If Bahía Soláno may be considered of slight interest to the average tourist, this is even more true about El Valle, which has the doubtful distinction of being poorer than its twin community to the northeast. By land it’s little more than a half hour’s drive away, whereas it would probably take more than an hour to go there by lancia as it would first have to head almost due north to pass around the hornlike peninsula providing shelter to the Bahía before it could turn south. The village centre, in spite of a lively commerce, is rather depressing, and its suburbs even sadder to behold. But although El Valle to the north of its village definitely has a more interesting beach than the Bahía, local hoteliers do surprisingly little to enhance its attraction. By low tide the beach looks like a polished tinted mirror inviting you to set a footprint on it by walking the virgin sand. At high tide though tons of mostly wooden debris, but also plastic junk, carried there by rivers and sea alike pile up over its entire length, and the strong tides leave behind cesspools impeding beach access. To walk the beach at this time is more like negotiating a military training ground and perhaps interesting on that account. You might also pick up pieces of wood sculpted by the elements. Which goes to say that the place is wild and rugged alright, framed by rocks and a jungle of truly epic stature. Here too the sand is of volcanic origin and the sea only restrained by some hidden reefs as it breaks in majestic waves onto the mile long beach.
The weather was still so-so, with many a cloudy hour pierced by unexpected sun flashes that were quick to vanish again. By now all this had begun to seem just normal to me — as said, there’s supposedly only a place in Congo with greater annual precipitation. We were lucky to strike a deal with what turned out to be our local garden gnome running on inexhaustible Duracell batteries: in reality a man, but size-wise on par with Santa’s helpers, his head constantly covered by an exotic looking hood and he himself driven by such indomitable energy that he seemed to incarnate superhuman endurance in the body of an elf. And whether he would have liked it or not, this is what we spontaneously began to call him: nuestro gnomo. A title that became completely inseparable from him after he had shown us the guest bathroom in the newly constructed restaurant. It had double installations of WCs and hand basins within the same enclosed space, one of normal size, the one right next to it for small children. Or so he claimed, explaining that the child sized toilet equipment had been specially ordered from Italy and, sparing no costs, brought to this remote location. Why he had found this necessary — young children being bizarre things for a tourist to bring in proximity to such a dangerous sea — he wouldn’t really explain in a manner that made full sense to us. All he had to offer in the way of an argument was that he — himself childless — had always felt it was a pity that father and son/daughter could not normally go to the bathroom and do their thing at the same time, whereas here utopia had become reality, allowing precisely that to happen. But we knew better: the small toilet seat was not primarily destined for children, but for himself once that bathroom door had been thoroughly locked behind him!
It was the same local gnome who led us to a hut on his hotel property situated on a small promontory jutting out from the mountainside well above beach level, with a terrace on high stilts offering a panoramic view over the Pacific and an adjacent natural pool, constantly replenished with wonderfully temperate water from a waterfall in the forest. It truly was an Eden where taking freshwater showers was as easy as it was delicious. From our balcony-terrace we had an unperturbed view of the beach, the ocean and the surrounding rainforest. There were of course some mosquitos and other biting things to remind us of mortality but considering the heat and the humidity — quite oppressive in combination and almost forcing one to take it very easy in the afternoons — it wasn’t so bad. The proof of this is that after a while we even stopped suspending the mosquito net over our bed at night time.
The house itself had some peculiarities, the most conspicuous of which was a slanting floor that would bring you much faster to the toilet than back from it — getting back up to where the bed stood almost involved some amount of climbing! It really was an Alice in Wonderland kind of sensation to run up and down the house. Over time, however, the speedway to the water closet turned out to be yet another one of those blessings in disguise, since there was yet another thing to remind us of our mortality. It’s a kind of indigestion which in many parts of the world is simply known as the tourista, an indisposition only attacking tourists and making itself felt in sharp stomach cramps necessitating frequent visits to the bathroom. Asíle got over her discomfort quicker than I and for some days I wasn’t really up for much action. But it seemed that the indisposition went well in hand with the weather, still undecided if it should go really bad or just remain morose. It chose the latter and some days later we were in a speeding lancia heading south along the Pacific coast, where long stretches of unspoiled beach alternate with volcanic rock formations girdled in meerschaum.
