The lemon chicken is delicious. With each bite, I peacefully grin while reminiscing about today’s fun and energizing daytrip with Domingo and Robert. As I place the last tender morsel of flavorful chicken into my mouth, I glance up to notice a thin white-haired man walking up to my table. With a gentle smile on his face, this sweet man, whom I guess must be in his late sixties or early seventies, begins to chat.
“Didn’t you arrive today with that big group over on the dock this afternoon?” He asks while pointing down toward the waterfront behind him.
“Oh, no.” I reply. “I have been in Rio Dulce for ten days.”
Over the course of the next few minutes we briefly introduce ourselves, who we are, and what we are doing here, etc.
“Oh, yeah.” John remarks with a look of recognition on his face. “You are the blonde lady who has been sitting over there on the porch tapping away on her laptop every day, all day long. My buddies and I were talking about what a boring life you must have.”
“On the contrary.” I reply with a giggling smile as I explain about my writing and my recent visit to the Mayan village. “My life is overflowing with love and excitement. I’m just so passionate about writing that I simply cannot stop until I finish.”
The conversation quickly shifts to the Mayan people. Almost immediately, a second man sits down and joins the conversation. Chuck, one of John’s good friends, has been walking past my writing bench all week long, being silly and semi-flirting by making joking comments such as, “We have just got to stop meeting like this,” or “I’ll see you right here in two hours.”
I am caught off guard by Chuck’s first comments at the table.
“The Mayans really are an uneducated people, aren’t they?” Chuck remarks casually. “They are stupid, resisting education, refusing to participate in progress. These illiterate people are not being efficient with the land and are wasting our resources. They need to be taught how to move forward—how to join and compete with the rest of the world.”
Immediately, my heart encourages me to engage both John and Chuck in a friendly discussion about judgment and deeply held beliefs. I explain my insights about how arrogant it is for many in our “advanced” western culture to assume that we must educate and domesticate these beautiful Mayan people—teaching them how to be, to act, and to think like us.
My goal is not to defend nor convince—but merely to lovingly point out that perhaps it is we in the western world, and not the Mayan people, who need to open our minds and hearts to new ways of thinking. Perhaps these beautiful people have something to teach to us?
Our animated, but always loving conversation lasts for more than half an hour before we shift to a more spiritual tone as I attempt to explain my way of seeing the world.
“What church do you attend back home?” John asks.
“I am deeply spiritual,” I begin, “but I don’t follow any one specific religion. I listen to whatever truth resonates deeply within my heart and soul, and I find such truth from many sources. I trust my inner guidance—the feelings that flow from within.”
Then I proceed to mention that one of my favorite spiritual studies is “A Course In Miracles.”
John’s eyes immediately light up.
“I read portions of that book almost twenty years ago.” John tells me with excitement. “I did not really understand much of it, but I liked the teachings. You are the first person I have ever talked to who has also read it.”
Chuck soon loses interest in our conversation, and excuses himself while John and I engage in a very deep conversation about the nature of God and about unconditional love.
Tears begin to trickle down John’s cheeks—tears that he tries to suppress but that only flow stronger and more uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry for crying,” John tells me. “I shouldn’t drink so much, because it lowers my inhibitions and then I embarrass myself.”
“Oh, no, please don’t apologize,” I tell him, “I love the fact that you are able to cry.”
After perhaps thirty more minutes of loving heartfelt discussion, our conversation gradually reaches an obvious conclusion. We do not reach full agreement on everything, but in one area we are in perfect accord: Pure unconditional love is the divine fabric that holds the entire universe together.
As my head hits my pillow at the end of a beautiful Friday evening, my heart overflows with gratitude. I am overwhelmed by the continual sequence of spiritual surprises that seem to flow into my life as I learn to simply be present in each moment.
Dinner Hide Out
Almost 24 hours later, after a long Saturday of posting photos, running errands, and tying up loose ends, I sit down in the small restaurant at Bruno’s Hotel and Marina, ready to enjoy my final goodbye meal in Rio Dulce. To my surprise, John beats the waitress to my table, and quickly proposes an alternative plan.
“Brenda,” John begins with a smile, “I’m hosting several friends for dinner on my boat and I would like to invite you to join us. I can guarantee that the food will be much better than anything you can get here in the restaurant.”
Less than an hour later, I find myself squeezed around a tiny table directly in front of the captain’s steering wheel atop the deck of John’s sailboat. John has prepared a large pot of pasta stew, and his friend Chuck brought along a big pan of delicious barbequed ribs.
Based on what John had told me earlier I was expecting to see more people, but only six of us crowd around the tiny table.
“You can never tell who will actually show up.” John tells me. “I don’t like to cook for just myself, so when I do cook, I always invite my friends to come over to share.”
The stories are fascinating, the conversation being mainly about sailing adventures in and around the Rio Dulce and Livingston areas. I learn that John and his friends have all taken up long-term residence here in Guatemala, with each having lived here on their boats for at least five years, some of them much longer than that.
For the most part, I simply observe from a perspective of love, desiring to see beyond the rough salty exteriors of all who are present. I want to see into their souls, behind the aging and weather-worn masks. As I sip out of my water bottle, I notice that a lot of alcohol is being consumed all around me—but this fact does not intimidate me in the least.
“I gave up beer last month,” John tells me quietly. “Last week I stopped drinking rum and bourbon. Now I only drink gin—plus I drink wine for dinner. I’ll probably have to give up gin soon, though, because I’m drinking a lot of it. Then I’ll most likely switch to something else.”
I watch as John downs his third large glass of dinner wine.
“It is still dinner time, so this is OK.” He jokingly tells me. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, I am an alcoholic.”
“But unlike many people,” John continues with a small point of clarification, “I am a functional alcoholic.”
Not many years back, I would have felt quite uncomfortable in such a situation, but now I feel nothing but love for my dinner host and his friends.
“I haven’t read any of your blog yet.” John tells me during a slight lull in conversation. “I plan on reading some tomorrow. I want to see what you have written about us.”
“But you told me that you didn’t want me to write about you,” I respond with a look of questioning surprise.
“Oh no, it is OK to write,” John clarifies, “Just don’t use our real names. Most of us here are hiding out from someone or something, and we just want to keep our privacy.”
As John (of course not his real name) mentions the words “hiding out”, I ponder my own life, and my own past struggles. I remember a time more than twenty five years ago when I had seriously considered running away and hiding out from life, and from my dear sweet family. My internal pain and shame were so great that I was literally dying inside, emotionally exhausted from trying to bury and suppress feelings that I could not share with another living soul.
I can only imagine what John and his friends must be hiding from. Somehow this simply does not matter to me. I can see into their souls. I can see the innocence of the wounded little children that live inside each one of them.
Instead, my heart is overflowing with deep gratitude—gratitude that I have had the courage to face my own deepest fears—gratitude that I have found the loving strength to embrace my own little innocent wounded child—gratitude that I no longer need to hide the genuine nature of my true self.
Sleepy Stubbornness
“I’ll just take the 9:00 a.m. bus.” I told myself, after learning that the first bus for Flores would leave at 5:30 on Sunday morning.
After dinner on John’s boat, I head straight for my room. I need to pack, and I hope to get a restful sleep. But as I begin organizing and stuffing things into my backpack, a peaceful little feeling strongly resonates through my soul.
“Take the 5:30 a.m. bus.” The little Jedi voice whispers silently to my heart.
The thought of arriving at Tikal three and a half hours earlier has a certain peaceful appeal, but long held ego beliefs about sleep cause me to resist strongly.
“No, I need my sleep.” I insist, thinking I will somehow win a debate with spirit.
But the little Jedi voice continues quite persistently, and I strike what I believe to be an appeasing compromise between ego and spirit.
“If the universe wakes me up at 5:00 a.m. then I will take the earlier bus,” I reluctantly resolve, “but I’m not setting any alarms. I really want my sleep.”
Throughout the night, the universe seems to play games with me. Repeatedly I awaken in my pitch black room, wondering what time it might be. Again and again, I climb out of bed, grab my flashlight, and check my watch—only to discover that just another half hour has slowly ticked by. There is no doubt in my mind that I am supposed to be on that 5:30 a.m. bus, but I still stubbornly refuse to make a commitment by setting an alarm—an alarm that would allow me to simply stop worrying about what time it is—an alarm that would actually allow me to get some sleep.
Finally, after waking up for the umpteenth time, my watch reads 4:55 a.m.. With a feeling of tired exhaustion flowing through my bones, I honor my commitment to myself, knowing full well that any attempt to sleep further will be futile—my heart would simply not allow it.
I cannot help but think that the universe is laughing at me.
On The Road Again
By 5:20 a.m. I have completed the dark two block trek, only to discover that the bus station is empty and locked. The unlit streets around me are beginning to gradually come alive. I watch as a street vendor pulls his cart up just twenty feet away. After pouring a five gallon bucket of oil into a large built-in metal pot, the man reaches under his cart with a lighter. Soon, I hear the quiet rushing sound of a propane burner beginning to heat the cooking oil. Within minutes, two large umbrellas are secured above the cart, after which a black tarp is tied above both.
