the price of the toys.

It’s not just the difference between men and boys. It also has a little something to do with scuba divers.

Equipment review: The SeaLife DC1400 digital underwater camera + housing; the Cressi Matrix mask with black silicone skirt.

Scuba gear is expensive. Very. Expensive. To that end, I spend a lot of time reading online reviews and seeking advice from friends and coworkers before I make a big purchase. I hope my reviews of my two newest purchases can lend a helping hand to anyone else who’s interested in the same items.

SeaLife DC1400

My former digital camera was a second-hand Olympus — absolute piece of crap. A few months ago, upon my return to Utila after the Guatemala vacation, I decided that it was time to upgrade. After a few days of research, I decided to go with the DC1400.

The DC1400 is not a camera for the professional; at the end of the day it’s a fairly simple compact digital camera. The setup is meant to be easy to use and learn, and despite the large number of shooting options (and the ability to manually control most of the exposure variables), it’s definitely a camera for the beginner to intermediate set.

The thing that I like most about the camera is its flexibility; you can add up to two external strobes / lights, and shoot HD video as well as high-resolution photographs. I always recommend that beginning photographers start off without the flash, so being able to add a high-quality external strobe after becoming comfortable with the camera (or with underwater photography in general!) is a huge plus. That said, there is an internal flash (and diffusers are included in the pack that the camera comes with), so photographers can experiment with that as well.

Another bonus: as I mentioned, this camera is a teensy little compact digital inside an amazing rubberized housing. That means you can throw it in your bag or purse to take to dinner, parties, family events . . . and then toss it into the housing and take it down to that wreck you’ve always wanted to photograph. The rubberized housing is easy to use and very sturdy; there are loads of YouTube videos showing the housing surviving after getting dropped from ten feet, or even getting hit by a car! While those scenarios are unlikely, it’s refreshing to not be nervous while getting back on the boat. I never felt the need to hand my camera up; I just clipped it to my BCD and hauled myself up the ladder. Shock-proof housing for. the. win.

I’m also a huge fan of the way the 1400 has been remodeled to make shooting easy in all underwater conditions. The big piano keys in the back make navigating the menu incredibly easy. I love the textured, rubberized zoom (easy to toggle even with very thick gloves on), and the fact that the shutter and on/off buttons are completely different shapes and sizes. I was so sick of accidentally turning my old camera off every time I had just lined up a great shot! I even appreciated the neoprene wrist strap — no danger of the camera slipping off and floating away.

Speaking of, the camera is slightly positively buoyant in its housing, which I like. If you prefer shooting with a neutral housing, you can always screw a weight into the threading for a tripod at the bottom. It’s not positive enough to be annoying (or to make shooting a struggle), but just positive enough to float if you were to, you know, drop it in the ocean by accident. Which I’ve never done. Obviously.

The quality and size of the photographs is amazing. I love that, in underwater mode, the camera is automatically put on anti-shake to compensate for some of the difficulties involved in shooting underwater. From the underwater mode, you can choose pre-selected white balance settings (which correspond mostly to blue water, green water, and different depths). I will say that, despite the depths the white balance is meant for, the deeper setting only works well in clear water up to 10m / 33ft before the photo starts to get greenish. You can also manually white balance using a slate (or hand, or rashie, or what-have-you), although again, it really only works 100% to about ten meters. By thirty, the reds are really irreparably gone. Obviously the flash / strobes would fix this, and I do wonder whether or not SeaLife skimped a bit on the white balance software in order to encourage people to buy the strobe. I have a friend with a Cannon, and her white balance outshone the SeaLife by far. That said, I do most of my shooting shallower than 12m anyway, so for me it’s not a huge issue.

ISO, shutter speed, aperture, resolution, and flash can all be set manually. I’ve been shooting mostly on automatic, and haven’t had any difficulties; the camera is good at intelligently managing the exposure. The resolution of the images is beautiful, and the focus magnificently sharp when I manage to hold myself very still. It’s not the best low-light shooter I’ve ever encountered, but as long as the lighting was decent, the camera would capture the image without any annoying pixelation.

As for macro, there is not yet a macro lens for the DC1400, although there are some rumors on the internet that one is still to come. There’s a macro zoom setting within the camera that purportedly allows shooting to within 1″, but I found that the focus was a bit dicey when I got in that close. For me, the macro zoom feature was a bit useless, and I preferred to shoot as closely as possible with the regular zoom, then crop out the feature I was interested in. If you’re really interested in macro / wide angle photography, this really isn’t the camera for you — at least, not until the companion lens is manufactured.

I have yet to use a strobe or a light with my camera, as I’m still on the beginner / early intermediate end of the spectrum.

All in all, I’ll give the camera and its housing an A- for what it is. Look around online or with your local dealer for a good price: you can get the DC1400 for under $500 nowadays — a great buy. Some dealers will do package deals with a strobe or a light. Remember to buy lots of moisture munchers to drop in your housing, and please: if you’re a beginner, get to know your new camera on land before taking it underwater, and shoot *without* the flash to develop your skill set before compounding your problems with a strobe.

Cressi Matrix

There’s not much to say other than: I. Love. This. Mask. I’m a huge fan of the black silicone skirt, which has just a little bit of sparkle and shine to it. I guess I’m still a girl under all this neoprene.

I’m coming off of a Mares X-Vision LiquidSkin mask which I loved dearly, and laid to rest on the Haliburton wreck off of Utila, Honduras. The silicone of the LiquidSkin was definitely softer and more comfortable on my face than the Matrix, though by a smaller margin than I was expecting. By the nose the silicone skirt is cut high, which some might find a bit abrasive.

The mask is well-made, easy to adjust, and allows for a large field of vision. I love that the black skirt doesn’t cause as much peripheral vision distraction as do clear silicone skirts, although if clear is your preference, the Matrix does come in just about every color under the sun. The Matrix has that distinctive tear-drop shape that’s so popular in masks today, two-paned (as is the standard, making life much easier for those who need prescription lenses). Being able to see all the way down is an essential feature of a mask for me, so — that’s a win in my book.

I find that it’s easy to read the facial expressions of those wearing the Matrix, and the mask doesn’t artificially add or enhance expressions (such as anger, confusion, etc.) as many masks tend to do. This is particularly important for dive professionals, since it’s never nice to have a mask make you look angry all the time in front of your students!

I replaced the strap of the Matrix with a velcro slap-strap; the whole thing took only a few minutes from beginning to end. I definitely appreciated the ease of the replacement.