Our goal was the nature reserve of Útria which covers a vast area of the department of Chocó. Its visitor’s centre is conveniently located deep inside a narrow, fjord-like bay offering complete protection from the vicissitudes of the Pacific. It’s a partly US-sponsored facility. Entrance fees finance an infrastructure comprising a museum, public toilets, a restaurant and a mile long wooden deck allowing easy access to a part of the local mangrove area, incidentally one of the most fertile ecological habitats that exist on the planet and therefore also one of the oldest, possibly going so far back in time as to the birth of the first amphibians. On display in the museum were samples of the local fauna preserved in jars topped off with alcohol, or perhaps formaldehyde, among them some impressive snakes and spiders. There was also a skeleton of a whale and the obligatory wide open jaw of a giant shark.
Apart from these zoological tidbits it was the geographical location and aspect of the bay itself which made the day. A few houses had been constructed on the opposite shore inviting the non-too-easily-scared tourist to spend a weekend on the edge of Paradise. The excursion was rounded off with a visit to one of the small islands around the inlet of the bay, famous not only for having the only beach with white sand in the entire region, but also its own freshwater supply. The rock formation on this and the other small islands in its vicinity again made me think of primordial Earth and a creation long before man was even a twitch in the eye of the Creator. Blissfully it was also here that the bowels of my own interior had its culminating explosion, allowing an intensely yellow intestinal cocktail to mix with a pre-existing local bacterial pool, perchance in this way spawning yet another biological era.
I don’t know how this could be, but I have found Coca-Cola to have medicinal effects on some stomach ailments relating to tropical climates, foods and hygiene. After landing on the sandy bank back on the outskirts of the village El Valle, from where we had set out in the morning, I headed straight for the grocery store where I got hold of this ubiquitous refreshment, the drinking of which enabled me to stand my ground all the way to our cabin and even take pictures of all the coquettish pre-teen girls who more than willingly posed for us. I also ingested some pills I had picked up at the local pharmacy. After that there was a decisive turn for the better and I soon regained full appetite at our meals. These — prepared by a sweet local lady, who called us ‘mis amores’, but otherwise looked like she could crush garlics in her bare palm — normally consisted of either tuna fish or chicken fried in slices, rice, cabbage and deep fried plantain. We bought some wine (suitably overpriced for sure) from our next door neighbour that happened to be the most upscale cabin hotel on the strip to make our meals a bit more festive. One evening I even ventured into the kitchen region and, after having asked permission to do so, single-handedly cooked us a chicken stew.
The passing of the remaining few days coincided with a gracious dolce far niente, a non-activity mostly carried out from the sublime vantage point of our hammock. In other words, we were getting ready to hit the ro
ad. Picked up one morning by a taxi, it took some time before the driver had pumped up the notoriously flat tire and stuffed the rest of his family into the car. Eventually we arrived in Bahía Soláno where Asíle went to have breakfast while I expedited some belated e-mails. The internet café was located next to the local elementary school where the children themselves had carried out a big mural painting showing them resourcefully escaping to the top of the mountain to escape the devastating effects of a tsunami, while all the houses of the villages seemed to happily float around in the chaotic waters beneath. ‘Internet café’ — that’s what the sign actually said. I made a point of it and although the woman in charge said they didn’t have it, she nonetheless managed to come up with a cup of coffee, for which I was very grateful. Besides I don’t think I have ever paid so little to go on the Web for an hour in an Internet establishment.
