connected to the larger, more vibrant city Santa Elena (and its awesome market) by a little bridge.   

Avocados for days

Oranges for days

Master Negotiator  

We ended up parking for the night on the street next to the lakeshore in Flores.  When we awoke, a hippie dude from Quebec had joined our impromptu trailer park and was sleeping in his own hobovan just in front of us.   (Later, I'm going to write a post about retired Canadians and Germans, hippies, and our other travel companions of miscellaneous creeds and nationalities.)

Definitely trustworthy

So: how did we get stuck?  Picture a road going around the lake, counter-clockwise. Flores and Santa Elena are at one end, Remate, where we camped, is in the middle, and the ruins of Tikal are at the far end.  Before even arriving at Flores, we had already been to Santa Elena once for groceries, propane, and other necessities.  (Round trip, Remate to Santa Elena.)  And before we even arrived in Flores, we tried to go to Tikal.  (Round trip, Remate to Tikal.)  Dogs weren't allowed in the park, even in the car, so we turned around.  (One way, Tikal to Flores.)  The second day in Flores, we tried to get to Tikal but faced silly bus/schedule issues and, despite having been ready to go since 8:00 a.m., ended up missing the last bus departing to Tikal.  So we went back toward Remate to camp on the shore of another lagoon.  (One-way, Flores to Remate, or close enough.)  In the morning, we went back to Flores (one-way, Remate to Flores) to park in the safe little tourist haven and catch the bus.  (Round-trip, Flores to Tikal.)

Frightening

It began to feel like we would never stop driving up and down the same stretch of highway on the same lake in the same region of Guatemala.  (Lovely as it was.)  We owned that road, though.  We knew every pothole, every coco frio saleslady, every stray dog, pig, and chicken, every soccer field, every finca, every air force base, every everything.  People grew so used to the rattlevan that they stopped staring when we drove by.  In other words, it was time to get out of there.  So we finally got ourselves unstuck from the charming Lake Peten Itza and made our way southward and into the mountains.

Next up, maybe: Tikal ruins, a last stop in the jungle, and the interesting, pine-forested Coban.  Chuck claims he has blog posts up his sleeve, too.