My overall rating is an A+. That said, unless you’ve tried a mask on before, remember: never buy a mask online! For fit and comfort, it’s essential to shop for masks in-person before making your decision, otherwise you might end up with a very unpleasant surprise. While I always ask for mask recommendations from my friends, it’s a bit like buying a pair of jeans: what might fit my boss probably won’t fit me the same way. Try before you buy!

The Happy Farmer

Dive Review: ATI Divers, Santa Cruz la Laguna, Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala

ATI divers is the only real PADI outfit on the lake, which is a shame; although the lake doesn’t boast the diversity (or warmth) of the tropical Caribbean, there’s plenty to do and see beneath the surface there. Over the next few months / years, ATI (based in the lovely hotel/hostel/restaurant La Iguana Perdida) hopes to expand their business as several Mayan village sites are opened to the public by the Guatemalan government.

Unfortunately, B and I were unable to see these submerged villages, as they are still closed post-excavation. Andy and Alyson, ATI’s resident instructors, hope that the sites will be opened within the next year (for a fee to be paid to the underwater archaeology museum in Panajachel, Santa Cruz’s neighboring lakeside town). Even though we didn’t have the privilege of seeing the villages first hand, we still did two solid dives.

The Lago de Atitlan sits at an altitude of about 5,000 feet, so several things are different about diving there — first and foremost, the atmospheric pressure. At altitude, atmospheric pressure is lower than at sea level, so as you descend, the pressure grows much faster, and as you ascend, the pressure comes off much faster. This leaves divers at a greater risk of getting bent (should you not abide by safe ascent guidelines), shortens dive times, raises maximum depth limits, and makes buoyancy control more difficult. Moreover, the Lago is a freshwater environment, which provides less buoyancy than a salt water environment would.

This particular lake also happens to be an ancient volcano caldera. The Lago was the site of a particularly violent explosion which took place 80,000 years ago. Since then, the crater has been slowly filling with rain water. In the interim, several other volcanoes have arisen over the fault line, including the Vulcan de San Pedro, which is the largest active volcano in the area. It makes a great hike with incredible panoramic views (or so I’m told: I’m not overland trekking’s biggest fan, after all). The lake’s position over a fault line with rising waters makes it a place of both geological and archaeological interest. Unfortunately, as a freshwater lake at altitude, we soon learned that it was a very cold place of interest.

Ice divers and North Atlantic buffs will likely call me a spoiled Caribbean wimp, and I don’t care: I find 66 degrees to be very cold. I know I’ve been in colder water — I’ve got temperatures in the mid fifties from my time in Spain — but that certainly didn’t make me feel any warmer the other day.

That said, divers are known to suffer a bit (just a bit) for their sport, and so I can’t complain very much. Besides, Andy — ATI’s longst-term instructor — had me clad in a snappy neon pink farmer john, which I greatly appreciated. That’s to say, I appreciated the warmth that two layers of 7mm neoprene gave me, as well as the fashion statement that only a neon pink leotard-style oversuit can make. Even my booties were pink. As an instructor who admittedly chooses exposure protection both for functionality and looks, I forced myself to swallow a bit of pride and dance around gleefully in my 90′s-PADI-catalogue-esque attire.

It certainly ensured that no one was going to lose me underwater.

To be fair, losing my buddies wouldn’t have been a problem, as our minimum rating was MSDT, and we probably had about 2,000 combined dives between us. Andy even remarked that it was the coldest he’d been on a dive in a while, given how little he actually had to do.

We took off on the speedboat at 9:30am — a very civilized time, if you ask me, and one which we greatly appreciated. Because of the extra safety concerns involved in diving at altitude, no one at ATI does more than two dives a day. This allows them to push their schedule back to the warmest parts of the day. Thank God. It also means that we didn’t have to get up at 6am. Double-win.

We set out in a lancha, conducted by a very attentive captain (who clearly thought we were crazy, diving as we were). After a quick buddy check, we back rolled into the water, after which I was loudly cursing my decision to go diving, and quietly wondering whether two years out of practice in a cold water environment had made me soft. The gear that I was wearing was nice (and very well maintained), but it wasn’t mine. It had been ages since I’d gone entirely without my own kit — more than that, with entirely unfamiliar kit — and I wasn’t sure how much I liked it.

After a quick buoyancy check, I started to feel less frozen and a bit more optimistic. I was also feeling slightly smug, since I had guessed my weight spot-on after no experience in either a farmer john or a freshwater lake. We descended together with no problems down the wall at Rambo II to a maximum depth of about 26m where we cruised along checking out the rock formations. All of the rocks along the sheer wall at Rambo II were formed during the last explosion. We spend most of our time examining cracks in the rock for interesting critters (mostly crabs, which I love dearly). Occasionally, we’d come up to a little swim through or over hang, and explored those dutifully with the torch that Andy kindly provided.

The highlight of the dive was a vertical swim through of about 8m through ‘the chimney’ — a hole in the volcanic rock formations. At that point I was feeling fairly confident in my buoyancy control (I am an instructor, above all), but I was truly amazed at how fast the pressure came off, and how much air I was forced to vent from my BCD. These technical thoughts took a sideline to the experience of swimming up through the chimney, which was very cool — swimming in a slow spiral upwards, no faster than 9m/minute (and really, much slower, since I was milking the experience), looking up at the incredible rock formations and the blue water above.

The lake can boast visibility up to 10m in the dry season; I’d say we were somewhere around 8m, which suited me just fine after the winter I spent diving the Costa del Sol all those years ago. Though I got quite cold towards the end of the dive, I still enjoyed the hunt for crabs and other interesting invertebrate organisms. We finished the dive in quite a different ecosystem, among the lake’s plant life and juvenile largemouth bass.

The surface interval was also quite civilized — we returned to La Iguana Perdida to change tanks and spend an hour sitting out in the sunshine with farmer johns rolled down and cups of coffee and tea in hand. B and I were probing Andy for information about Mayan sites and the history of the lake when another diver approached, wanting to know if he could join our group for a dive. Andy got him kitted up and he came with us for the second dive — a blessing for B and I, as it gave us an extra fifteen minutes of dry warmth.

The second dive was less challenging, with a maximum depth of 18m at a site called Aguas Calientes. Unfortuantely, this didn’t indicate warmer water, but rather was named for the fault line running across the lake to Santa Cruz.

The back roll was no less pleasant the second time we performed it, and I think all of my wincing and tensing served to give me a bit of difficulty equalizing on the way down. Andy and the boys were blissfully patient, and hung with me around 6m for the minute or two it took me to get myself down. In Andy’s words, “man, I really knew when you were okay. You gave me the double-okay. And your whole face — just lit up.” We busted down the slope to 18m as soon as I gave the signal, and spent the first ten minutes of the dive crawling around the bottom along the fault line, sticking our hands into the sand. Why? Because rising gas and heat from the underground fault heated the sand up to incredible temperatures — some too hot to touch comfortably.

I had mixed feelings about sticking my hands in the hot sand. Burying my hands was blissful, but hey — the rest of my body wanted to get in there, too! As we swam back up the hill, B mimed a single tear rolling down his face out of his mask. Oh yes, the water was quite cold compared to the thermal vents. Happily, some of the nearby rocks were also warmed by the fault, encouraging the growth of freakishly large snails. I managed to spot a hunting snail about three inches long, which a brown-and-white spotted mantle. It panicked when it saw me, and retreated; that was about the time that B busted out his GoPro camera and the mucking about commenced.

We came up for a very early, very long safety stop that was spent swimming about in the sea grass formations, looking for cichlids — one of the lake’s last remaining native fish. The convict cichlid is quite cute, and looks a bit like a night sergeant, so I was dutifully excited when we ran into a large family of them. We got to explore the pilings of a dock, the shallow sea grass — and finally came up to the boat, a change of clothing, and a nice warm lunch.

For anyone interested in diving the lake — or for anyone curious about the diving conditions in a freshwater high altitude volcano caldera, I definitely recommend checking out ATI divers. The instructors are awesome (and hey, I know from instructors). They offer Open Water through Divemaster courses, as well as the Discover Scuba Diver and Scuba Diver for those who have never been diving before. The altitude spec is taught for those who are card collecting, or want to spend more time diving at altitude themselves. La Iguana Perdida is a lovely hotel with a laid back vibe, beautiful lakeside views, incredible food, and all of the amenities you could ask for (except for wifi — though they have computers with internet access).

Happy diving.

Semuc Champey

Sporadic internetting has me getting behind in my writing.

From Flores, the crew and I had a hellish 8 hour ride to Lanquin. In general the shuttle buses in Guatemala leave little room for real complaint. That said, after six hours in a cramped little minibus, realizing that we were meant to traverse two hours worth of unpaved switchbacks before reaching our destination was a bit of a downer. Our backs hurt for days, to say the least.

Reaching Lanquin made it all worth it in the end. We stayed at the Zephyr Lodge, which is affiliated with a whole branch of lodges and hostels — Los Amigos in Flores, Quetzalroo in GC, La Iguana Perdida in Santa Cruz la Laguna, Casa de la Iguana in Livinston . . .

Zephyr was a little lodge perched atop a mountain, looking out over the river and valley below. Some of the guys went tubing one day when I had a Skype-based job interview, and said they had a really great time cruising down the river, beers in hand. There are smaller local attractions like the Lanquin town market (three days a week) and a nearby bat cave, but the main reason for dropping picturesque Lanquin is to go to Semuc Champey.

Before I get into Champey, I just want to point out a little aside here: people who say the Mayan culture is extinct have obviously never been to Guatemala. For a solid week I thought my Spanish was getting astronomically better, since I was understanding everyone so well. I realized when we got to Lanquin that my supposed comprehension came as a result of speaking to people in their second language. Most men and women in rural Guatemala still wear traditional dress, and don’t learn Spanish unless they go to public school. My attempts to pick up some Q’eqchi have been pretty poor, however; the pronunciation is incredibly difficult. Right now I’ve got nothing but mal’tiosh under my belt, which means ‘thank you’.

Okay. Champey.

At 8:30am we loaded up into a glorified cattle car for the half-hour ride from Lanquin into the national park Semuc Champey. The ride was a bit bumpy, but we were full of anticipation for the coming day in nature’s own water park.

Our first activity, upon meeting our guide, was to tie all sandals to the feet occupying them. Welcome to Guatemala, fashionistas: now please, wear some reasonable footwear. Having experience of the river-cave variety, I came equipped with my incredibly stinky converse, so my toes were well protected. As he was tying flip flops on using hemp rope, the guide oriented us to our day. “First, we do the cave. Swim, climb, swim, climb, swim, jump, swim, jump, swim, slide. Then we do the swing, jump and swim. Then we do the bridge, jump and swim. Then we climb. Then lunch. Then Semuc Champey: jump, swim, climb, slide.”

To paraphrase B: “huh?”

The entrance to the cave was a short climb up well-cut stairs. We were in up to our waists almost immediately, which was a bit of a shock to the system so early in the morning. Nothing like a bit of cold cave water to get that blood flowing. As we felt the river rocks settling into our shoes, the guide passed out a bevy of candles. Unlike Ixobel’s Cueva del Rio, here we were expected to swim the cave with one arm out of the water holding a candle. This is far, far more difficult than it sounds: especially when traveling with a group of clowns who all make each other laugh uncontrollably just when those core muscles are needed most. I made it about twenty meters into the cave before I sank with laughter; my candle remained tucked into my bikini bottoms for the rest of the journey.

Which brings up another point: the only one who looked sillier than the chicks with the flip flops tied to their feet might have been me, sporting cons and a blue bikini.

The cave was incredibly fun, and not just because of the company: there were rocks to climb, rapids to scale, waterfalls to jump down, and pools to swim in. One of the most challenging and exhilarating parts of the trip was when we had to climb up a waterfall (I kid you not). The fall was only about twelve feet tall or so, with small indents cut into the rock behind it as a food hold. Our guide pulled a knotted rope out of the gushing waterfall and gestured to the first guy in line — climb. A shared murmur of you’ve got to be kidding me rose up from the assembled group. B and I exchanged glances. My upper body strength has never been fantastic, even when I’m in great shape. A few days earlier I had pulled a muscle in my rib cage.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he whispered.

“Well, if I can’t make it, I can’t make it,” I shrugged. In reality, I was terrified. Jumping down waterfalls was one thing. Climbing up them was a whole different kettle of fish.

B’s turn came up. He took hold of the rope and started up. The guide had to take his foot and help him find the first foot hold, as he did with everyone; they were impossible to see through the waterfall. He pulled himself up. The adrenaline started to rush through my body as I watched him climb up through the waterfall, struggling to breathe, struggling to pull his body upward against the force of so much falling water.

I think I said something like “ohhhh, my god” as he finally made it to the top, scrabbling for a handhold as the water threatened to take him out at the thighs and send him plummeting back towards the rocks we stood on. Someone must have pulled him to his feet, because he disappeared from view. The guide, who was a genuine sweetheart, sensed my apprehension.

“No te preocupes, chica — si no quieres, hay otra manera de subir.” (Don’t worry, if you don’t want to, there’s another way to get up.)

“Okay. Pero . . . quiero intentarlo. Si no puedo, no puedo.” (Okay, but . . . I want to try it. If I can’t make it, I can’t make it.)

With those words, he handed me the knotted rope and gestured to the side of the waterfall where the footholds were carved. He said he’d help me place my feet, and wished me good luck. I stared up at the top of the waterfall, took a deep breath, and pulled myself up the first step.

Water pelted my head, neck, and shoulders. I couldn’t see a thing, and ducked my head towards my right shoulder to try to get a breath in, and avoid the onslaught. I managed to find the next foothold with the the help of the guide, and reached my hands up to the next knot. Grunting, I pulled myself directly into the heaviest part of the fall. Being a bit shorter than B, I was lucky; a rock just above my head gave me a bit of respite, and I was able to take in a big breath before pulling myself up the final two large steps.

My head broke through the surface of the falls, and I saw a large group of candle-bearing tourists who I didn’t recognize; they were an earlier group that was now returning in the same direction. I cursed. I had to go back down that waterfall, too? No way. Just as I felt my legs being pushed out from under me, B appeared to give me a helping hand up to the top, which I scrabbled across on all fours before I came to the ledge where the rest of our group were already standing. All of them said the exact same thing I did: I can’t believe I made it up that goddamn waterfall.

The rest of the cave was easy. The waterfall on the way back . . . not so much. I found it significantly more difficult to descend than to ascend, owing mostly to how far down the first foothold from the top was. At one point my left hand slipped off of the knotted rope and I was hanging on with one toe and one hand, holding my breath, and furiously trying to swing back away from the heaviest part of the falls. I managed to right myself, but my ribs sure weren’t happy with me after I made it down to the bottom. As we paddled our way back out of the cave, we reached the consensus that while the way up was incredibly difficult, the way down was incredibly unpleasant. Luckily I was with a great group of people, all of whom waited at the bottom for the person behind them to make sure everyone landed okay.

The last thing we did before leaving the cave was a natural water slide down another small waterfall — our first of the many that we would do that day. We picked our way through these rapids until we reached a restriction in the cave. The restriction took on the form of a tunnel, albeit one which had a six-inch wide crack running along the bottom, underneath which the waterfall was rushing. We sat down spanning the gap, scooted down, and pushed ourselves off. We fell down with the waterfall and landed in the pool below, where our friends were waiting for us.

After the cave was done, our guide was just gearing up. He took us back down to the main trail where another guide was waiting for us. He was waiting on a platform about twenty feet above the river, holding a giant trapeze-like swing. We gaped. The guide went first to demonstrate — he was more than six meters above the water when the swing reached its apex, and he had to drop off into the fast-moving river. Amazing! One by one we got onto the platform and readied ourselves to go for the swing. My own drop was fairly simple, but some of the guys did backflips and dives thanks to our hooting and hollering encouragement.

As if the swing weren’t enough, we made one last stop before our hike to El Mirador: the 12m high bridge that spanned the river. After that jump — one of the highest I’ve done so far — B wryly commented, “I don’t think I’ve ever done so much jumping, climbing, and sliding in my life.” His statement turned out to be a bit premature.

The group began the hike; I was feeling a bit crummy, so I opted to meet them on the other side. I was later told that my idea was fantastic, as El Mirador turned out to be a lot of muddy, slippery work for very little gain. While they were huffing and puffing their way to the top of a mountain, I made my sweet (level) way to Las Pozas, which is part of Semuc Champey proper. I sat with my feet in one of the pools and had my tuna sandwich. As I ate, I read about the geology of Semuc Champey.

Semuc Champey literally means ‘bridge over river’. Just before the bridge begins, there’s a gushing waterfall that drops down at least fifty, sixty feet (or more). This waterfall joins the underground river that passes underneath a long, wide limestone bridge. This limestone bridge makes Las Pozas of Semuc Champey; infinity pool after infinity pool, all made by mother nature. The pools go down in steps; sometimes only a foot or two, sometimes more than ten. The bridge is about thirty meters wide and many times that long, until Las Pozas finally form a waterfall of their own, and join the tumultuous river below.

I shared a bit of my lunch with one of the park officers — a Q’eqchi Mayan who was employed to prevent people from getting too close to the first waterfall, which has apparently killed several tourists in the past few years. He kept me company until my group came, and was the one who taught me how to say ‘mal’tiosh’.

The guide led my sweaty, tired friends over to where I was happily sitting, and we began yet another regimen of swim, jump, slide, and climb: this one at least as fun an exhilarating as the cave trip was. Happily, there weren’t any waterfalls to scale this time: just incredible scenery, good company, and a beautiful afternoon spent in paradise.

One of the coolest things we did were the natural waterslides of Las Pozas where the rocks have been worn soft and smooth with the passing of centuries. The guide would position us in front of him, and give us a big push — sending us hurtling down the rapids and into the pools below. We could dive, swim, splash, and play — and the guide was having at least as much fun as we were, laughing easily, letting out great big “whoop!”s of joy, and doing some very fancy flips off of some of the jumps.

After a beautiful day, we were loaded back up into our cattle car — wet, hungry, happy, and more than ready for a hot shower and Zephyr’s fabulous happy hour.

TIKAL.

After some technical difficulties, B and four friends we met at Los Amigos in Flores got started on the road to Tikal. We were in the park and walking around by 4, checking out all the different areas and trying to decide where exactly we were going to hunker down for the night. We wanted to sleep on top of a temple — which is strictly forbidden in the park (as is being there between 6pm and 6am), but weren’t exactly sure how to get up there without getting busted by security.

We headed towards Temple IV, the tallest of the pyramids (at around 70m) just before sunset / park closing. There was an exclusive sunset tour group camped out with a packed meal, and we figured that we might be able to slide around under the radar by sticking with them. They had a security guard in their detail, however, who started giving us shifty eyes as 6pm drew nearer. We bailed at ten minutes to the hour and bolted down the long, long, long staircase to the pathway below. The sun set and it grew dark as we descended and started on the way to Temple I and Temple II in the Plaza Mayor.

Suddenly we heard the noise of a patrol truck behind us. Without thinking we ran into the woods — I wedged myself behind a Ceiba tree. We all held our breaths as the truck passed ever so slowly, the two guards inside swiveling their heads looking to see which way we had gone. We tumbled back onto the road after the truck was out of sight in a jumble of nerves and hushed whispers. After some furious “ohmygod” “dude, what do we do” “shhh, shhh, shut up, I just heard something” style conversation, we decided to beat a hasty retreat to Temple II. We booked it to the base and climbed the steps to the top in a frenzy. It was 6:20 at that point, and if we got caught scaling the exposed face of the temple, it would be game over.

We reached the wooden gate at the top of the pyramid section after an arduous climb — and that was when we heard t he voices. Panicking, we vaulted the “do not cross” sign and scrambled up to the temple proper, which was shut off from visitors by a locked gate and yet another “no entry” sign. We were stuck, exposed, on the outside of one of the most visible temples in Tikal . . . and the flashlights and voices were coming closer. In a moment of inspiration, Xander tried the gate and — POP! — the lock sprang free. The gate slid sideways on its track to let us into the temple where we cowered in the corners away from prying eyes.

The tour group in the Plaza Mayor was making a lot of noise to test the amazing acoustics of the surrounding temples, so thankfully they couldn’t hear us shuffling nervously into hiding spots. The bats, however, could hear us quite well and twittered in response to our panicked whispers. A bit of recon showed us that the top temple room had been plastered over inside to prevent damage, vandalism, and entry into the lower levels of the pyramid. A shame, that — but one we didn’t have too much time to ponder as the tour group drew closer.

We prepared ourselves for a confrontation as lights flickered and flashed all up and down the face of the temple, but none came. The group turned and continued on its expensive after hours sunset tour. We had done it — and with seconds to spare on either side.

After a half an hour of careful, quiet listening we opened the gate and moved out onto the temple platform where we finally relaxed and pulled out our packed dinners. We lined the bottom of the entrance to the temple with sheets and sarongs, and made it our camp ground for the night.

The early evening gave us an amazing view across the Plaza Mayor to Temple I and the jungle beyond. The night was cool and beautiful, and we relaxed and took in the vibe. I wouldn’t call it an eerie vibe at all, which is somewhat odd considering what was done in some of the temples we were staying in and looking at. That said, Tikal does have a presence that inspires the imagination.

Some of us napped — others rested and listened to the beats and mournful drones of modern Mayan music. By 4:30am we were staring out into true dark — a nearly pitch black Plaza Mayor with a barely visible Temple I in the distance.

Then, we saw it.

“Did you see that?” I asked Z.

“What?” she asked.

“That — lights! It’s a group!”

It was. There were at least ten lights coming towards us, rounding Temple I towards the Plaza Mayor.

In a frenetic rush we ripped up all of our things, roused our dozing companions and dashed inside the temple once again. We whispered furiously at one another while using as minimal light possible to pack. The tour group drew near, shining their lights up and down the temple. We listened for the sound of climbing, but it never came — they moved past us to Temple IV to watch the sun rise over the jungle.

We gathered the last of our things and busted down the temple, across the road, and into the neighboring picnic area. We used the toilets as a regrouping spot, then decided to wait a little while at a nearby picnic table.

The moment we were settled, another group of lights walked by — a second private dawn tour group. We shut our lights off and sat in the black silence. All of us held our breaths — didn’t dare to move, hardly dared to think, lest they see us. To get caught by a tour group with a security detail would have been awful: guards can be pretty hard to bribe in front of ten angry paying customers. Luckily, although they passed within twenty feet of us, they had no idea we were even there.

Only a few moments after they disappeared from view, a guard came around the bend, making his early morning rounds, likely looking for anyone who, like us, was sneaking into the park before dawn. As he swung closer to us, the howler monkeys began their morning calls and conversations, utterly drowning out any minimal noise we were making. Distracted, the guard walked right by us without shining a light in our direction. Another close call.

When he disappeared, we vaulted to our feet and made brisk time down the road to Temple IV. We reached the base by 5:20 and began the long, steep climb to the top in the darkness. We hit the summit to the temple just as the sun began to rise. Exhausted, we collapsed on the steps, interspersed among the tourists who likely had no idea the kind of adventure our evening had entailed. Their adventure, after all, was paying dearly for the privilege of a Tikal sunrise, and being served breakfast and coffee by their attentive guides.

The sun rose over a jungle shrouded in rising mist. Once the early morning light illuminated the temple, we decided to head down and explore the rest of the grounds. We trekked through post-dawn Tikal, taking some final photos before heading back to the Plaza Mayor where we encountered our old friend Temple II in the misty daylight.

.

After a few more photographs, we made our early exit — sleepy, smiling, and covered in temple dust.

Ixobel

“I’ve always thought about getting certified as a scuba diver,” M admitted. “One of my friends did it. It’s actually a funny story – he’s been to more countries than I have, now, but he never even had a passport until he was 50. No one in our group of friends can believe it. He was a complete ‘fraidy cat, and now he’s traveling to these crazy places to go diving. What’s up with that?”

“Diving might give him a reason to travel,” I pointed out. “Some people don’t like planning vacations. Dive centers will plan your trip for you. Or he might be going to all-inclusive dive resorts; it’s like going to summer camp for divers. All of your daily activities and meals are planned already.”

“I guess. But no, that doesn’t make too much sense. All of his friends travel. I travel. We’d plan trips and invite him along, and he was always too nervous. Now he’s going on his own.”

I shrugged. “One of the things that I love about scuba diving is that it changes the way you think about yourself and your own capabilities. Scuba is a lazy sport physically – it’s not at all what people think it is – but mentally it can be pretty tough.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. A lot of people fight nerves and panic when they first start to dive. It’s fairly common. Usually with mask skills . . . if you get a little water in your mask, you have to deal with it underwater, without going to the surface. Getting the water out of your mask is physically quite easy, but . . . your brain doesn’t think so.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, think about breathing in and out through your mouth while there’s water against your nose.”

“Oh God, you can’t pinch your nose shut? I’d hate that!”

“Exactly. People’s lizard-brains are telling them to abort, abort, abort, because something bad is going to happen to them. It’s an instinct, and a good one, but not for diving. Diving is about rewriting those instincts. It can be pretty intense at times, but it’s really gratifying at the end, you know?”

“I would be terrified.”

“Most people are, in the beginning. They get down there and look at me with these giant ‘oh god what have I gotten myself into’ eyes. The thing is, they know that they’re not equipped to handle an underwater emergency. They know I am, but they don’t really trust me yet because they don’t know me. So it’s a bit rocky at first. But the whole point of the Open Water course is that it teaches the diver how to handle those emergencies. At some point during the course, it just clicks. When I first learned how to dive, my buddy had a defective mouth piece and had to switch regulators. I helped her do that. It was our first dive without an instructor in the water with us, we fell back on our training, and it all went off without a hitch. We looked at each other afterwards like, holy crap, we just did that! I remember this amazing feeling coming over me and thinking to myself, I can do this. I can handle this. I can take care of myself and my buddy. That’s what I love about scuba. That’s what I love giving to my students. That feeling of empowerment. It’s not something people are born with – it’s something that they foster. Something that they earn. Maybe that’s why your friend suddenly feels like he can travel the world – he feels like if he can dive, he can do anything.”

“I guess I can see that. I felt the same after I spent a few months volunteering in the mountains of Nicaragua. I was living with a family that spoke no English, had no electric or running water, I didn’t know a word of Spanish . . .”

“Scuba is just like that. For a lot of people, learning to dive tests their limits. It’s a life-changing experience, because they realize that they’re capable of so much more than they ever thought they were. And for me, being an instructor – when I see that look on their face, when they tell me they love diving now, when they tell me that they’re no longer afraid to do anything because god dammit they’re a scuba diver – I can’t even tell you how that makes me feel. I used to be that ‘fraidy cat person like your friend. Then my instructor did that for me – and I’m paying it forward and doing it for other people.”

“So you can teach me how to dive, huh?”

“Hooked on the idea already?” I joked.

“You’ve sold me.”

…

I mentioned in my last post how diving got me down a seven foot waterfall in the Cueva del Tigre. I didn’t dive the waterfall, of course, but my mantra of you’re a dive instructor, you can do anything made me put one foot below the other until I made it into the cool, swirling pool below. Being a diver – and an instructor, at that – has given me a more realistic picture of my capabilities than I otherwise would have had. I don’t just have confidence in myself, but deserved confidence in myself. I’m not faking it anymore. I know what I can do, and I can do a lot more than I’d ever dreamed.

So here I am, backpacking through Guatemala. Many have told me all of the reasons it’s a bad idea – murder, mugging, the works. While I appreciate their advice and concern, I can’t help but notice that their trepidation over my journey has more to do with their fear than with any real problems I might encounter.

Diving has helped me approach life from a different angle. I acknowledge that I could very well be mugged while on the road. I practice general traveling safety precautions as a result, since I by no means think I’m immune to disaster. That said, I don’t spend much time fearing or worrying over The Bad Things That Could Happen. If an unfortunate event does come to pass, I’ll handle it when it comes up. Rather than fearing the future, I have faith in my ability to respond to it. It’s a frame shift that has profoundly impacted my life in ways both large and small.

M is sitting in a hammock across from me as I type this, reading casually in the afternoon breeze. We’re at the Finca Ixobel right now – a beautiful farm in central Guatemala just 5km south of Poptún. She took a break from her reading a little while ago, and we wound up chatting about healthcare reform (of all things). In my eyes, healthcare reform is like any other hot-button social issue: people are reluctant to accept any kind of change. Even if change is obviously for the better, most prefer to cater to their fears and stagnate rather than put the time and effort into building something better. I told M that part of what I enjoyed about being a teacher was that I had the ability to put people in motion. She replied,

“But you’ll have to help them learn how not to be afraid, first. Everyone is afraid of everything: it’s how we’re taught by our parents, our teachers, the media, religion, our friends. Everything you hear and read now is some kind of scare tactic. Some people perpetuate it because it sells, or it culls, or it helps control people. Some people sell it because they’re afraid themselves, and they don’t know any better than to pass it on.”

If you want to make any sort of change, you have to teach people how to be unafraid. Or better: how to embrace fear and turn it into something positive – something kinetic.

…

I’ve been caving at Finca Ixobel. None of the trips I’ve done so far have been particularly challenging, but it hasn’t stopped raining for ages, so some of the hikes are very muddy and slippery. I’ve always had this fear of falling – not a fear of heights, but a fear of falling. This fear keeps me so tense that the few times I have fallen on hikes, I’ve usually been injured disproportionately for the fall that I took.

Hiking for me is a means to an end. The mental and physical difficulty it causes me doesn’t seem worth it unless the hike brings me somewhere I want to go. As I slipped and slid around the trails of the Finca in mud up to my ankles (RIP Converse), I thought back to all of the times in the past that I would have turned around and quit. The mud, the hot sun, the unsteady footing, the steep terrain – I would have simply convinced myself that the cave wasn’t that interesting (or that caving wasn’t for me) and gone back for a sulk and a shower. It was all too easy to see how one misstep would send me toppling ass over teakettle, after all.

What I didn’t know years ago is that fear is manageable. It’s a perspective and a state of mind, but not a state of being. I forced myself to laugh at the way my shoes kept getting half sucked off my feet by muddy puddles. I giggled at the way the mud felt inside my socks. I cracked jokes every time I skidded several feet down a steep slope. When I actually lost my balance and bit it, I was in a good enough mood that I let the guide drag me back to my feet in the midst of a string of self-deprecating humor and M’s hastily-snapped “omg this is so going on facebook” photos.

The manipulation of fear – yours and others – is an essential skill for everyone who passes thorugh the Rescue Diver course. I manipulated my own fear of the steep slope up to Cueva Ixobel. By changing my perception of the slope from perilous to entertaining, I relaxed myself to the point that when my fear ‘came true’ and I face-planted, I was loose and limber enough that I didn’t actually hurt myself.

Diving. As I say in my side-bar, it all comes full circle to diving in the end. If it didn’t, I never would have been able to do this:

Picking my way through the Cueva Ixobel outside Poptun, Guatemala.

Eye of the Tiger

The trip out of Livingston, Guatemala is beautiful, but you have to know what you’re looking for. In the words of one of my students, “You appreciate it a lot more coming from Río Dulce. At least then when you pass the gorge, you know it’s something special. Coming from the Livingston side, you’re sleepy and not paying attention, and don’t realize what you’re seeing until it’s gone.”

That about sums up the boat ride. Traveling west on the Río Dulce out of Livingston brings you immediately to a pass called La Vaca; a beautiful gorge with white cliff faces and overgrown jungle. The height is staggering. I found the exposed rock itself to be fascinating as well; there’s something incredible at being able to look through layers of history as they’re laid out in bedrock.  After just a few bends, however, the cliff faces recede into the rolling hills that frame the Río all the way to El Golfete.

Our way branched before that. Río Tatín – about a half an hour upriver from Livingston – snakes off just before the river opens up in El Golfete. Tatín itself is a short, fishtail of a river with two small falls at each source. Like Río Dulce, Tatín is a bit of a lazy river; in sunny weather the surface takes on a glass-like quality that’s every novice kayaker’s paradise. Even when the rains came, the current never picked up too much, making the small river the perfect place for a jungle getaway like the Finca Tatín.

I have nothing but wonderful things to say about the Finca. Spread upon the shores of the Río Tatín, the Finca provides everything that a traveler could possibly want in an off-the-beaten-path location. Carlos and Paolo, the owners and creators of the Finca, lovingly designed each cabin, balcony and pathway with a mixture of artistry, whimsy, and practicality.

The first thing I noticed when we stepped off the lancha was the stonework. Each walkway was made of concrete with set-in stones, all in various patterns. A single slab of concrete would often have two or three different kinds of stones set in to make moons, waves, swirls, and more. All along the river side were beautifully crafted stone swim steps that led down to the river. Such attention to detail was paid that it boggled my mind to think about how long it must have taken to complete construction. It was little details like that which really made the Finca so unique.

After a trip to the common area – a large open space with a dormitory on top and as many hammocks and couches one could possibly want – B and I decided on a waterfront cabin named Mariposa. Though one of the more expensive options (and that, at only Q200 per night!), we figure it was well worth the cost to have our own bathroom, a double bed, a single bed to lay out all of our clothing on, and a secluded waterfront balcony.

I went for a quick kayak that afternoon, which quickly became a late afternoon ritual for me. The Finca has kayaks for rent as well as DVDs, board games, a swimming hole, and several easily accessible local hikes. I took advantage of all of these during the down time between guided or planned tours.

The meals, as well, were far better than I had anticipated. Each night dinner is served family-style at seven, with all of the staff and guests eating together. The first course is always a delicious soup – cream of potato, mushroom, or carrot – with pita bread and chimichurri as a side. The main course changes depending on the day. While veggie options are always available (and are the best food there!), the options rotate between meat, fish, and vegetarian with a side dish and salad to round out the plate. I never left the table hungry, but I always left wishing I’d had the willpower to put my fork down ten minutes earlier.

Breakfast and lunch was a la carte, as were drinks. Everything at the Finca is done on the honors system: I’d grab a beer and put the tally down on my tab. It made the whole experience much easier and more laid back. While I’m sure I drank far more fizzy drinks than I would have if I’d had to pull out my wallet every time, it was more than made up for by the fair pricing. B and I were by no means slouches in the spending department that week, and yet still managed to get away underneath our maximum budget. Total score.

The guys at the Finca will organize various tours and trips at your request. One of the last days at the Finca, B and I decided to take the tour of the Cueva del Tigre [Tiger Cave], located on the Plan Grande Tatín reservation. A guide came to meet us at the Finca, and took us through the jungle for about a half hour’s hike up to the cave. One the way he explained a bit about his people, their town, the ecology of the jungle, and his language. Plan Grande Tatín is one of the many Mayan communities in which Spanish is a second language for its inhabitants. The Río Dulce region is home to the Qéqchi Mayans; one of twenty-something dialects spoken throughout Central America.

Upon reaching the cave, we encountered three Guatemalan tourists who joined our group. The six of us entered the cave together after our guide described the altar at the entrance, and how its use was meant to ask the boon of safe passage of the gods who guarded this holy space. The growing ecotourism movement within the local communities resulted in a series of hand rails and stepping stones to take us all the way down into the cave, which I appreciated greatly. As it grew dimmer, our guide brought out lamps for us to carry. They came in handy as we picked our way through the shin-deep rapids to the ledge just over the water fall.

It had been raining at night for our entire stay at the Finca. The deluge was a bit difficult to sleep through at first, but by the end of the week I found the sound of torrential rain to be somewhat calming. Obviously all of that rain had to go somewhere, and so the waterfall at the Cueva del Tigre was absolutely thunderous. The concrete ledge which extended over the fall was seven meters above the pool of water at the bottom, which in turn was over seven meters deep. I peered over the side into the frothing, sloshing water in the nearly-black cave below and thought to myself, oh God, what have I gotten myself into this time?

One of the Guatemalans asked whether we could jump; the guide shook his head ‘no’. Though a seven meter jump into the underground river was usually a part of the tour, the waterfall was so fiercely swollen that he was afraid we would be swept away by the current. Instead, he lowered a rickety aluminum ladder along the side of the falls until it just barely skimmed the water’s surface. After tying it off securely, he did us the favor of testing it himself and climbing down through the spray into the cave below. He dropped off the ladder and it was plain to see how strong the current was; he caught himself on the side of the cave and picked his way back towards the ladder.

B descended next, and even though I saw his safe, wet plop down into the underground river, I still found myself feeling apprehensive as I approached the swinging ladder. I sat down on the concrete overhang and wiggled myself into position, gripping the rope tightly as I felt the spray from the fall start to patter my legs and feet. As I stared ahead at the ladder and the wall of the cave beyond, I heard my own voice in my head playfully say, Come on, now. You’re a scuba diving instructor. You can do anything. So down I went.

The ladder swayed a bit on the way down, but it wasn’t until I was nearly at the water that I started getting heavily pelted by the falls. Rather than get knocked off the ladder I chose to jump, and landed with a satisfying splash in the cool river water below. I’m a fairly strong swimmer, so the current at the side of the cave wasn’t very difficult to fight. Once I found a handhold and a foothold in the wall, I was comfortable. The river water swirled insistently around us, but we were in a protected, vaulted area of the cave that let us swim against the current.

The guide took us a bit further down to have a peek into the next chamber. There, the water was incredibly strong, ripping us along the edge of the wall entirely without our say-so. We managed to grapple for handholds in between the two chambers, just far enough to see the point where everything faded into black. There’s something amazing about staring into a yawning void like the one we saw – something which awakens both an intense fear and an intense curiosity in me on a very primal level. I wanted nothing more than to see what was beyond, but knew with some certainty that whatever lay beyond wouldn’t be kind to a body that was protected only by a purple bikini. With some hesitation, I turned and clawed my way back to the dimly-lit, protected part of the cave.

It was around then that we realized that there was just enough room to squeeze behind the waterfall. It took a few minutes of furious doggy paddling and getting dunked by the falls once or twice, but B and I managed to make our way between muddy cliff and water. It was absolutely incredible. Nothing but rushing water, the tiniest pocket in which to stick our heads, the barest of toe holds – and a smile so wide I felt as though my face couldn’t contain it.

Cueva del Tigre was fantastic. After finishing our time in the water, we paddled back to the ladder and went the way we came – albeit with less trepidation the second time. Our guide brought us back through the jungle, pointing out all sorts of creatures along the way. We made the whole trip in one easy afternoon – an amazing reward for such little effort.

B and I left Finca Tatín after six days of easy living on the river. Now we’ve caught the cave bug, and so we’re off to Finca Ixobel (located between Poptún and Río Dulce) for some more subterranean expeditions.

Until then.

Shufflin’

For the most part, I’ve always disliked traveling. By that I don’t mean that I dislike leaving home or going to new places, but simply that I don’t enjoy the day or so that I usually have to spend getting there. I’ve always seen it as the price I have to pay – the hassle of busses, taxis, ferries, trains, etc. that will finally bring me to where I want to go.

The time I’m spending in Guatemala is the first shot at backpacking I’ve had, and I’m starting to enjoy the actual time in transit a bit more. Things are easier without suitcases (especially the kind with wheels), and I find that not having plane connections makes everything a bit less stressful. After all, if I miss a bus I lose out on what – five dollars? Missing a plane is a bit more costly.

That’s not to say I’m any stranger to busses, it’s just that I’ve always preferred to avoid them. Busses in Guatemala are a bit more entertaining, however – and I haven’t even been on a chicken bus yet.

On Monday we decided to make the jump from La Ceiba, Honduras to Livingston, Guatemala. If you look at the two towns on a map, you’ll probably think ‘oh, that’s not so bad’. The thing to remember, however, is that every bit of traveling in Central America takes at least four times as long as you’d otherwise expect. We had to leave Ceiba at 5am to have any reasonable shot at getting to Livingston in one day. As it was an early bus and we were feeling a bit plush, we decided to go for the Hedman Alas – possibly the Best Bus in the World. It’s like an airplane. They give you cookies and water. There’s even first class seating with those amazing La-Z-Boy style recliners up front. B and I had the back row to ourselves, and aside from the sweet sweet dreams I was having, I wasn’t aware of anything until I got nudged awake several hours later.

“Where are we?” B whispered. “Is this our stop?”

It was. We were at the Hedman Alas in San Pedro Sula, which is thankfully just one (miserable) flight of (concrete) stairs below the Terminal bus station where all of the local busses depart. After a sweaty climb and a few confused (sleepy) rounds of the terminal, a fast-talking miniature Honduran man approached us shouting “Cortes? Puerto Cortes?” Upon seeing my slow nod, he took off like a jackrabbit through the terminal – “¡Cortes, Cortes, vengan!”

I was feeling both too groggy and too dignified to chase after him. He seemed somewhat disappointed by that fact.

On the minibus to Puerto Cortes I learned two things about Guatemalan public transport: first, there is no end to the number of people they are willing to pack onto a single bus. Second, the NYC subway has nothing on the way salesmen and Jesus nuts take the floor during these trips.

The fast-talking miniature Honduran man was no slouch. He’d throw the bus door open at random intervals and jump out while the bus was still moving, sprint down the block, try to get a few more people to come on the bus, then run back. Sometimes he’d dash off around a corner or through a field to punch a card, deliver something, or do who-knows-what. I was just impressed with his speed. He was tiny, but man could he move.

As this was going on, B and I sat numbly next to one another with our bags in our laps, listening to a middle aged Honduran matron expound passionately on the Word of God. She had clearly delivered this speech several times, because she delivered it by rote in an impassioned tone that belied her floral mumu and otherwise benign appearance.

It was entertaining for a bit – B would ask me for updates – “Is that how you say fire and brimstone in Spanish?” “What’s it now, gay people?” “Is she telling us we’re all going to hell?” I kept him informed. “Nah, she’s ranting about how women who have sex before marriage are whores. And looking at me pointedly. She probably thinks I can’t understand her.”

We got off on a street corner at Puerto Cortes. In my naiveté I looked around for the Cital bus station, not realizing that the Cital was in fact a street corner. We managed to find one of my old friends there, who looked ready to take us to the border crossing at Frontera. Nothing like a big yellow school bus to brighten my day.

My legs were less squished by my pack this time, but I did manage to sit next to a rotating crowd of overweight people (this seems to always be my luck on public transport) which did nothing for my sense of comfort. I was, however, happy to be seated behind a Honduran man who was very into the radio station being played by the bus driver: a compilation of soft 80s rock. We were on back country roads when What Is Love came on, and I could see that he was trying to use the bouncing of the bus to disguise the fact that he was vigorously doing the SNL head nod.

His displeasure was tangible when the bus driver cut the soundtrack to make way for yet another traveling salesperson. Rather than hawking The Word, the newcomer dealt in worming pills. Using a shock-and-awe preaching method similar to Mumu’s fire and brimstone speech, he expounded on the terrors of intestinal parasites. Unlike Mumu, he brought pictures. Graphic, terrible, horrible pictures. I will never joke about using tapeworms for weight loss ever again. Happily B and I have no need to worry about parasites in the future, as everyone on the bus was given a free sample. “Let’s maybe not drink the water here,” B muttered under his breath as we each tucked the sample into our pockets.

…

Livingston appeared on the horizon after another bus and boat ride, sometime around 3pm. We made it past the hawkers and beggars (an actual achievement, given the greeting we received at the municipal dock) and strolled uphill to the Calle Principal. After some confusion, we located the discrete entrance for Hotel Río Tropicál, which seemed to be the cleanest hotel with a central location. Nothing bad to say there – fast wifi, easy access, friendly reception. The little courtyard was exceedingly cute as well. December marks the end of Livingston’s busy season, however, so the hotel was mostly deserted when we arrived mid January. We were so exhausted from the trip that it didn’t matter much to us – we were content to eat and sleep for a day.

One of the three afternoons we spent there was dedicated to the Seven Altars, a group of natural waterfall and rock formations located a few miles outside of Livingston. Rather than going with a tour group we opted to walk – it was a lot easier than we’d thought it would be. We took Calle Principal to the end, turned left, and wound up at the entrance about an hour and a half later. The entrance fee was a mere Q15 (about $2), and we spent about two hours splashing around in the pools and falls. Definitely worth the visit, even after rainy season has ended.

If you’re ever headed towards Livingston, some tips:

Places to stay: Hotel Río Tropicál for couples or families – Casa de la Iguana for backpackers. Iguana is further out of town, but provides dinners to its clients on a budget. It’s got a great vibe with a friendly staff, and its happy hour is definitely the best in town. They also offer several tours to the Seven Altars, Río Dulce, and a Reggae River Booze Cruise that looked like a lot of fun.

Places to eat: We didn’t eat our way through Livingston by any means, but some of the places we tried were surprisingly good. McTropic, for instance – right across the road from Happy Fish (restaurant and travel agency) made a great chow mein and yellow curry. Buga Mama down by the dock never disappointed either – they have a pretty decent Thai selection as well. I enjoyed their Pad Thai. The mojito was decent, and I’d definitely recommend their frozen lemonade with soda (seltzer water) and frappucino/mochaccino. Happy Fish, on the other hand, was overpriced and offered mediocre fare.