That said, I’m not sure either Bahía Soláno or El Valle are places I’m likely to revisit, although I’m also very grateful to have made the acquaintance of these villages on the fringes of civilisation. If opportunity knocked, offering me a chance to go on whale watching in the region as the humpback whales migrate through its waters, I wouldn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. The remoteness and ruggedness alone make this place a spectacular destination. But although the presence of the Pacific certainly prevents it from being a backwater, literally speaking, it is so in all other ways and its nature, as soon as you leave any trodden path behind, becomes a potentially deadly threat. Just trying to imagine the immense distances of wild uninhabited coast making up most of Colombia’s western frontier is in itself awe-inspiring. I’m ever so fortunate to have glimpsed some of this immensity with my own eyes. The images thus engraved are deep and haunting. It is nature in solemn indifference to man and his intentions in a heat often made oppressive as it reaches near maximum humidity — it literally takes days to dry wet clothes on a rack even if it doesn’t rain. Thus, still today, ever inventive, inquisitive and enterprising man doesn’t really know what to do with this immense wilderness. For the time being, just letting it be the way it is — as is the case with the even vaster forests and waterways of the Colombian part of the Amazonas — probably is the safest bet for everyone.
The door to the cockpit as always remains open even after the Captain has turned round to wish us welcome aboard. There are several long cracks in the joints connecting the interior lining of the plane with its fuselage, but since they’re apparently not critical to the craft’s airworthiness, they have been left that way. I sit at the back of the plane with seats for a total of twenty passengers. At take-off I realise we’re at the very end of the runway. Looking ahead through the cockpit window, as the plane climbs steeply, I expect to see the sky, but all I can make out is a giant green wall moving towards us at alarming speed. Then there is just fog in shreds all around us and, finally, after what seems an unduly prolonged sojourn in Limbo — the Sun!
11As of May 2014 the pilots of the aerial companies servicing the Bahía Soláno Airport reputedly went on strike protesting against appalling landing conditions. And there we were, bumping along the runway, a couple of weeks earlier...
12After writing this I have learned that my suspicion was entirely well founded. Escobar had people flown in private planes for parties lasting weeks on end filled with all kinds of entertainment.
13Local rumour has it that some spoiled brat from Medellín, speeding up the road, failed to even notice the gap separating the road from the bridge (there is no warning sign!) and died on the spot when his car slammed head on straight into the bridgehead.
Caracól, Tikál, Calakmúl
Some of my own most memorable experiences in Central America stem from visits to pre-Colombian ruins. Apart from the more famous and easily accessible ones — such as the Toltec Teotihuacán in the Mexico Valley; the Zapotec ceremonial centre at Monte Alban outside Oaxaca in the eponymous state; Mayan Tulum; Chichen Itzá; Uxmal; Labna; Sayil in Quintana Roo; Palenque and Tonalá in Chiapas; Tikál in northern Guatemala; Copán in western Honduras; and the Olmec archaeological park in Villahermosa in the Mexican state of Tabasco — I have also on some occasions ventured beyond the beaten track and visited Caracól in Belize and Calakmúl, sitting in the midst of a protected biosphere covering a vast portion of the lands from south-east Campeche in the lower Yucatán to northern Guatemala. Let’s begin with the trip to Caracól, once an important city in the Mayan civilisation but today primarily known to a limited number of dedicated archaeologists and unerring tourists, such as myself.
I had spent almost a week in northern Guatemala, on the miniscule Island of Flores on the western shores of Lago Petén Itzá. Although, or perhaps because, the place is so small, its circular waterfront is lined with hotels suiting a wide range of budgets and conveniently connected to the mainland by a causeway. I was working on some manuscript after my second visit to Tikál (to which I was first introduced a couple of years earlier), an hour’s bus ride to the north-east of Flores. For the moment I was taking it easy, writing a word here and there, and attempting an occasional watercolour while now and then taking a sip from the magic pipe. In the evenings I would go to my favourite waterfront steakhouse restaurant to have dinner. My accommodation was inexpensive but for some reason — which I have now forgot — I had begun to have some annoyances with the staff. Though rudimentary, the hotel room, with a shared balcony overlooking the water, and right below a covered roof terrace with a set of hammocks swinging in the breeze, had nonetheless been all I wanted. Now, however, it seemed ‘a good time to act’ as the Chinese oracle I Ching sometimes has it.
