As I wave my final goodbyes, looking back at the fading shoreline of Belize, the fact has not really settled in that I will soon be setting foot in the beautiful country of Guatemala.
“I am actually doing it.” I ponder as a small burst of adrenaline rushes through my body. “I have no fear … I can do this … I will do this … I am doing this.”
Just a few months ago, the thought of traveling alone, further south into the countries of Central America, had paralyzed my body with fearful, anxious resistance. Now, here I am, with the only emotions flowing through my body being loving, joyful and energizing—fear is nowhere to be found.
I bask in the present moment.
As I look around me, in addition to the small crew of two, and then of course myself, there are six other passengers in this small, barely-ocean-worthy launch. The boat-mates that most fascinate me are a pair of brothers from Hungary. Their names are Ferenc and István. Both have lighter skin, tan baseball caps, and long bushy beards—and they speak English remarkably well.
Events of the previous twenty minutes flash momentarily through my mind.
Just before boarding the boat, I ask the two men about their four-foot-length poles. One of these poles is carefully strapped to each of their two large back packs, and they seem to handle these poles with great care.
“They are Didgeridoos,” one of them responds. “We made them ourselves.”
Looking closely, I notice that his mouthpiece is formulated out of gray duct tape.
Soon, I learn that these two have already been traveling for two years and seven months. After having walked from central Europe to the tip of South Africa, they are now working their way southbound through the Americas.
“We are on a six-year journey.” one of them begins to tell me while I listen intently. “We are doing a peace walk around the world. We try to walk about twenty miles every day. Each night, we stop and camp wherever we are. We originally thought we could complete our trip in two years, but now we estimate that it will take at least six. Before finishing, we hope we can say that we have walked over 25,000 miles through different countries all around the world, except of course in places where we are forced to take a boat or plane, like today.”
“Amazing,” I respond. “Do you have some type of blog or website where people can track your progress?”
“Yes, actually we do,” is their reply, “but, we ran out of cards to pass out. I can give you the web site address if you want.”
Soon the rest of us on the boat eagerly grab pens and paper to record the address of their blog, which is: (www.worldwalk-peacetour.blogspot.com).
As our boat begins backing away from the pier, the captain’s young assistant hands me a large black plastic tarp, asking that I share it with others on the back row.
“Great,” I giggle inside as I notice that the other two rows are not given such a tarp.
“It looks like we are in the wet seats,” I joke with the young couple seated next to me.
As the boat pulls away from the pier, the captain’s assistant passes out another tarp to be used along the right edge of the two benches in front of me.
“And it looks like I will be getting the brunt of it here on the right side,” I again giggle silently.
For the next hour, our boat bounces and crashes through waves. The combined factors of repeatedly hitting the waves at a slight angle, along with a slight westerly breeze, cause considerable light spray to land in one place—my seat.
I repeatedly cower behind my tarp each time the bow slams down after cresting a large wave. Quite frequently, the wet salty spray flies lightly in my direction. A part of me wants to simply lower my defenses, allowing my blouse, hair, and face to get drenched – but the responsible adult inside tells me “Stay dry Brenda—you don’t want to have to wash your hair or your clothes, blah, blah, blah.”
Unfortunately, I choose to listen to the boring fuddy-duddy adult.
As the beautiful vista of Livingston, Guatemala grows closer on my right, the launch begins to slow down to no-wake speeds. Upon removing the tarp, the protected body of my responsible adult self is still bone dry.
“What am I afraid of? Why am I so resistant to getting wet?” I ask myself silently as our captain ties up to a small wooden dock.
Hungry for Tourists
Almost immediately, our small launch is surrounded by eight to ten eager young Garifuna men, descending on fresh tourist meat.
“Do you want to go to Rio Dulce today?” several men loudly compete with each other for our attention, all speaking in Spanish.
“Tours to this place” and “tours to that place” are eagerly announced by the persistent men.
It takes me a while for the realization to sink in—“They speak Spanish here in Guatemala. No more Belizean English.”
I can’t really blame these unwanted intruders for trying to make a quick buck at my expense, but I simply want two things—a quiet economical place to sleep, and good, reliable, high speed internet. My heart is yearning for the opportunity to write, and to reconnect with the outside world.
As I step onto the pier, I have no idea where I will sleep tonight.
A young man holding a laminated sign with photos of a local hostel approaches me.
“Casa de Iguana is beautiful and quiet, is not very expensive, and is only a five minute walk,” He tells me.
“Yes, but do they have internet?” I ask specifically.
“Yes, I think they do,” he replies confidently. “I will take you there.”
Soon, our group of seven is stepping off the pier onto dry ground. When I realize that I am freely walking up into the streets of Livingston, I feel quite puzzled.
“Where is customs and immigration?” I ask the young local man that is guiding us.
“It is in a building just up the street,” he responds. “Don’t worry, I will take you there.”
After filling out a small immigration form, I hand both the form and my passport to one of two customs agents. Seconds later, a fresh clean page of my passport has been stamped. In the center of the stamp is today’s date, March 12, 2010. Written in pen on one side is the number 90 with a small circle around it.
“I guess I get to stay here up to 90 days.” I think to myself, as I turn to walk away, marveling at the lax border control protocol.
Talking Flyers
My cozy little room at Casa de Iguana consists of a tiny bedroom on the second floor. Two other similar rooms share a narrow and very steep wooden staircase down to the ground below, where I discover a single shared toilet and shower.
“This is perfect,” I tell myself as I carry my little laptop to the hostel’s small restaurant/office, hoping to get setup for wireless access.
I can really imagine myself staying put here for a while, swinging on these beautiful hammocks, writing, writing, and writing.
Over and over, I try in vain, but the network name is simply not available. The young employee tells me that the hostel’s wireless is actually shared by the whole immediate neighborhood.
“I will go make sure it is on,” she tells me as she leaves to run next door. “The neighbors shut it down every night, and maybe they forgot to turn it back on this morning.”
To make a long story short, the internet at the hostel never works, period, and I begin to wonder if the universe wants me to retrace my steps, to consider different options.
“Yes, there are internet cafes nearby,” I tell myself stubbornly. “But extended blog posting, especially with photos, will be quite costly and time consuming in such a location. I want to connect my laptop to the internet.”
A strong “internet attachment” is beginning to unfold in my desires. I am so focused on this ego-based desire that I begin to leave the present moment, ever so subtly losing touch with my heart.
“I guess I can live without writing for two more days.” I peacefully remind myself as I sign up for an all-day tour, touching on Garifuna culture, the town of Livingston, and a trip out into the jungles. The tour will leave early tomorrow morning.
The Garifuna culture has a fascinating origin. In the late 1600’s, several British slave vessels were shipwrecked on the Caribbean island of San Vicente. The African people gradually began intermarrying with indigenous people from the island. Hundreds of years later, the descendants of these mixed-race people now comprise the Garifuna culture that has settled in various places on the Caribbean coast of Central America.
Friday night, as I join a large group of travelers during the hostel’s delicious family-style 7:00 p.m. dinner, I feel an inner tug telling me that this is not the place for me. The people, mostly very young, are nice—but I feel no energetic connection whatsoever. My heart is edgy and impatient.
Tomorrow’s tour has a minimum of two guests, and I am still the only one whose name is on the list.
“Could the universe be telling me, in a not so subtle way, that this tour is not for me?” I ask myself with a feeling of inner recognition.
As I later engage in horizontal meditation on my bed, I am puzzled, searching for possible clues about where or what I should do next. I feel a restless mental nudge as I get up from my bed.
“Move on,” the Jedi voice silently whispers.
“But to where, and when?” I continue to ask in blind silence.
I know I will be going to the town of Rio Dulce soon—but confusion still bubbles inside.
As I fiddle with a few items on a small wooden shelf in the room, I discover a small stack of flyers advertising a place called “Finca Tatin”.
The description energizes my heart: Isolated, affordable cabins, scattered around in the jungle, kayaks, swimming, hammocks, jungle tours, near Mayan village—and most of all, internet. All of this being situated on the banks of a small tributary to the Rio Dulce river just ten kilometers upstream from Livingston.
“This is my next stop,” my peaceful heart quietly whispers.
Then ego adds, “Perhaps I could spend ten days there while getting caught up on my writing.”
Early Saturday morning, before eating breakfast at the hostel, I remove my name from the tour list—a list that is now empty.
Without saying a single word last night, that little flyer on the shelf had talked loudly to my heart—I am moving on, ever so slightly, to a little jungle hotel just six miles away.
Wireless Wars
Shortly after 2:00 p.m. on Saturday afternoon, my Finca Tatin shuttle finally arrives at a tiny pier near the Casa de Iguana.
The famous 45 minute ride up the beautiful Rio Dulce (Sweet River) is gorgeous. The huge river meanders back and forth through a series of sharp bends, surrounded on both sides by pristine mountainous jungle. In many places, these mountains are almost vertical as 600 foot sheer cliffs provide breathtaking vistas. Scattered throughout these scenic lush jungle-covered canyons are trees crowded with beautiful, white, long-legged, long-necked birds.
Periodically, I spot a tiny homemade wooden canoe—the kind made from a hollowed out log—slowly paddling upstream while hugging the gorgeous shorelines. I observe that the water is much smoother under these edges where large trees frequently overhang, providing both shade and shelter. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for these low-riding canoes when confronted by wakes from large passing boats. Even in calm glassy waters, the tiniest canoes often look as if they are about to take on water.
Invariably, these little hand-crafted boats are occupied by someone with dark brown skin and black hair—all of them appearing to be beautiful Mayan people. Several women and children crowd into some of the larger canoes. The smaller ones usually have only a single passenger—a man, a woman, or even a young boy.
All too quickly, my scenic boat ride is over as my tiny launch, piloted by Gabby, a young woman originally from Nicaragua, turns north into a small tributary—the Tatin river.
Within ten minutes, I am sitting in a large sheltered common area, having a delightful conversation with a young man named Bjorn—from somewhere in Europe.
“What do you mean you don’t have internet?” I ask him with a patient smile on my face. “But your flyer specifically says internet.”
“We are listed ON the internet,” he tells me, but we do not have internet access here. We are in the middle of the jungle. We do not even have electricity during the daytime. We have a generator that runs every night from six until about ten o’clock. During those hours we have lights, and you can charge computer, cell phones, and cameras, etc…”
I lovingly bite my tongue and re-center myself in peace. “The universe is simply having some fun with me,” I chuckle to myself as I manage to remain calm and collected.
I still believe that I was internally guided here, but the ego-struggle of wanting things my way, wanting fast reliable internet, is beginning to chew on the edges of my peaceful heart.
As I scan my beautiful and inviting surroundings, I surrender to the moment and begin assimilating into the incredible relaxing environment.
Everything I need is right here—a restaurant with home cooked food, a place to sleep, jungles and rivers to explore, and even night-time lighting. The only thing missing is what ego most wants—internet.
Kayak Kudos
“I think I might want to do some kayak exploring tomorrow,” I tell myself. “Maybe I should take one out tonight to see what I am up against.”
Only minutes before 4:00 p.m., I am gliding over the smooth waters of the Tatin river, heading toward the open waters of the Rio Dulce. My white, one-woman kayak is perhaps ten feet in length, with a three-foot opening in the middle where I sit on a small fiberglass seat. I am quite comfortable leaning back while sticking my toes up under the opening in front. With my two-headed paddle, I gently alternate strokes on both sides of the kayak, repeatedly slicing the paddles deep into the flat surface of the water that lies only inches away.
I soon learn that my little one-hour kayak trial run will be a very wet one. With nearly every alternating flip of the paddles, water runs to the middle near my hands, and then drips right onto my lap.
With each passing stroke, the paddling wears on my gradually tiring arm muscles. The repetitive down-then-pull followed by an up-then-push motion exercises muscles that seem to have been hibernating in some dark cave, perhaps for years if not longer. My arms and shoulders begin to ache but I press forward with my goal—thirty minutes out and thirty minutes back.
Just an hour after engaging in my trial run, I am back at Finca Tatin, struggling to push my little kayak onto the storage rack from which I removed it earlier.
“These kayaks are heavy,” I exclaim to myself as I place the paddle back among the others.
As I walk toward my little private bungalow, a small hut nestled out in the jungle, I am tired and dripping from the waist down.
But one thing is very certain. I am very proud of myself. While I still postpone a decision about tomorrow, I am confident that should I decide to face the challenge of a long day of kayaking, I am indeed capable.
Tired maybe, but capable.
Instinctive Answers
For the second night in a row, I sit down to a family-style home cooked meal. The only difference being that it is now Saturday night, and I am at Finca Tatin.
As I sit to eat at 7:00 p.m., I find myself doing a lot of listening and very little talking. The food is a delicious, but my conversation confidence is lacking. On one end of the table, about 7 people chat away in German. On the other end, a similar number of guests and staff chatter away in Spanish. I frequently glance at the only other guest present—an American man in his low forties. He too remains mostly quiet.
With a full stomach, I excuse myself and begin to head for my room. The generator is running so I have the luxury of a few hours of lighting, and I am not feeling especially social. It’s not that I am feeling anti-social, I simply do not feel a magical energetic connection with anyone at the Hotel, and I am craving some quiet meditation time.
Bjorn follows me out of the restaurant and asks what my plans are for tomorrow.
“I think I would like to take a kayak out all day tomorrow.” I respond instinctively, without having previously made a final decision. “Can you recommend where you think I should go?”
By 9:30 p.m. on Saturday night, I am curled up in my comfortable double bed, snuggling with my pillow under the cover of a large white mosquito net.
Biotopo Beauty
At 8:45 on Sunday morning, I am raring to go, waiting eagerly on the small hotel dock for my chauffer to arrive. I would have set out by myself over an hour earlier, but I had instead opted to ride one leg of my long journey in a boat—and the hotel staff could not take me any earlier than 8:30.
For only 30 Quetzales (about $4 US), I will get a two hour head start on my journey, conserving precious muscle energy for my morning explorations. A small launch will carry my kayak several miles up the river, dropping me into the water at a place that Bjorn calls the “Biotopo (bee-oh-TOE-poh).”
Over my swimsuit, I wear a small button up blouse and a pair of light cotton capris. Getting wet today will not be an issue—in fact, I plan to get wet.
In addition to a bottle of water and some sunscreen, the only other possession I carry is my camera, carefully sealed in a zip-lock bag and then stuffed into a case secured snugly around my upper waist.
Shortly after 9:00 a.m., my little kayak slides from its position atop the small launch down into the smooth glassy waters below. Once the kayak is parallel against the hull of the launch, I carefully step in, keeping my weight balanced over the center. In just seconds, I am securely seated on my flexible fiberglass seat, and the launch speeds away.
I am now isolated and alone, free to explore anywhere I desire—yet also fully aware that it is now completely up to me to make my way back to Finca Tatin.
As I scan my beautiful surroundings, I am overwhelmed by the beauty of everything around me: swampy islands covered in mangrove trees, taller overhanging trees filled with loud joyful birds, smooth glass-like waters, skies that radiate a beautiful blue, and shady areas all along the shorelines in which I can take refuge should the sun decide to turn on the heat.
Gradually, while conserving energy, I slowly paddle my way down the smooth channel toward what I am told will soon split. The right side will lead into a small lake. The left side will flow past a maze of small mangrove covered islands. I meander into the left side, simply inhaling the beauty around me. The swamps gradually turn into small low-lying islands. After thirty minutes I hear the sound of singing, and realize that even though I cannot see anything, I am very near to the church of a small Mayan village.
“Of course,” I tell myself. “It is Sunday morning and they are all enjoying services together.”
Soon, I see what looks like many pieces of discarded litter floating in the water. I paddle over to examine the bottles and foam floaters and discover that they are not litter at all. Each is attached to a small piece of nylon twine that sinks down to the bottom somewhere below. I tug on one such string and speculate that whatever is down there is probably some type of fishing device or net.
Little by little, I recognize signs of habitation. In two spots, I can barely see small huts through the trees, with a few wooden canoes lying on the shore. Then, as I enter a small lake, I see an occupied canoe.
I watch as a man attaches twine to a piece of Styrofoam and then throws a small round cage-like device out into the water. The foam floats on the surface, allowing the fisherman to retrieve his hopeful catch.
Over and over, I watch from a distance as two such men, in different parts of the small lake, continually paddle and throw. Then I observe closely as one of the men begins to pull his fishing devices back to the surface. As he discovers that they are empty, he carefully places them back into his wooden canoe and moves on to the next.
I hear a faint call in the distance, “Hello.”
Glancing toward the shoreline, I see a friendly young boy about fifty yards away, sitting in a small wooden canoe.
“Hello,” I call back while waving.
I notice that the boy is fishing without a pole. Over and over, the young lad throws a small string into the water and then pulls it back into the boat. At my distance, I am unable to see additional details.
After about an hour of heading west, I turn around, partially retracing my route, with intentions to explore a few of the side channels past which I have previously drifted—all the while being extremely careful to memorize my every move.
As I follow one of the small channels between two islands, I realize that I am now entering another larger lake. As I explore the shores of this lake, I pass what is obviously the front side of the same village. While thick foliage covers most of my view, several lakeside dwellings are clearly visible. Fond memories whisk me back to nine incredible days in the tiny village of Santa Elena. I would love to visit today with these local Mayan people, but instead I respond to tired muscles that are telling me “its time to move on.”
By 11:30 a.m., I arrive back at the entrance to the Biotopo. A slight breeze has picked up, and the waters of this wide slow-moving river are no longer like glass. Having been shaken and stirred by a continuous day-long barrage of frequent boat traffic, the beautiful Rio Blanco is now filled with unpredictable small rolling waves.
As I round one bend in the landscape, I encounter a stiff continuous series of small rolling waves, fanned by a small headwind. Some of the waves are unavoidable, and slap forcefully into the tip of my kayak, overflowing the sides and spilling onto my now soaking legs.
Even though I am paddling downstream, the mild winds at this spot begin to push me backward.
Asking my muscles for forgiveness, I redouble my paddling efforts. Once I pass through this one-hundred-yard stretch of turbulence, the river again calms, my journey resumes a more relaxed pace.
Just after 2:00 p.m., I finish my long exhausting journey, tired but energized by the experience.
Unexpected Stories
Sunday evening’s family-style dinner is a repeat of Saturday—different food but same disconnected feelings—only this time the German group has moved on, and the Spanish speakers dominate.
As I walk from the restaurant back through the center of a hammock-filled common area, I feel a prompting to speak to the forty-something American man who is stretched out in a hammock.
“It’s kind of hard just sitting there,” I begin, “watching everyone else converse while we just quietly struggle to barely understand what they are saying.”
Unexpectedly, our English conversation takes off in a burst of connecting energy. Soon, I find myself reclining in an adjacent hammock. Nearly an hour later, Bill excuses himself, leaving me deep in thought.
Just last year, Bill and his wife took a Caribbean cruise, with a one-day stopover in Roatan, Honduras. When scanning through a long list of possible day-trips, they followed their feelings. A little trip called “visit a craft village” seemed to call out to them, and they signed up for the tour, not having the slightest clue where they might be headed.
Before Bill and his wife knew what was happening, their tour boat whisked them over to Guatemala, past the port city of Livingston, up the Rio Dulce, and down a tiny tributary called the “Rio Tatin.” The main stop of the tour was to a large Mayan boarding school where over 500 children, some of them orphans, are receiving an education.
“As I came out of the first segment of that tour,” Bill tells me with emotion, “I sat down on a bench and just began to sob uncontrollably. No one around me knew what to do with me. I just lost it completely.”
“My heart was overwhelmed with love and compassion, and a sense of internal knowing,” Bill continues. “Something inside told me that I had to come back, to do something to help.”
As we continue our discussion, I learn that Bill and his wife have begun some fundraising to raise money to help these children—purchasing mattresses, and whatever other supplies might be needed for the school and for the children.
“I came back down here this week to meet with the school’s leaders, to investigate possible ways that we might be able to help,” Bill adds. “I have been over at the school every day. These children are so beautiful. I just want to help them so much.”
My heart overflows with emotion as I listen to Bill’s genuine stories.
“Is there some type of website with information about the school?” I ask, expecting the answer to be no.
“Yes, they have a beautiful web site.” Bill responds. “They have generators at the school, and even have limited satellite internet access. Some of the children help to maintain the site.”
Soon, I have the web address, www.aktenamit.org, scribbled on a piece of paper, eager to learn more about this amazing program.
Sunday evening, as I prepare for what I hope to be a restful sleep, I now realize the real reason why I am in Finca Tatin. I was supposed to connect with Bill and hear his inspiring story. While I have no idea what, if any contact we will maintain in the future, one thing is sure. My heart resonates with love and peace.
A Little Bit Pissy
Monday morning, at 10:00 a.m., I sit on the small wooden dock in front of Finca Tatin. Having already said my goodbyes, my red backpack waits beside me. Shortly after 10:15, a launch crowded with travelers from Livingston stops to take on yet another passenger—yours truly.
The ninety minute ride further up the Rio Dulce is beautiful, but nothing today can compare to my previous river trip from Livingston.
As we dock at our final destination in the town of Rio Dulce, the boat’s other passengers scatter quickly, rushing off to catch connecting buses. As I stand alone, completely clueless about the town’s layout or its hotels, a young man approaches me with a laminated flyer.
“Tortugal is a beautiful place to stay,” he tells me in Spanish. “It is just a free five minute boat ride from here.”
“Do they have internet?” I ask, with a feeling of strong emotional attachment.
“Oh yes,” he tells me. “They have very good internet.”
Then the young man proceeds to show me the word “internet” printed in bold letters on his laminated flyer.
After nearly an hour long wait for my free shuttle, the little hotel launch finally arrives. Just minutes later I am disembarking on yet another small dock, carrying my luggage up to a restaurant counter that doubles as the hotel’s front desk.
To make a long story short, the only vacancy at the hotel turns out to be in a large nine-person dormitory—which at the present moment is completely empty. I’m not really interested in sharing a room tonight, but I am here and the afternoon is late, so I opt to give it a try. After securing my bags in the room, I walk back to the office to inquire about internet.
Even though the exterior of the hotel is surrounded by expensive yachts and sailboats, and the beautiful place is crawling with English speaking tourists, there is no wireless.
The only internet in the entire complex turns out to be a single shared desktop computer, squirreled away upstairs. With only the monitor and keyboard exposed, the computer cabinet is locked in a wooden box, allowing no access for plugging in a headset or a USB storage device. And then there is the speed. The satellite link turns out to be extremely lethargic.
“I can’t use this computer to upload photos, copy files to my blog, or to phone friends.” I silently pout while trying to hide the scowl on my face.
It seems that I am getting just a little bit pissy.
Attempting to hold a smile on my face, I walk to the front desk in search of information.
“Is there some way I can walk to town?” I ask politely.
“You need to take the free shuttle at 2:00 p.m.,” she responds.
A glance at my watch tells me that 2:00 p.m. is more than an hour away.
Feeling very trapped and disconnected from the world, I wait, and wait, and wait—trying so hard to maintain a loving, peaceful, centered feeling in my heart.
Finally, at 2:45 p.m., the young boat driver finally graces us with his presence.
By now, I am feeling even more trapped and pissy—especially since another guest in the restaurant has just barely told me that I could have walked to the town in less than fifteen minutes.
But even as my internal emotions swirl around in my gut, I manage to remain the observer.
I watch the feelings arise. I am keenly aware of them. I feel them deeply. I continue watching them. I humor them.
But I never fully buy into them. I never allow them to consume me. I don’t validate their attempts to make me the victim.
Even in the midst of my unsettled, impatient, whining emotions, I maintain in my heart the knowledge that everything will turn out perfectly in the end.
Two hours later, as I return to Hotel Tortugal on the free 5:00 p.m. (or was that 5:30 p.m.) launch, I am beginning to feel much more centered. Starting tomorrow, I have reservations for an in-town hotel with a high speed cable internet connection and a quality wireless router. Soon I can begin following the passions that are boiling inside of me. Soon I can begin writing, writing, writing, and more writing.
A New Attitude
With pissy internet tantrums behind me, I relax into a delightful meal in Tortugal’s restaurant, followed by a magical evening in the jungle. As it turns out, my nine-person dormitory has only one resident tonight—I have the place all to myself, and what an interesting place it is.
There are no outside walls in this house of screens. With a wooden frame and a towering thatch roof, this two story dormitory is completely encased by window screen. Every breeze, every sound, every scent, and every eye is free to penetrate—only the bugs are kept at bay.
To make things more interesting, there is no lock on the free-swinging front door. Any two legged animal can come and go at their leisure.
In many ways, I do indeed feel as if I am sleeping on a twin bed out in the open jungle. The feeling is almost eerie—yet at the same time I feel perfectly safe, almost mesmerized by the experience.
During the night, a small rainstorm passes through. With a slight breeze, I actually get a small amount of mist blowing through the screen onto my face. But even so, I manage to get a minimal, but adequate sleep.
Tuesday morning, after checking out of the hotel, I wait for the 9:00 a.m. shuttle back to town. Then I laugh to myself as I think, “Or was that 9:30?”
The Place to Be
As the free launch chugs toward town, I am surprised when we pass right by the main taxi dock. Instead, our shuttle stops at a small dock directly in front of Bruno’s hotel and marina—the exact place where I have my new reservations.
As we tie up at the dock, a boat from Finca Tatin simultaneously pulls up on the other side of the dock. I run over to say hello when I see my new friend Bill climbing out of the boat. After fifteen minutes of reconnecting conversation, we once again say goodbye. Bill slips into the front seat of a van headed for Antigua. I check into my new temporary home.
My private room at Bruno’s is nice, but very basic. For $16 U.S. per night, I have a double bed with sheets, a chest of drawers, a towel, and a private bathroom with shower. There is no spray head on the shower, but hey—the solid spurt of water coming out actually gets hot after a while.
My only requirement is met in a fabulous way. The wireless internet is reliable and fast. I don’t mind the fact that it does not function in my room. This slightly inconvenient fact actually proves to be a valuable way to make new friends. I find it amazing how many interesting people you can meet when you sit outside for twelve to fourteen hours every day.
For seven continuous days, beginning on the morning of March 16, I do not leave the hotel complex. If I am not sleeping, showering, or eating, then I am on the computer—either outside on the patio or sitting in the restaurant—occasionally communicating with friends back home, but mostly just passionately writing. The experience of writing becomes deeply meditative, electrifying, and spiritually uplifting.
It is not until late on Monday, March 22nd, after completely catching up on my Belize writing, that I finally head into town in search of additional cash at an ATM.
I suddenly realize that I have been living in two worlds here in Rio Dulce. The hotel environment feels very western, with its marina filled with expensive boats and its restaurant frequented by foreign tourists.
But just one block away is a completely different world.
As I pass along the narrow main street of Rio Dulce, I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable and uneasy. The street has more of a third-world feel than anything I have yet experienced in my travels. My defenses are up. I feel cautious as I walk through outdoor markets, passing by street vendors while watching my back as busy traffic tries to squeeze down the crowded street.
After returning to my hotel, I begin to question myself, to question my safety, to question my sanity. As I go bed on Monday night, I am indeed slightly fearful and defensive.
Kidnapped
The next morning (Tuesday, March 23) at 5:15 a.m., I awaken with a start, from what is turning out to be a very interesting, powerful, and multi-faceted dream.
As I walk down the street of an unknown city, I unexpectedly walk into some sort of gambling establishment. Three men surround me and tell me that I have won something big. After asking me to sit down in front of a slot machine, one man then asks for my player’s card and sticks it into the machine for me.
“You’re all ready to play,” he tells me.
Seconds later, the lights flash, and I realize that I indeed won something very big. The men promptly escort me to a second story window, where I am asked to stick my arms outside.
Amazingly, I seem to be witnessing this scene from outside the building. As my hands stick out the window, I watch some kind of force field pass through and around my hands. Somehow, I sense that this force field has just scanned my physical identity.
“This is a trap,” I think as I begin to panic. I’m losing my secret identity. They tricked me into coming in here so that they could entrap me in some way.
Suddenly, I see myself standing on the ground below the window—but the ground turns out to be a small wooden dock. I sense that I am being taken captive and I black out.
At some unknown time later, which in the dream seems like a mere instant, I awaken (still in the dream). As I look around, I recognize that I am now in a boat in the middle of the ocean.
“Where am I?” I ask with a very peaceful feeling while looking at a young child sitting beside me.
“You are in Astral,” the child replies with a look of deep love and peace in his eyes.
As I look around me, I spot a tiny island, similar to the tiny Renaissance Caye where I camped one night in Belize. Then I look around again and notice that we are landing on a larger inhabited island.
While walking ashore, I notice happy people, bicycles laying on the ground against houses, children playing.
“I am being held captive by a very beautiful people,” I think to myself.
My memories flash back to nine incredible days in the tiny village of Santa Elena. In that village I had an incredible experience—yet the whole time I felt as if I were an outsider, forcing my way into their world, asking them to teach me their culture.
Suddenly, I realize that the tides have turned. Here, I am their invited guest. They have brought me to their island village to learn their culture. I am not an outsider. They want me to be here with them.
“This should be extremely interesting,” I tell myself as I look around and make eye contact with a tall and beautiful indigenous woman. Her skin is a dark brown. Her smile and glowing eyes reassure me that all is well.
I then wake up, realizing that I am in my sheet covered bed, back in my room at Bruno’s Marina.
Forget Everything You Know
Immediately, I get out of bed and quickly record every detail that I can remember about the dream—having no clues what the symbolism might mean.
Fifteen minutes later, I resume a horizontal meditation position in my bed, closing my eyes while immersing myself back into the dream.
“What does it all mean?” I ask myself.
Soon I realize that I was not kidnapped at all. The people who took me into the casino, and then took me away on the boat were my spiritual guides. They were not taking me captive; they were lovingly guiding me to a new cultural experience, in a new world.
A few minutes later, I drift into some sort of lucid dream, I find myself standing in front of a woman, discussing the dream and my cultural experiences. As I listen to her speak, two powerful phrases pass from her lips, simultaneously resonating with my soul.
“Forget everything you know,” she tells me.
Then she adds, “And lower your defenses.”
Energetic shivers fill my body as I once again awaken in my bed. The message resonates powerfully in my soul.
I am not an outsider here in this new culture. I was brought here by my guides, and I will be having incredible experiences among a vibrant and beautiful people.
As I ponder the meaning of “Forget everything you know,” the spiritual significance seems obviously clear. When I think I know something, I am unwilling to look at other possibilities or belief systems. It is only through opening my mind and allowing new ideas to enter that I am truly free to let divine inspiration flow through me.
Likewise, the phrase “and lower your defenses,” is equally clear and powerful to me. Repeatedly on my journey, I find myself feeling resistant to something new, defending myself against this or that possible danger—whether it be bug bites, water on my clothing, or an uneasy feeling around a new and unfamiliar culture. With raised defenses, I cannot grow, I cannot learn, I cannot experience life and unconditional love.
One Step Further
Tonight, as I write and meditate about this dream, I realize that the meaning goes yet another level deeper.
The men who invited me into the casino were indeed my guides, telling me that a huge unimaginable prize is awaiting me. But in order to win the prize, I must be willing to sit down and play. I must be willing to stick my identity card into the machine.
Once I win, as I am asked to trust by sticking my hands through the open window, I suddenly feel my secret identity being stripped away from me. I realize that the prize is one of divine origin, but the physical body and ego mind begin to panic, believing that they are being exposed, destroyed, even kidnapped—losing their identity.
When I reawaken in a new place with beautiful smiling faces, I see oceans, children, and bicycles. I am surrounded by symbolic images that carry powerful messages for me.
Oceans have always brought me a feeling of great spiritual energy, strength, and power.
Children have always reminded me of purity, innocence, trust, love, openness and flexibility. Children don’t think they know all the answers, and they are not defensive about learning new truths.
And then there are the bicycles, my favorite powerful symbols of the freedom to explore, to be my true and genuine self. I am so thrilled to see that bicycles do indeed exist in my amazing new world.
Finally, I ponder the answer given to me by the young child when I asked him, “Where am I?”
“We are in Astral.” He had answered.
Until this evening, I had no concept of the meaning of the word “Astral.” Tonight, after just a few minutes researching possible meanings, I am astounded by the possible symbolism of what my dream might really be telling me.
Could the dream really be talking about an Astral realm?
One thing is absolutely certain, however. As I prepare to go forward on my new adventures in Guatemala, I will be doing everything I can to lower my defenses while simultaneously purging my mind of old stale worn out core beliefs.
I cannot wait to see where this amazing journey may guide me—both in the physical realm and in the spiritual one as well.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved