After three days exploring Belize City on our own, we were finally going to be introduced to our G Adventures group of thirteen. Then it was on to Guatemala, country #40 in my 40th year on Earth— a milestone crossing if there ever was one. One more night in Belize and then… ¡Hola, Guatemala!
Our first meeting went something like this… down in the hotel lobby, the usual round of names, nervous smiles, and sizing up your travel companions for the next nine days, and the big reveal of our guide. Given the tour’s bargain price tag, I’d braced myself for a lobby full of backpacker twenty-somethings, but the husband and I landed smack in the middle of the age curve. Countering that, however, was our guide Evelin. She had six meager months on the job with G and very minuscule tour experience. I’d personally been on more G Adventures tours than she’d guided. We’d gotten spoiled with many previous trips lead by guides who were well seasoned, carrying around big personalities with black books full of local contacts who could bend an itinerary into something spectacular. Evelin was the polar opposite of that. She was a devoted itinerary disciple, allergic to improvisation, and any hint of a detour sent her into a panic. Her first trial by fire arrived courtesy of that infamous public bus — the one she’d described to us in suspiciously rosy terms, but thankfully, Erick had warned us.
Can you find the tiny upside down Permanent Tourist?
The morning kicked off with a trek to the bus terminal in Belize City, a full carnival of humanity. Mothers wrangling bouncy kids, elders shuffling along at their own unhurried pace, solo Belizeans commuting to work or wandering home. And, naturally, an inexplicable abundance of chickens and produce, because no Central American bus terminal is complete without livestock. Erick had already planted the seeds of dread during our two tours with him, warning us about the public bus experience — and boy, were we about to earn our own chapter in that saga. True to his word, air conditioning was a myth — ours was a repurposed school bus, now serving its second life as a sauna on wheels. The husband and I claimed the back row, front row seats to the spectacle of humanity (and cargo) pouring in — more people, more chickens, construction supplies, sacks of produce, and folks who’d come prepared with actual stools to perch on in the aisle. Someone cranked music for the entire ride because relaxation was clearly not on the menu. Miraculously, the border crossing into Guatemala was mercifully quick and drama-free. And with that, I was propelled into country #40!
The travel gods smiled upon us, delivering a private van bound for Flores. Oh, air conditioning, how I missed you. And the lack of chickens clucking on board. Guatemala is split into two distinct landscapes — the highlands and the lowlands, the latter strung with volcanoes. Then there’s the border itself, a geopolitical oddity worth a footnote — the line between Belize and Guatemala is still hotly contested territory, quite literally. Pull up Google maps, and you’ll notice a dashed line instead of a solid one, a cartographer’s way of shrugging. The dispute traces back to Guatemala’s historical claim over a hefty chunk of Belizean land, rooted in lingering disagreements over the 1859 Wyke-Aycinena Treaty and whether its terms were ever properly honored.
Flores juts charmingly into Lake Petén Itzá, all thirteen hectares of it, tethered to the mainland suburb of Santa Elena by a short, unassuming causeway. This little island has been quietly shapeshifting for decades — back in 1941, the lake sat noticeably higher, and the entire first ring of lakeside houses simply didn’t exist yet. Wander its narrow cobblestone streets and you’re greeted by a rainbow explosion of colonial buildings, each one seemingly competing for the title of most photogenic, all leading down to lazy lakeside boardwalks made for aimless strolling.
Evelin may have been light on tour experience, but her linguistic gems became a running joke of the trip. There was, “It’s more cheapiest,” a superlative so enthusiastic it broke grammar entirely. Then came her ringing endorsement of the region’s timber industry, “Export mahogany to make beautiful… wood!” As if she’d momentarily forgotten the word she was building toward and just committed to the reveal anyway. Next was, “it’s very slippery and moist,” a phrase so untethered from context that to this day, I genuinely could not tell you what she was referring to. In a moment of existential uncertainty, “Normally, the water is fresh here,” she assured us, gesturing at ice cubes bobbing suspiciously in our drinking water. I was unaware salt water an option? It left me to silently calculating the odds: Whether to sip or abstain? But the one that stopped the group cold was, “They import the peoples,” delivered so nonchalantly, it was a though she’d just casually name dropped what sounded suspiciously like human trafficking. Umm.. should we be worried? Hopefully, it was Evelin’s syntax taking yet another wild detour, leaving us equal parts alarmed and amused.
From Flores, our crew rolled into Tikal, and the entrance alone had me half expecting a rusted gate, a warning sign, and Jeff Goldblum leaning against a jeep — the whole approach has Jurassic Park energy, jungle canopy included. Our guide for the day was another talkative gent. He didn’t actually learn English through a classroom, he picked it up entirely by eavesdropping on fourteen years’ worth of tourists while working alongside other guides. He absorbed Tikal’s history right alongside a second language, basically learning two enormous subjects simultaneously by osmosis. He did have a tendency to wander down conversational rabbit holes a little too long, but credit where due, since he was very knowledgeable.
Lace up your walking shoes, because Tikal demands them. The ruins sit deep in the jungle of Tikal National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Between our bilingual guide’s narration and our own wide eyed wandering, we took in temples, sprawling plazas, intricately carved stone monuments, and public squares. Over 3,000 structures in total, some dating back to 600 BC. The showstopper is Temple IV, the tallest Mesoamerican pyramid in the site. Keep your eyes peeled for the neighborhood locals (some will relieve you of your belongings) — monkeys, anteaters, deer, macaws, eagles, snakes, and spiders… all going about their business as if a millennia old civilization isn’t crawling with humans.
While you can’t climb to the top of Temple IV, you can surmount another structure across from it. You haul yourself to the top on a twisting bridge of metal walkways and large stairs. Once up there, gasp for air, snap the obligatory photos, and then take in the sheer scale of the site and the endless rainforest beyond quietly humbling your brain. Only about 23% of Tikal has actually been excavated. The rest is still tucked under centuries of jungle overgrowth, patiently waiting its turn. Archaeologists, understandably, went after the more obvious structures first.
More of the guides insight began pouring out of his mouth, as he dove into the history of the Mayans. The Maya are believed to have descended from people who crossed over from Mongolia, trekking through Asia and over the Bering Strait, and artifacts linking back to this migration have turned up as far away as Arizona. Even the jaguars and tapirs roaming these jungles trace their ancestry back to Asia. The very first Mayan settlement in the Americas was a place called El Mirador, though ironically, it wasn’t discovered until 1956, decades after Tikal had already been found. Despite being the underdog in the discovery race, Tikal holds the title as the largest and oldest Mayan city, and the biggest urban center in all of Mesoamerica.
After war eventually decimated the Mayan population, the survivors intermingled into a hybrid population. Today, most Guatemalans can trace their lineage straight back to the Maya. The genetic fingerprint still shows as babies here are often born with distinctly Asian features, the population skews shorter (I can relate). A detail I did not see coming — 55% of babies born here arrive with a Mongolian birthmark, plus a short index finger paired with a longer ring finger, a ratio that’s essentially flipped compared to the roughly equal fingers you’ll find on most American and European.
Our home base in Guatemala was Hotel Petén on the island of Petén. Erick had issued us a very clear directive: do not, under any circumstances, wander off the island into the heart of the city. His exact words were, “‘bound to get robbed,” delivered with the gravity of a man who’d seen things. He added that even the locals tend to steer clear of aimlessly roaming the other side of the bridge. Now, if you’ve followed this blog for a time, you already know where this is going — I have a well documented propensity for doing the thing I’ve just been told not to. So naturally, the husband and I strolled right over that bridge. In my defense, our grand act of rebellion was going to a shopping mall just on the other side of the bridge, hardly the stuff of cautionary tales. The universe rewarded our mild defiance with a genuinely spectacular sunset on the walk back, which was immediately undercut by a fatal car wreck on the bridge.
Beyond the bridge incident, most of our Petén time unfolded at a much gentler pace — weaving through narrow cobblestone streets both with the group and on our own. We took detours, ducking in and out of shops, and claiming rooftop tables for the views alone. We also happened to cross in the Guatemala on the eve of my 41st birthday. You got it! Forty countries in my forty years. One of our many rooftop bars delivered a chocolate crepe emblazoned with a hastily scrawled “Feliz Cumple…” — the icing, quite literally, running out of real estate.
This was a short detour into Guatemala, as we would be returning to Belize for the final leg of the tour. At the very least, thank you for helping me celebrate my birthday with crepes, wine, and beautiful views from a rooftop bar overlooking the lake.
March/April 2025