As 5:40 a.m. comes and goes, I continue to sit confidently on the low, uneven sidewalk. I stare into a different bus station directly across the street. That station is open, and several people are waiting on wooden benches inside—but buses from that station do not run to Flores. I must simply trust that my bus will indeed come.
As the faint glow of morning sun begins to light the eastern horizon, activity around me continues to increase. Several Mayan women start to set up booths just down the street while a lone man walks by carrying four heavy bundles of newspapers. A new SUV startles me as it races down the narrow street at what must be 50 mph. Seconds later, the loud rumble of a passing motorcycle again breaks the peaceful silence.
Finally, at 5:50 a.m., I see headlights descending the long sloping bridge to my left. After announcing his presence with a few loud taps to his horn, the driver stops on the side of the road, directly in front of the station. I eagerly approach the now-open door and make eye contact.
“Are you going to Flores?” I ask hopefully.
“Yes,” the driver responds as he motions for me to climb in.
With a questioning look, I point at the large backpack on my back. Another man immediately jumps out the door and motions for me to follow him to the rear of the bus where he quickly stows my pack in a small luggage compartment.
Having expected an old school bus, I am quite surprised by my ride. I find myself three rows back in a small eight-row bus. The bus appears to be not more than a few years old. While it has no air conditioning, and the fabric upholstery on each seat is slightly worn, the bus is in great condition. I am even more delighted when I discover that the seat backs recline. Compared to my last few bus-travel experiences, I feel as if I am riding in luxury.
As we begin our journey, I am one of only four or five passengers. Almost immediately, we stop two blocks later to add another. By the time we have left the boundaries of Rio Dulce, our little bus is more than one-third full.
The bus stops frequently during the first two hours of our travels, both adding and losing passengers. I watch from the window as large bags of grain, boxes tied with twine, and five gallon buckets are stuffed in and out of small compartments under the bus. Several times the passenger cabin is nearly full, but never to the point of requiring people to stand.
Our journey takes us through green rolling hills. Some are still covered with dense jungle, but most have been cleared, leaving behind pastures and farms. The small villages are frequent, with a few larger towns scattered around the half-way mark of our trip.
I struggle to remain awake during the final two hours of winding up, down, and around small rolling hills—but I force my eyes to remain open. I don’t want to miss any of the scenes that pass before me.
Finally, at just before 10:00 a.m. the little bus pulls into a small bus station, and all remaining passengers rise up from their seats, quickly exiting. Having no idea where I am or what to do next, I am the last to step onto the hot dirt parking lot below.
“Don’t we go all the way into Flores?” I ask the driver with a puzzled look on my face.
“No, we stop right here in Santa Elena.” He replies matter-of-factly.
Having never been to Flores, about the only thing I know is that the city is situated on a tiny island in the middle of Lake Peten-Itza—joined to the shoreline city of Santa Elena by a small causeway. But that is not my concern right now because Flores is not today’s destination anyway. My true destination is Tikal.
A feeling of peaceful confidence completely overrides the fact that I have no idea exactly where I am or what I will do next.
Journey To Tikal
A young man approaches me, and I tell him I want to go to Tikal, but first I want to find an ATM to get a little extra cash. He points toward a bank only a block away, but a five-minute investigation comes up empty handed—no ATM.
Soon, I place my life into the hands of a very helpful Tuk Tuk driver. For fifteen minutes he whisks me around the town. After stopping at one ATM—an ATM that tells me that my transaction cannot be completed—I am back in the little red three-wheeled taxi zooming off toward yet another bank. Once I finally have a relieved smile on my face and a stash of extra cash in my wallet, I tell the driver that I would like to find a “colectivo” to Tikal.
For ten minutes he drives me through the town, stopping twice in the market area, asking other Tuk Tuk drivers where to find such a little shared bus to Tikal. Finally my driver takes me right back to the bus station. We pass a long row of little vans with destinations posted on their front window—but none of them read “Tikal”.
As we reach the end of the row, a teenage boy runs out to ask the driver about my destination.
“I will take care of you.” He confidently reassures me as my little three-wheeled taxi drives away.
In less than a minute, I find myself sitting in the tiny block-walled room of a small tour agency, somewhere in a back area behind the bus station.
“There will be a colectivo to Tikal at eleven.” he assures me. “I will get you on it.”
Ten minutes later, after talking briefly on his phone, he tells me that the 11:00 a.m. colectivo is only going as far as El Remate—not all the way to Tikal.
“There is a chance that there might be another one at noon.” The man tells me. “We could always get you a taxi for 300 quetzales (about $37 US).”
“No, I want to travel cheaply.” I tell him as I start to stand up feeling a little frustrated. “I’m going to go look for a colectivo on my own.”
“Wait.” He tells me, while making another call, trying to gather more information.
Soon I am told that he thinks he can for sure get me on a colectivo at 2:00 p.m..
“I don’t want to wait that long,” I reply with suspicion, “and I am beginning to notice that you are constantly changing your stories, trying to keep me here. I’m going to go look for a ride somewhere else.”
I get about forty feet away before I am approached by two polite men who encourage me to take a 300 quetzal ride in one of their air conditioned vans.
“No” I tell them firmly. “I don’t want to pay that much. I want a colectivo.”
The man’s eyes light up as he volunteers to help.
“Follow me.” He tells me as he leads me right back to the same man who has been giving me the run around for nearly thirty minutes. “He can get you on a colectivo.”
By now my internal radar is telling me that I am being worked over by some very talented men—men who know how to take advantage of unprepared travelers.
While there is no doubt in my mind that I can find a less expensive ride—I am growing tired of the delays, and I have no desire to play any more games.
But most of all, my heart continues to tell me, “Brenda, go to Tikal now, don’t wait till this afternoon. Spend the extra money … just do it already.”
Right here in front of me I have a sure ride, and my heart encourages me to go for it. Throwing out miserly ego logic, I say yes to my heart and turn back to the taxi driver.
“I am not happy about the price,” I tell the driver politely, “but I would like to go to Tikal now, so let’s go.”
As Jose whisks me away on the seventy-five minute drive, I quickly forget about the money and return my focus to the present moment. I soon learn that Jose recently purchased two brand new fifteen-passenger vans, one of which I am riding in right now.
“You must be rich.” I joke with him.
“No, only the bank is rich.” Jose jokes back with me.
“I have to work very hard.” He continues. “Every month I must pay the bank 6000 Quetzales for each van (about $750.00 US each). If I don’t work many hours and find many clients to transport, I will lose it all.”
To my surprise, after having spoken very little Spanish for almost a month, I find communication with Jose to be very easy. We talk almost non-stop as I learn about his four children, his three years of service in Guatemala’s army, and his love for Guatemala. Jose even teaches me about the variety of animals that I may be seeing during my stay in Tikal.
As we pull into the entrance at the Hotel Tikal Inn, I have completely forgotten about my previous resistance, and have returned to a place of trust, knowing that all is exactly as it should be.
My heart is filled with peace; my soul is anxious to experience the energy of the famous Mayan ruins of Tikal.
Spectacular Twin Globes
After paying for two nights at the Hotel Tikal Inn and eating lunch in the hotel’s restaurant, all I can do is say “ouch” while reminding myself to ignore the expenses. While I am not breaking the bank, I am definitely spending more money than ego would like.
“You know that you were prompted to be here today, right here, right now.” The little Jedi voices silently whisper. “Now get out of your head and immerse yourself into the experience. Understood?”
I quickly set left-brained head logic aside and again return to heart space. Soon, I have in my hand a voucher for a small tour package through the hotel—a sunset tour that will leave in less than two hours, and a sunrise tour at 5:45 a.m. tomorrow morning.
While I am not especially big on organized tours, I fully realize that I would like to maximize my time in the park during evening and early morning hours. Internal feelings tell me that having a tour guide to show me highlights and to guide me along dark and potentially confusing jungle trails will be a great asset.
Then I quietly reassure the restless part of me—the part that wants to be free to simply meditate in isolated places surrounded by jungle and energizing ruins.
“After tomorrow’s tour,” I tell myself, “I will have the rest of the day to hide out and meditate by myself in the more remote areas of the park.”
Before I know it, the tour is underway. My tour guide, Ricardo, is a very talkative forty-something Guatemalan local—and he speaks excellent English. We have a small tour group—only three other guys plus myself.
It becomes quickly evident that Ricardo has many interesting personal opinions about the ancient Mayan culture. I notice that he tends to minimize the spiritual aspects of the culture as being nothing but myth and mind games perpetrated by manipulative Mayan leaders. And then he tends to insert his own interpretations as being the only reasonable explanation of past events.
But internal voices in my heart remind me to lower my defensive feelings—to forget what I think I know.
“How can I learn anything new if I presume to know more than Ricardo?” I remind myself.
I soon learn to love the tour while simply allowing statements that do not ring true with my heart to fall on the ground as simple ignored white noise.
The first hour of the tour is filled not only with energizing jungle walks and beautiful ruins, but also with frequent sightings of exotic birds, spider monkeys, and howler monkeys. Ricardo definitely knows his birds—seeming to be fascinated by the beautiful winged creatures—recognizing their unique calls and then easily locating them in the thick foliage above.
By the time 5:30 rolls around, Ricardo encourages us to hurry toward the Grand Plaza where he assures us of a spectacular sunset view. After an energizing climb up a wooden staircase on the famed Temple II at the west end of the plaza, Ricardo guides us to an ordinary looking collection of partially standing walls up high on the north end of the same Grand Plaza.
“This will be a spectacular spot to view the sunset.” Ricardo reassures us.
Soon, I have scaled to the top of the highest eight-foot wall of these humble ruins, not being quite sure what to expect.
I am not disappointed. The view is spectacular.
To the immediate south I have an incredible birds-eye view of the Grand plaza with its two towering temples, number I and II, standing on opposite ends of a large park-like plaza. A couple hundred yards further to the south, Temple V stands majestically protruding from behind a thick green valley covered in dense jungle foliage. Several hundred yards to the southwest, the tall narrow spire of Temple III sticks its dominant spiked tip into the air above the haze-covered jungle.
And then there is Temple IV, with its towering, rugged, vertical top protruding above the wild hilly jungle about one kilometer almost due west. Just barely to the left of this beautiful remote ruin, an orange-yellow globe slowly sinks toward the uneven horizon below. The scenic backdrop is incredible and awe-inspiring.
As if that were not enough, when I turn around to face the east, I witness the energy-filled glow of a large white moon—a moon that is only 31 hours shy of being full and completely round. I cannot help but pinch myself as I meditatively inhale my surroundings.
For the next thirty minutes, our small group of six sits in near silence while observing nature’s splendor unfold around us. Then Ricardo proposes another idea.
“Let’s climb back up Temple II and watch the full moon.” He suggests.
After a tiring climb up steep wooden steps, I am the first to emerge onto a wide stone ledge more than 2/3 of the way to the top of Temple II—the highest spot where tourists are allowed to scale.
Selecting a small ledge about eight feet up a small staircase, directly below the towering spire above, I turn and sit facing the east. What I see amazes me.
Directly across the plaza below, about 75 yards due east, the now dark silhouette of Temple I towers above the rapidly fading horizon. Immediately above the center spire of Temple I, a large white globe slowly rises majestically toward the heavens, while casting a bright glow on everything around.
For an additional thirty minutes, I sit by myself in silence while our little group enjoys this beautiful lunar backdrop of nature.
Were it not for the shining flashlight of a young park security guard standing at the top of the wooden steps, telling us that it is time to go, I could have sat and enjoyed this energizing view for much of the night.
Nighttime Mazes
Shortly after 7:00 p.m., Ricardo begins guiding us on a 25 minute hike toward the main gate. I quickly develop a sense of grateful appreciation for my tour guide as I realize that we are winding through a labyrinth of connecting trails—a maze hidden beneath a sheltered canopy of thick trees above. Even with a full moon, only a small glimmer of that light finds its way to the dark uneven trails below my dusty hiking shoes.
“I would have had no idea how to find my own way back through this darkness.” I tell Ricardo, as I publicly thank him for his knowledge of the area.
By 7:30 p.m., I am ordering a late dinner in the hotel restaurant. My head wants to gasp at the prices. My heart simply basks in love and gratitude.
Ignoring Resistance, Maximizing Trust
As I reflect back on my incredible Sunday, I find it extremely difficult to believe that so much amazing growth has taken place in such a short period of time.
Repeatedly over the last twenty four hours, I have found left-brained ego logic getting in the way. Old beliefs, past fears, and ancient worries frequently attempted to dominate my attention—causing me to resist promptings, warning me to be cautious, to guard sleep, to preserve money, and to protect personal boundaries.
But these sneaky little mind parasites seem to be losing their grip in my psyche. Each time I catch them sinking their energy-sucking little teeth into my soul, I somehow manage to access a deeper feeling of trust—a heart-felt peaceful energy that calmly reassures me that all is well—a flowing sense of knowing that reminds me to ignore what I thought I knew and to simply trust the feelings that rise from within.
And then I wonder, “How many of these little resistant belief parasites are still guiding my life in yet-unrecognized ways, still going completely unnoticed beneath the stealth radar of everyday behaviors?”
The thought is mind boggling, staggering.
Then I giggle inside as I think about these hidden little parasites. The more I focus on listening to my internal spirit guides, the more I realize that any ego attempts at resistance are simply futile.
When guided with pure loving intent, spirit always wins—even if I do skin my knees along the way.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved