Cruiser's Stories - Volume 21

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Rose of sharon: 

Cruising in the Comfort Zone, part4

Guatemala

by Sharon Kratz, Sailing Vessel Rose of Sharon

Sharon's photo's of this adventure may be viewed at:  Webshots

15°48.58N, 088°45.53W

Livingston, Guatemala

Guatemala!  At last!  When we began our cruising adventure in October 2004, we had no other objective than to sail our boat to Guatemala and up the Rio Dulce.  As Joe said, “October was the beginning and April is the end.  No matter what we do from here on out, we’ve accomplished our goal.”

We arrived at Livingston, Guatemala near dusk and it was too late to attempt a check-in.  The warm harbor waters were practically boiling with activity; fishing boats and fast boats and tour boats and shrimp boats were dodging each other and us at breakneck speed.

As we dropped anchor, Joe and I were nervous, but not nervous enough to go to the nearby La Marina for dockage.  I have to admit it – we were concerned about security too.  The heat was very intense, the winds were down to nothing, and with our consternation about safety . . . well, we decided to sleep in the cockpit.  It seems silly now, but at the time, it seemed like a good idea . Within minutes, I could hear Joe snoring.  I fidgeted.

The bad guys could steal the dinghy, cut my throat, ransack the boat then have a couple of beers before heading home and Joe would never wake up, I thought.  I left the cockpit and tugged my cushion to the bow of the boat, where it was cooler.  The moon was full, yellow and distracting.  I shut my eyes and tried to remember all the words to “Shine On, Harvest Moon.”

An unlit small boat motored slowly and as closely as possible past our boat and I opened my eyes to examine the men in the boat.  This isn’t working, I decided, and once again towed my cushion back into the cockpit.  Joe continued to snore as he rolled over onto his other side.  I went down below and stretched out in the salon, my usual spot when we are underway.

It’s too hot!

So I wandered back to my bunk, turned on the fan, and alternated dozing and waking.  When I awoke, I’d peek out of the master berth hatch to see if the dinghy was still attached to the boat.  And to see if Joe was still attached to the boat, too.  Both were having a better night’s rest than I was.

The next morning as I stumbled past Joe toward the head, he asked, “What happened?  I thought we were going to sleep in the cockpit.  It wasn’t much, but I had a little breeze.  When I woke up –”

“Exactly.  I was gone, could have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and you would have slept right through it!”  I grumbled.  Joe laughed.  “I don’t think we have to worry about someone stealing you.  Hey, wait!  I’ve got an idea!  Since we’re worried about someone stealing the dinghy, let’s put YOU in the dinghy every night and . . .”

The man likes to live dangerously.

That morning, Guatemalan officials boarded our boat just as two more sailboats entered the harbor; we could see an additional two sailboats in the distance.  It was going to be a busy day for Livingston’s Customs and Immigration offices.  I wasn’t sure in what capacity each official operated, so I gave all three a Rose of Sharon music CD, a mix of Hispanic and U.S. music.  They seemed very pleased with the CDs, and I explained to them that I had made the music CDs myself, to give to other boaters and the people who have helped us along the way.

A contact person for cruisers entering Livingston is Raul, who works for Customs and Immigration and who monitors VHF 16.  While Raul and Joe shuffled the papers and filled out the necessary forms for beginning the checking-in process, the port capitan and the other man conversed with me in “Spanglish.”  Only Raul had a complete grasp of English, and he was busy, so the three of us chatted in broken sentences and with many gestures.  They told me it was good that I was trying so hard to speak Spanish.  “¡Es muy importante!” I exclaimed in what I hoped was good Spanish.  “Many people come to the United States and they usually try to learn English.  It’s what we from the U.S. should also do, when we visit other countries.”

Livingston is a diverse community and most of its population is a Mayo-African-Caribbean cultural blend.  A very steep uphill road challenges walkers to the town of Livingston from the dinghy dock and anchorage below.  In the extreme heat, that hill seemed almost insurmountable to me, but I made it, knowing that the path to the dock later would be downhill, a happy thought. Customs and Immigration are not in close proximity, so we certainly got a good tour of the city on foot. We seemed to have acquired a “guide,” but we didn’t want one.  A very large man in a neon green t-shirt insisted on accompanying us along the way.  We couldn’t shake the guy.  Finally, Joe handed him our last Belizean bill and said, “Jeff will you take this to a money changer?” and he disappeared for the rest of the day.  “I wish I’d thought of that sooner,” said Joe.

On this particular day, the electricity had gone out in Livingston, and the ATMs were down.  I walked into an internet café, and the proprietor was extremely grumpy that she was temporarily out of business.  However, the bank was more than happy to give us credit card money.  “How much did you get?”  I asked Joe, as he left the bank.  “MORE than enough!” he exclaim ed. “That poor credit card,” I said.  “No, the credit card is doing fine, we’re the poor ones,” Joe replied.

I was immediately confounded by the exchange rate and couldn’t pronounce the currency: quetzal (kayt-zal).  Check-in costs were $120Q for Immigration, $250Q for Customs and $125Q for the Port Captain, which came to approximately $82.50 U.S.