As I’m again pondering that, I really can’t go on without giving you a brief description of my third visit to Tikál. The reason I know for sure that it the third is that I know I paid the entrance fee on my first visit and proceeded like a regular tourist to the official entrance. The second time I did indeed find a perfect way to sneak into the park, but once I hit upon the inner perimetre road connecting the monuments I was careless enough to turn to the right running straight into one of the guards at the entrance booth who asked me for my ticket. Confessing I didn’t have one he simply sent me back to the reception kiosk to buy one and I then again entered this Mayan site as a regular tourist. The third time I got it right — I mean left!
There is a pond behind the vast tourist complex housing a spacious covered outdoor restaurant and stores selling traditional merchandise. Access to the pond is by no means restricted but somewhat ominously sports a sign saying: ‘Beware of Crocodile’. Supposedly there actually is a crocodile in the pond but I didn’t see him. I dared to follow the footpath leading to the left around the pond until I hit upon an ancient drainage system, indeed a Mayan aqueduct. Having a level floor and low slanting walls it’s easy to walk. All I needed to do was to follow its course for 150 metres until I hit upon the interior dirt road beyond the check point where tickets are controlled. This time I wisely took the precaution to discreetly peep through the trees before venturing onto the road. Once there I was observed by God alone and I knew that in order for things to stay that way, I’d have to keep walking to the left.
I also knew from previous visits that this road would take me to a smaller complex of temples. Though interesting in themselves I was eager to reach the Plaza Mayor and was unexpectedly offered access to the same by a footpath through the woods, marked out as a 30 minute walk. This had the advantage of making my entry to the main attractions even more discreet, as I knew I would now be able to inconspicuously slip into the very heart of Tikál. Which I did, emerging from the chatting jungle like Chak Tok Ich’aak (Great Jaguar Paw) himself for a surprise attack on his enemies.
One of the species crowding the tree tops of Tikál is the spider monkey. To me its representatives look like elegant waiters in black, cautiously ambulating the canopy high above the ground. It’s a fascinating ballet. I was so imbued with their intricate mo
vements while exiting the jungle that I more or less danced my way to the plaza — a slow and much convoluted dance for sure. We were at this point well into the afternoon and instead of running around like a madman, trying to again make all of Tikál in three hours, I decided to concentrate my efforts to the Plaza Mayor and its vicinities. It turned out to be a fabulous decision. I did climb its two main pyramids but then retreated to the long side of the square, seeking shade under Mayan vaults in the intense heat while drinking water profusely. I also attempted (I believe the designation to be quite correct) a couple of water colours with the result that the afternoon moved speedily. Meanwhile cumulous clouds kept painting their fantasy architecture above the horizon as the atmosphere began to smell of thunder. Being the last visitor to leave these gradients I realised it was probably best moving a bit faster towards the exit. But when I finally got on my legs it had become too late to make it safely there and I was forced to take cover under a shed selling refreshments, right next to the Plaza Mayor. What then happened almost defies, if not imagination, at least its counterpart in words.
But here’s my verbal bid on it: without further ado the sky grew so dark that one would think it was already night, while the thunder storm rolled in, unleashing torrential rain paralysed by tree shaped lightning. It was a near constant barrage, like some battleship pounding on an invisible enemy, or simply man eating Tlaloc releasing his spears and arrows on the poor devils below. One aerial projectile hit a pyramid so vehemently that it tore away a huge stone from the edifice and sent it in a parabola to the ground. The immediately following soundwave was so powerful that it in turn threw me to the ground. It was a terrific blast, very close to hit home.
Incidents of Travel in Latin America Page 23