THINGS NOT TO DO IN GUATEMALA WHEN YOU'RE JUST ABOUT DEAD

By Rick Coleman

Don't tell the borderguards and customs officers you once worked in a goldmine. It can cost you more. The hand full of official looking receipts for taxes, fees and permits failed to show why it cost me $20 more than anyone else to get myself and a tired XL 600 Honda through the border with Belize.

Asphalt turned to rough potholed gravel and the main street of the chicken strewn bordertown was coated with a layer of slippery mud, splashed from the numerous brown puddles. A Shell petrol station, a promising sign of modernity amongst the squalor, in a town soaked by the afternoon tropical drenching, was the first stop. An old singlet stuck to the attendants sweaty body, complementing his shorts and odd jandals. He offered some helpful advice, "stop for no-one, especially the gorgeous ones, they're baited hooks man". Sounded like good advice, as I headed west across the notorious, swampy and bandit filled El Paten region of northern Guatemala. Aiming towards Flores and the magnificent Mayan ruins of Tikal. I dodged steel grey , thunderous rain storms, on empty roads, surrounded by thick jungle , not a gorgeous person in sight.

El Remate village clings to the eastern edge of the clear blue lake of Peten Itza, a couple of kilometres north of El Cruce, the crossroads, half way between Flores and Tikal.

Mirador Del Duende offered 'eco camping' and bungalows, but what caught my eye was the 'mosquito free zone' sign. Situated high on a rocky ridge, the thatched roofed bungalows were plasted with white chalk and decorated with authentic Mayan motifs. A rough track led up the hill and as it got rougher and steeper, I had to commit myself to it, and gunning the 600, back wheel spitting out loose gravel, I lurched into the jungle. A young Guatemalan steeped out of the undergrowth wielding a huge machete. His beaming smile welcomed me as he waved me on, swinging open the wooden gate to ride into the lush garden. Staking my claim on a spacious open sided hut, with spectacular lake views, I laid back in the king-size hammock, listening to the sounds of strange birds and howler monkeys.

I don't know why I let the two young guys from the Mirador talk me into taking them into Flores, late the following night. I said 'no' on three occasions. They weren't listening. They wanted a Friday night on the town. I was glad to be accepted as a local, and experience the infamous 'honky-tonk' bars of Flores chaperoned by some indigenous folk.

Five minutes down the road, three up on Honda, rain came down like bullets, soaking our tee-shirts and stinging the eyes. Marvin put his hands across my face and I squinted through the gaps in his fingers. I couldn't believe I'd left the helmet behind. Melvin and Marvin thought it was a huge joke, laughing and screaming.

"Yeah yeah ! Hey ! We go Flores, San Bonito ! go, go."

The jukebox blared deafening noise across the spacious hall as we emptied the water out of our boots onto the concrete floor. We shared a tall bottle of beer between us, while a table of ugly ladies, across the far side of the room eyed us with suspicion.

"You want woman ? We pay, go on. We watch le moto." They pleaded.

I tend to avoid whores where possible, and these were the ugliest I'd ever laid eyes on. We moved onto the next bar. And the next. Then the lightning that had been lighting up the sky all night, finally struck something dangerous, and the village of San Benito was plunged into darkness.

We rode down the flooded and foetid, cobble stoned streets, back to the highway towards home. As we passed the airport and military compound, the rain set in again. The last recollection I have.

A curious dawn chorus of bizarre birds and distant voices woke me. I lifted my thumping head out of the long grass and saw the bloody remnants of my tee-shirt clinging to my shoulder. I could see the bike on it's side stand on the other side of the road and as I turned to see the small crowd next to a truck, back down the road, the pain in my brain hit me. I passed out.

Beware the Guatemalan pig.

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