And everywhere we paused or hesitated, I was besieged by women who wanted to braid my hair.  Each time, the women would bring out a small photo album and flip to a photograph of beautifully braided hair.  They would say, “I do her!  I do you like this!”  Each time, it was the same photograph.  During lunch, I consulted my English/Spanish dictionary and put together these sentences:  “No, thank you!  I am sorry, but no!  My hair is very dirty!”  It was true, too; my hair was dusty and damp and the limp strands were hanging like a mop on my shoulders.  The women would leave quickly as soon as I said my sentence.  Later we discovered that I might have been telling the women that they were sorry and dirty.  Got to get those pronouns straight, I fretted.

We had completed our trips throughout the town of Livingston, checking-in, and when we stopped for lunch at Bahia Azul restaurant, I requested a large bottle of water.  Joe was not at all surprised to see me dump half the bottle of water over my head.  It’s nothing he would ever do, of course, but completely in character for me.  Maybe I haven’t emphasized this enough:  It was HOT.

I watched as a very old, handicapped woman walked laboriously up the hill and when she saw diners at Bahia Azul, she stopped at each table and asked if they would like to buy some of her bread rolls.  How could I say no ? I bought a bag.  When the old woman had moved on, I asked our server if the rolls would be “all right,” and she shook her head no.  “Do not eat,” she advised.  “Throw away.”

We enjoyed lunch then went shopping for a few supplies, just enough for a couple of days.  NOW we needed a guide, and the restaurant gave us a very old, toothless Guatemalan who spoke impeccable English.  He took us to the place where I could get toilet paper, cheese and Pringles.  Then he took me to the place where I could get vegetables.  Next, I wanted fried corn tortillas and he knew the place for that.  Joe wanted ice and a gallon of drinking water, so we walked to that site.

By this time, my face was fire engine-red and the sweat was stinging my eyes.  Joe’s shirt was completely soaked with perspiration.  The good news was, the dock was downhill, and we scurried back to our dinghy and boat as quickly as possible, looking forward to being underway so the wind would cool us down while we were moving.

There was no wind; there was smoke.  We’d heard on that morning’s cruisers’ net that someone nearby was burning brush, and the haze extended for many miles.  Never mind that!  We were in Guatemala, motoring up the Rio Dulce, and we were in great spirits.  I perched on the bow of the boat, studying the canyon walls intently.  White egrets lazed along the shoreline and flew overhead.  Fishing boats dotted the river and hungry pelicans floated near each boat, waiting for a handout.

In his book, Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan, John Lloyd Stephens wrote this about the Rio Dulce:

On each side, rising perpendicularly from three to four hundred feet, was a wall of living green.  Trees grew from the water's edge, with dense unbroken foliage, to the top; not a spot of barrenness was to be seen; and on both sides, from the tops of the highest trees, long tendrils descended to the water, as if to drink and carry life to the trunks that bore them.  It was, as its name imports, a Rio Dulce, a fairy scene of Titan land, combining exquisite beauty with colossal grandeur. As we advanced the passage turned, and in a few minutes we lost sight of the sea, and were enclosed on all sides by a forest wall; but the river, although showing us no passage, still invited us onward.

It truly was a sweet river.  It was my dream come true.

15°45.23N, 088°50.54W, El Gofete Lake

As we entered El Golfete Lake, we debated which of the anchorages would be most comfortable and most secure.  I recommend that when you enter El Golfete from the direction of Livingston, hang a left; all three of the tiny coves on that edge of the lake provide suitable anchorage.  We decided to drop anchor in the third inlet shown on Cruising Guide to Belize and Mexico’s Caribbean Coast by Captain Freya Rauscher. It proved to be quiet and calm, but wind-less, more or less.  Because it was don’t-touch-me hot and we were still nervous about Guatemala, Joe slept in the salon (with his trusty flare gun) and I slept in our berth.  We slept peacefully; however, Joe and I had extremely animated dreams.  The next morning, we shared our dreams with each other and then Joe told me he’d heard flute music in the night.  “Omigosh!” I said.  “I did too!  What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he replied.  “When I woke up completely, I couldn’t hear it anymore.”

Eerily, the same thing had happened to me at a different time during the night.  I was asleep, but I heard the song of a flute echoing in my head, and when I awoke, the music was gone.  I had climbed out the hatch over our bunk and looked around.  There was a heavy haze enveloping the anchorage, but I could see the shoreline.  Nothing moved and there was not a sound to be heard.

The next day, we continued up the Rio Dulce and into Catamaran Marina. Choosing a marina along the banks of Guatemala’s Rio Dulce is not an easy task. There are a few great marinas and several good marinas. As Joe and I debated at which marina we would call home during hurricane season, we consulted other cruisers and found that the well-known Mario’s Marina continues to be extremely popular among cruisers to Guatemala’s Rio Dulce. But one cruising ex-neighbor from Texas knew the type of marina Joe and I would prefer as liveaboards and told us, “If you liked Waterford Yacht Club in Kemah, you’ll be happiest at Catamaran.”

Most of the marinas accept reservations, but Catamaran Island Hotel and Marina would not.  Because the hotel, not the marina, is the primary business at this site, cruisers are carefully scrutinized by the staff before being accepted as temporary residents of the Catamaran Marina.  “Our boat is so shabby-looking,” I fussed.  “What if they won’t accept us?”

“We’re going to put a shine on old Rose while we’re here,” Joe replied.  Then he quoted a line from a movie about self-esteem:  “We’re good enough, we’re smart enough, we’re pretty enough, and by golly, people like us!” I laughed.

s we approached the inlet to the marina, dockmaster Emy talked us in on VHF channel 11.  And when we eased into our slip, we noticed three other Texas vessels nestled in the intimate jungle-lined cove.  I sighed with pleasure when I saw a heron swoop low over the piers that were nestled along the jungle-covered banks.  The docks were staggered in an interesting arrangement with separate wooden walkways leading into the jungle and out again to the property’s main paved path.

Emy joined us in the cockpit and welcomed us to Catamaran.  A sprightly, cheerful woman, she runs the marina efficiently and effectively.  She explained the water, electrical and internet systems and answered our questions.  One of the nicest things about this marina is that you can pay your monthly bill with a personal check.  You can also write a check for cash, eliminating the need for an ATM or credit card transaction.  As soon as Emy left, I put on my bathing suit, grabbed a wad of quetzals and jumped off the boat.  “It’s hotter than hammer hell,” I said over my shoulder to Joe.  I need water every which way!”

I walked quickly up a path that led to the swimming pool and pool bar.  That’s when I met Rosa and Kevin.  With my hair plastered to my head like a damp rag, I climbed up on a bar stool and said, “Agua, por favor.  Agua con gas, agua sin gas, mucho agua.”  Rosa stared at me as I handed her some money, then she looked at a man on a stool nearby.  He nodded and she began pouring my waters.  “They call it ‘mineral water’ around here, not agua con gas,” he commented.  “I don’t care if it’s swamp water, I’m so thirsty!”  I laughed, and after a few large gulps, I left the pool bar and entered the swimming pool.  Surrounded by stunning tropical lushness interspersed with manicured lawns, I finally took a deep breath and relaxed.  This is IT, I thought. I’m home!

I swam back to the pool’s edge and walked, still dripping, back to the pool bar.  “So, did you come here by boat?” the man asked casually.  I said yes, and we chatted a bit, then I commented about how good the tap water tasted.  “It’s from my well,” the man said.  “It’s filtered and then run through an ultraviolet light.”

“You mean you own . . . this?” I asked, making a gesture that encompassed the area.  He smiled.  “Yes.”  And that was Kevin.  The reason Rosa had looked askance at him was because you don’t pay for drinks at the pool bar with real money.  You pay with “Kevin Bucks.”  A bottle of water is one Kevin Buck.  A beer is two Kevin Bucks.

Then Rosa and I began a conversation that would last for months.  She had been told by Kevin that she needed to learn more English.  I was struggling valiantly to learn Spanish.  Rosa began by teaching me the most necessary elements of the language:  “Un vino blanco doble, por favor,” and “Pase me las manías” (“One white wine, double, please,” and “Pass me the nuts.”).

That evening, Joe and I met a well-dressed, somewhat exotic-looking woman from Brazil who was not happy with her stay in one of the charming Hotel Catamaran bungalows overlooking the Rio Dulce.  “The monkeys!” she fretted.  “They drive me crazy with their noise in the trees!”  Her name was Christina and she’d had just enough facelifts to have a glossy and somewhat frightening frozen face.  “My traveling companion, I think she tired of me!”  Christina said, pointing to a woman who was sitting at the main bar, watching television.  “But I do not like this place!  It is too hot!  I cannot climb that hill in Livingston and she wants to go there tomorrow!”  Joe immediately retreated to join Christina’s friend at the bar.

Left alone with the fussy Christina, I asked her about her country.  “Brazil is beautiful, wonderful, not hot like here!” she exclaimed.  “You sail your boat there, you come during Carnival, you will see most wonderful thing in the world!”  I asked her if Carnival was similar to our Mardi Gras and she replied, “Same thing only much, much better!  Americans do not have Carnival!”  Clearly, Christina was travel-challenged, and the next night, we bade her and her weary-looking companion farewell.

Several days later, I met a man in the swimming pool who wanted to fuss at me about my country and my president.  I was getting familiar with this and usually handled it by nodding, smiling, and keeping my mouth shut.  Those people weren’t looking for a conversation; they were looking for a lectern.  “You go to America and if you do not do what the police say, ha!  They throw you in jail!” the man declared.  I had to agree yes, that was pretty-much the way it worked in the U.S.   If Mr. Policeman tells you to do something and you argue too much, he will indeed throw you in jail.

“I take an apple into your country and they tell me I cannot bring my apple into America!  An apple!  Stupid!  So, ha!  I eat my apple right there.  My apple come into your country anyway!”  I explained to him that most countries have laws prohibiting walk-in produce, plants and animals from other countries.  He seemed skeptical, so I told him how Australian Customs officials would allow boaters to bring a banana – but not its peel – into their country.  At that point, his meek wife walked to the pool’s edge and handed him a ringing cellphone.  He abruptly turned his back on me and began a clipped discussion on the phone in the water.  I smiled at his wife before I swam away and she offered me a “What can you do?” smile in return.  I had a couple of ideas about what I’d do with a man like that, but then Mr. Policeman would throw me in jail.

Meanwhile, Joe began working on the boat with Irwin, a local man who paddled over in his hollowed-out canoe and worked for $16/day U.S. Irwin swam under the boat to do a quick bottom scrub, washed the boat regularly, helped Joe with any two-man tasks, and began sanding our teak in preparation for refinishing.

Irwin’s English was nonexistent and he often requested money “in advance” for Monday, but might not show up until, say, Thursday.  After this happened twice, I carefully put together sentences in Spanish with which to fuss at Irwin if he asked for payment in advance (“You want money for Monday and we give it to you, but come Monday, where’s Irwin?  On Wednesday, where’s Irwin?  Someday you not return!  No more money in advance!”), but dockmaster Emy had already told Irwin not to ask for advance payments, so I didn’t need my string of Spanish sentences with which to scold Irwin.  Emy was not the type of woman to mince words in any language.

How do I describe Fronteras?  I could say crowded, dirty, hot, exhausting.  Or I could say bustling, dusty, busy with street life.  Each visit into Fronteras depended largely on my own perception: if I was tired and hot, I disliked it; if I was refreshed and energized, I enjoyed it immensely.  The fruits and vegetables were amazing in their quality of freshness and abundance.  I was in salad heaven!  After several visits, I chose two stalls that were my favorites; one had the best romaine lettuce and one had the best cebollas y tomates (onions and tomatoes).  Joe and I soon established our shopping routine:  we would dinghy into Fronteras, walk from the dinghy dock (located at Bruno’s Restaurant) to the largest grocery store in town for canned goods and some frozen meats, then on to a couple of street markets for fruits and veggies.  Two grocery sacks full of fruits and vegetables averaged $5.00 U.S.  Backpacks and hands full, we would trek back to Bruno’s, where we enjoyed a hamburguesa and papas fritas (burger and fries) before returning to the boat.

During our shopping trips, Joe stood beside me while I gestured and spoke enthusiastically in my broken Spanish, requesting five limes, two onions, that bunch of carrots, this stalk of broccoli . . . but one day, Joe had to go to the market by himself.  I consulted my Spanish & English dictionary and carefully wrote the shopping list in both languages.  He came back with everything on the list, except when it came to the tomatoes, the vendor gave Joe five pounds of tomatoes instead of 5 tomatoes!  “I didn’t want to deal with explaining it,” said Joe haplessly as I laughed and poured the large sackfull of tomatoes on the galley countertop for washing.  You know what?  We ate every one of those tomatoes in 4 days!  We had tomatoes and rice, tomatoes and beans, tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and kosher salt, tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes.  They were quite good.

When buying fruits and vegetables in Central America, it’s important to remember to wash them in a bleach-water solution.  I would fill my small sink half-full of water and add a small splash of bleach, then gently wash the produce in the bleach-water, following with a fresh water rinse.  If I bought grains (rice, for example) or beans from an open barrel as opposed to pre-packaged, I washed them before cooking also.

Swimming is fine in many portions of the Rio Dulce and in Lake Izabal, but not recommended along the Fronteras stretch of the river.  I missed my daily off-the-boat swims in the clear waters of the Caribbean, but the hotel swimming pool was clean and convenient.  Most evenings I went for a swim in the pool.  Later, Joe would join me for “happy hour” at the pool bar.  Rosa and I would continue our disjointed Spanglish conversations, then Joe and I would return to the boat for supper or dine at the hotel’s restaurant.  A typical evening meal for both of us at the restaurant averaged $15 U.S.

Here’s my answer to the question cruisers most often ask:  “How much?” To live aboard comfortably in a marina along the Rio Dulce, $1,000/month is plenty.  As always, your lifestyle influences how much money you need in your cruising kitty.

The hub of cruiser activity along the Rio Dulce seemed to be Mario’s Marina. An “American-style” chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes meal was offered as a weekly special at the marina’s Cayuco Club restaurant.  One of the biggest social events, a “swap meet” was held there every Saturday morning.  Cruisers and locals visited the marina to sell, buy or trade items while enjoying a Bloody Mary or large slice of freshly baked pizza.  The marina’s ownership seemed to be a partnership of several people, and I was able to meet three of its owners:  Ron from Florida; Mac from Texas; and a cruiser we’d previously met in Isla Mujeres, Jerry Lombard of S/V Beyond Reason.  Jerry had so fallen in love with the Rio Dulce, he joined the owner/partnership of Mario’s Marina.

The kindly Ron gently scolded me for not docking at Mario’s Marina, but admitted they were quickly becoming full for the hurricane season.  Indeed, there did not appear to be a spare slip available by the end of May.  At the swap meet, he even bought a copy of my book, All the Time in the World.   The congeniality and boater-fellowship at Mario’s is why it continues to be the most popular marina along the Rio Dulce.

Sometimes we are travelers. Sometimes we are tourists.  I enjoy being both, but we did not have time to begin our tourism of Guatemala before a return trip to the U.S. for a family wedding.  So Joe and I made a preliminary list of sites to see upon our return:  Castillo de San Felipe, the nearby hot waterfall Finca el Paraiso, the Mayan ruins of Tikal, Lake Izabal and something Joe was especially looking forward to – Spanish lessons at a language school in Antigua.

But first we had to make a trip to the States.  We’d heard about the bus robberies and road crimes committed in Guatemala and were none too eager to travel to the Guatemala City airport by bus.  As always, locals and other cruisers provided plenty of information.  Litegua is considered one of the best bus lines in Guatemala, and we reserved seats on its “Especial” bus from Rio Dulce to Guatemala City.  Air conditioning is promised on most of the buses but guaranteed on none.

The bus was very clean, air conditioned, and with the exception of a flat tire, we had no problem getting to Guatemala City.  I had been warned that when we arrived at the bus station in Guatemala City near dusk we would be most vulnerable to the criminal element, especially if we carried a laptop.  I was also told one of the current methods of robbery would be for a man or woman holding a soft drink to feign a trip in front of you, dumping much of the soda on your shirt or blouse.  As soon as you let go of your bags to wipe your shirt, one or more people would swoop in and grab your luggage.

When Joe and I disembarked from the bus, we collected our luggage and were immediately swamped by men asking us if we needed a taxi.  One planted himself in front of me, and when I stopped, I asked/gestured, Do you have a taxi sign on top of your car?  He shook his head no, so I plowed past him with Joe hot on my trail, walking quickly as if we knew where we were going, but we didn’t.  We thought it was important to look like we knew where we were going, at least until we got out of the confusion of the bus station.

So we walked briskly into a cafeteria, through it and out the opposite door onto a main street.  I saw a cab with a taxi sign on top, raised my hand and yelled in my best New York City voice, “Taxi!” He immediately pulled over and we tossed our bags into the back seat before he could get out to open the trunk.  That was part of our plan; luggage in the vehicle with us, not in the trunk.  Joe got in the back of the taxi and I got in the front seat, another thing we do when we are traveling in potentially dangerous areas.  Okay, maybe Joe and I are too paranoid, but I read Fielding’s guide to The World’s Most Dangerous Places and The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook:  Travel.  Both books offer tips for those of us who love to travel to exotic locales but don’t want to be victimized while doing it.  Joe and I did not want to be over-zealous, but we refused to minimize the risks associated with travel in Guatemala.

We spent the night in a four-star Marriott that seemed to be a gathering place for U.S. citizens involved in adoption of Guatemalan children, and I enjoyed watching the families in the lobby and restaurants.  Some couples quietly adopted their child and the threesome began the bonding process right there in the hotel; other families brought their entire clan: grandmas, grandpas, siblings . . . and had joyous celebrations of photo-taking and hugging as they welcomed the small new addition to their family.

I had booked our flights to Texas on a discount airfare website.  We flew a Mexicana Airbus to Mexico City, then changed to an Aviacsa 737 for the trip from Mexico City to Houston, which made for a hard travel day.  Continental offers non-stop flights to and from Guatemala City and Houston, but the airfare is usually $300-$400 per ticket higher.

Joe and I enjoyed our trip home and cherished our reunion with our family.  We spent a great deal of time in conversation with our nephew Travis, who is a Peace Corps computer instructor in Samoa.  The three of us admitted that the culture shock – returning to Houston from an extended stay in another country – was a surprise.  I watched as Travis began stockpiling the difficult-to-find items he wanted to take back to Samoa, which included huge bags of beans and pasta meals.  Our pile to take back to Guatemala included 8 bottles of contact lens solution, several bottles of vitamins and a box of grits!

Upon our return, we took advantage of our time in Guatemala City to explore several sights.  Guatemala City is divided into zones, and after a quick consultation with the hotel concierge, we determined we needed to go to the central park in Zone 1.

Our first stop was the Catedral Metropolitana at the Parque Central.  The construction of this large church with elaborate colonial architecture was begun in 1782, and a slow stroll up and down its aisles revealed a valuable collection of antique religious objects and art.  As I walked quietly toward the exit, I saw two women studying a guidebook and whispering to each other; one of them looked very American.  In fact, I was pretty sure I recognized a Midwesterner when I saw one, and sure enough, one of the women, Pam, was from Illinois.  Pam’s trip to Guatemala was “the adventure of a lifetime” and a gift from her husband.  Her friend was a language instructor in Guatemala City and gave us the names of two language schools in Antigua.  Before we left the church, the women told me to remove my small hoop earrings and the plain bracelet I was wearing.   “This is the most jewelry I ever wear,” I explained, and they assured me that although my inexpensive jewelry didn’t seem worth committing a crime for, it might be tempting to someone on the streets of the city.

We posed for photos together and separately outside the Mercado Central.  The market is underground and had the best collection of handicrafts and collectibles I had seen in Guatemala, but we had been advised the quality of items for sale in Antigua was just as good and the prices would be better.  Joe and I had no reason to be souvenir shopping, but I enjoyed examining some of the artistry in the handmade clothing and wall décor.

The must-see site in Guatemala City is the Palacio National.  This beautiful, ornate palace that once housed the president and other governmental offices is now a museum and is open daily to the public.  Visitors are provided with a personal guide who escorts them throughout the building, and our guide took us upstairs so we could view the courtyard below.  Every morning at about 11:30, an honor guard changes a white rose resting atop a monument in the palace courtyard.  The old white rose, representing 24 hours of peace completed, is presented to a guest of the country.  The new white rose symbolizes the hope for another day of peace in Guatemala.

The green stone throughout the palace is native to Guatemala and the ornate architecture, lavish decor and stained glass windows are magnificent. Our guide told me that the huge reception hall and formal banquet room are still used to host state social events for foreign dignitaries. Sunlight from the stained glass windows caressed the rich cherry wood floors of the banquet room. Rectangular pools separated wings of the building and each shallow pool was lined with colorful patterned tiles.

We were honored when our guide introduced us to the official painter of the Republic of Guatemala, Maestro Adelso Rene Ramos.  Adelso has created paintings given as gifts when the president visits and is visited by foreign governments for over 22 years.  Two of his paintings are in the Vatican, one in the hall of the United Nations and another in the palace of China.  In his small studio/office at the National Palace, he designs smaller paintings for sale to visitors.

Jetlagged and eager to return to the boat, we spent only one day in Guatemala City.  After a sumptuous lunch at Arrin Cuan, one of the city’s best restaurants, we returned to the hotel for a power nap.  The next day, it was back to the bus station and on to Fronteras!  The local Guatemalans do not call the town of Fronteras “Fronteras,” they call it “Rio Dulce.”  We discovered when booking buses or talking with native Guatemalans about where we “lived,” if we named the town of Fronteras we were met with blank stares.  As soon as we said, “Rio Dulce,” they nodded and smiled.  Oh, of course!  We know where you live!

The 5-hour bus ride was without incident and actually very nice.  The security at the bus station was great and they tagged our bags, just like the airlines do.  The air conditioning worked too.  Guatemala reminds me of Texas in its multi-faceted landscape:  We left the city and climbed high into lush, rainforest mountains then back down toward the tropics and Rio Dulce.  When we began seeing palm and banana trees, I knew we were getting closer to S/V Rose of Sharon.

The Catamaran hotel water taxi took us directly to our boat so we could load the baggage onto the dock.  As soon as we were in the cockpit, a turtle swam toward us to inspect the goings-on.  While we were watching the turtle, the resident caged macaws (whose vocabularies are limited more than most, I think) began a series of rowdy and fussy screeches interspersed with an occasional “hola!”  We teetered on our land legs as we boarded the boat for the first time in a month.

Illini Pam suggested that we register with the State Department and I think it’s a good idea for out-of-country cruisers to do this.

To register your current and future travel outside the U.S., have your passport(s) handy and go to https://travelregistration.state.gov/ibrs/.  Click on the “register my trip” tab, where you will be prompted to select Short-Term Traveler, New Short-Term Traveler, Long-Term Traveler, New Long-Term Traveler/Overseas Resident or Organizational User.  You will then be required to create a userid and a password for future access to the site.  After you provide personal information to the website, you select the countries about which you wish to receive travel updates.  Meanwhile, if there is a current situation in or near your location that prompts the State Department to issue advisories or warnings, they will immediately notify you.

In Texas, when I said goodbye to my family and especially to granddaughter Hannah, I wondered if we were doing the right thing.  I love her so much; how can I waste valuable time that could be spent with her to go traipsing off in a boat to who-knows-where for who-knows-how-long?  I don’t know what’s driving Joe and me to do this, but I do know that we did not feel whole again until we were back in our boat on the Rio Dulce, Guatemala.

One-hundred percent Deet will remove nail polish in extreme heat.  I contemplated that fact as I watched the paint on one of my fingernails become gummy.  I wiped my finger on a tissue and wondered what in the world had made me think I should do my nails and wear makeup on a safari by water to a jungle site.  My mascara formed raccoon-like rings under my eyes and one kind woman said, “Really – it’s not bad.  It kind of makes your eyes look bluer against your sunburn!”

There were approximately ten cruising couples and one granddaughter on the Polynesia 42 catamaran, Gitane.  The French sailing vessel was once docked at Bahia Marina in Ingleside, Texas but now makes her home at Mario’s Marina on the Rio Dulce.  Owners Mike and Sherrie won’t be sailing her back to Texas anytime soon and may make the Rio Dulce their home for awhile.

We were motoring down the river to the opening of the Mayan Cultural Center Q’eqchi, and although it was early morning, the sun was blazing unmercifully on the boat.  Some huddled under the bimini, seeking whatever shade was available, while others opted for the slight breeze available on deck.  Sherrie scurried back and forth offering bottles of water and soft drinks during the short but scorching sail.  The Rio Dulce was glass-smooth as the cruisers shared their stories about where they’d been and where they were going, but the chatter was momentarily interrupted when a manatee was spotted in the river.  Everyone paused to watch the beautiful creature’s gentle roll out and back into the water, and when the ripples were gone, resumed their conversations.

Captain Mike made a slight veer to the left and entered a small waterway banked by lush tropical foliage, and Joe said, “This reminds me of The Ditch.”  I nodded and another man responded, “It does!  The Great Dismal Swamp!” but he was referring to the east coast version of our ICW, also called “The Ditch.”

The water depth stayed at six feet all the way to a new dock built especially to accommodate cruisers.  We slowly passed three sailboats anchored in the lagoon and glided smoothly to a stop at the water’s edge.  After securing the boat, we hurried to a large thatch-roofed pavilion and arrived just in time to see the Dance of the Deer.

The Mayan Dance of the Deer traditionally took three days to complete, but this shortened version demonstrated the colorful history of the Maya in costume and movement:

Long ago, as recorded by our Maya Q’eqchi ancestors . . . we lived in harmony with the deer, the tiger, the lion, the monkeys and the tropical forest . . . the Deer represent our ancestors at the time when the Conquistadores came to our land.  . . . In a short time we realized that these men were looking for slaves and treasure.  They wanted us for their slaves and our necklaces, bracelets and earrings of Gold and Jade for their treasure.  The struggle to remain free began.  We had help.  Many times the Conquistadors, while walking in the jungle would be killed by the tiger and the lion.  When some of us were captured and held as prisoners, the monkeys would come and play near our captors.  While they captured the attention of Cortez’s men, we would escape and then our friends, the monkeys, would also run away.  We would dance and dance in celebration of our freedom.

The villagers who live near the cultural center are now Christians, but they celebrate their ancient rituals today as they did hundreds of years ago in the jungles of Guatemala.  Their language is the Q’eqchi, one of many dialects of the Maya people, and we discovered that sometimes the children did not understand the Spanish in which several of the cruisers were fluent.  The dancers’ costumes were woven using bright threads, sequins and beads, and the patterns on their cloaks appeared to contain some of the cosmic art that is part of the mysterious history of the Mayans.

Joe and I wandered the cultural center grounds and bought a palm leaf fan at the small tienda.  “Remember when you took that palm-leaf weaving class in Hawaii?” Joe asked as I fanned the air around us.

I remember.  I was the first tourist to be almost thrown out of a palm-weaving class for complete ineptitude.  The instructor scornfully finished my palm-leaf hair adornment for me, which is exactly what happened with my A-line skirt in the required-for-girls sewing class at Texas City’s Blocker Junior High School.  I studied my fan’s intertwined leaves that were seamlessly held together by black yarn and knew that even this simple handmade fan would be far beyond my handicraft skills.

Inside a thatch hut was the cultural center’s restaurant.  It had a small counter in front of an even smaller order window, tables, chairs, no lights, few windows, and no ceiling fans.  Still, we crowded inside to get a sample of Tib́el y Wás.  No one knew what it was, nor did anyone completely recognize the ingredients.  It looked like a tiny soft shell taco.  “There’s beans . . . and cheese?” murmured one woman, looking inside her small tortilla.  “Do you have cilantro on yours?” one person asked the table.  “No, no cilantro.  What’s the white stuff?” asked another.  Joe looked up from his examination of lunch and asked, “What white stuff?” Another cruiser replied, “Chicken.  Looks like tiny shreds of chicken.”  Everyone ate at least two.  Ice-cold beer and water flowed freely, and after another stroll around the grounds, we slowly walked along the wooden walkway through the jungle and boarded Gitane.

Once on board, I posed a question to several others:  “Did anyone go to the bathroom?” and no one had.  I said, “Do you have any idea how much liquid we drank today and yet none of us peed?”  Wiping perspiration from their faces, several people nodded and admitted that it had taken every ounce of liquid we could hold to keep our bodies hydrated that day.

The activity had been organized by Mario’s Marina, and the cruisers docked there mentioned several future activities, including a poker run.  “Sounds like fun!” I exclaimed, and they promised to keep me apprised of summer happenings at or sponsored by Mario’s Marina.  Even though I loved our slip at Catamaran Marina, I recognized that Mario’s Marina continues to be the flagship dockage for Rio Dulce cruisers.

Western Caribbean cruisers usually plan to spend hurricane season inland, on Guatemala’s Rio Dulce, and it’s a good bet they’ve all heard of Mario’s Marina.  Located at 15°40.337N and 088°58.953W, the 70-slip marina is the primary business at this site, but there is also a private home with swimming pool and Jacuzzi that sleeps up to 12 as well as bungalows for 2-4 persons.  Mario’s Cayuco Club Restaurant offers affordable meals and a varied menu (my favorite was the chicken-fried steak – you know there was a Texan in the kitchen that day!).  Boaters will appreciate the dockside filtered and ultraviolet treated water and wireless internet onboard.  A nearby community pavilion offers satellite television.

Charter tours and boat trips are available to cruisers, and Mario’s Marina is the gathering place for cruiser get-togethers.  Their Saturday swap meet is attended by cruisers and locals, looking to buy, sell or trade information or miscellaneous items.  Mario’s onsite gourmet grocery store stocks hard-to-find foods and a large selection of good breads and Joe and I found it to be a perfect place to run in and grab a last-minute menu item or the ever-essential liter carton of wine.  Additional information is on Mario’s website, http://www.mariosmarina.com/.

Several days, later, Joe and I took a dinghy trip to tour the other marinas in that area of the river.  We discovered there are more than ten working marinas and several smaller, semi-private marinas on the Rio Dulce near Fronteras.  According to Ron of the Rio Dulce Marina Management Association, government regulatory agency SAT (Superintendencia de Administracion Tributaria), licensed marinas are Bruno’s, Catamaran, Mar Marina, Mario’s, Monkey Bay, Suzana’s, Tijax and Tortugal.  Those marinas are also governed by INGUAT (Guatemalan Institute of Tourism); visiting boaters who are in fear of or are being threatened in any way can call VHF 16 to connect with INGUAT’s nearby protective services.

Most of the marinas charge between $100 - $200 U.S. per month.  Laundry services are usually onsite, convenient and inexpensive (about $3 U.S. per washer/dryer load!) at the better marinas.  Catamaran cruisers should verify the slip fee before committing to any marina; some of the Med-moor marinas charge double for cats because their width is considered to be two dockages.

The Rio Dulce marinas keep in touch with the officials who process check-ins and Livingston, and by July 1, the number of visiting cruisers was surpassing annual expectations; several of the marinas were in the process of adding dockage because the number of sailboats visiting the Rio Dulce was anticipated to be near 500 for the 2005 hurricane season.  That’s a lot of cruisers!

Our first stop was Tortugal Marina at 15°39.0N and 089°00.0W.  It was a lush, tropical paradise where the boats were Med-moored.  This hotel/marina is accessible only by watercraft and offers bungalows and even a dorm (“Ranchito”) for Guatemalan travelers.  The marina has wireless internet and a wide-screen satellite television in a common area.  The grounds are clean and a Mayan motif adorns each dock; it was easy to see that Tortugal is one of the nicest marinas on the Rio.  I went into the restaurant to get a bottle of water.

“Do you miss jumping off the boat and going for a swim?” asked a man seated near me.  I admitted that it was my favorite part of Caribbean cruising and yes, I did miss the off-the-boat swims.  “You can do it here!” he said.  Richard Briggs was retired from the U.S. National Park Service, and he and his wife, Carol, are cruisers from Arizona.  Their catamaran La Vida Feliz was docked at Tortugal and Richard claimed he loved the energy and positive atmosphere of Tortugal.  The fact is, all the energy and positive atmosphere was radiating from Richard himself; his enthusiasm for the cruising life was contagious and the man had a smiley face tattoo on his left arm!  His cruiser card had the usual internet and offshore email information printed around a large yellow smiley face, too.  There’s no way anyone could not appreciate a cruiser like Richard Briggs.

“Look where we are,” he pointed.  “There’s the opening into Lake Izabal; the river flows directly from there.  There’s no pollution until the water reaches Fronteras, which is on the other side of the bridge.  I go swimming off my boat every day!”  Tortugal was starting to look very good to me.  As Richard and I chatted, he revealed that they had begun their cruising in a Hunter 37 but like many West Caribbean cruisers, immediately discovered the advantages of a catamaran.  He purchased his 33’ Dean, a South African catamaran, in Florida and sailed it to the Rio.  He said he and his wife also sponsor over twenty needy children in Guatemala; this is an admirable cruising couple with an outreach agenda woven into their sail plan.

Richard extolled the management of the Tortugal property too.  With the help of friends and international artists, Daphne Becker developed the Tortugal hotel/marina site and created a peaceful, internationally-minded retreat for sailors and travelers. Information about Tortugal marina can be found at www.tortugal.com.

Joe and I stopped briefly at marina Xalajá, where a cheerful Guatemalan woman and her son were eager to offer information – in Spanish, which Joe and I were still struggling to master.  The marina manager was a bit brusque but clearly very busy moving hyacinth plants away from boats and towing the troublesome plants into the center of the river.  He indicated he did not have time to chat, so we continued on to another marina.

In appearance, the Xalajá Marina offers about ten boat slips and amenities may be limited, but they host a Spanish language school there, which cruisers may want to investigate.

Suzana Laguna Hotel & Marina is nestled in a lagoon off the main river at 15°38.982N and 088°59.912W.  It’s an intimate but large marina for cruisers seeking dockage off the main waterway, and Wendy at Suzana’s was eager to share information about the marina site, which has 75 boat slips.  Internet access is available to cruisers at the marina office and she said electricity and potable water is available dockside.  Suzana’s Restaurant was a popular stomping ground for cruisers in the ’90s.

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