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have a change of clothes in the car. I’m ready to get
back into town and take a nap, but as we pass through
the gate,García points out Canopy Tours Tikal. “Do
you want to do the zipline?” he asks. I remember my
dizziness atopTemple IVand sayno.Then I thinkagain.
The rainhas stopped.I’monvacation.Whynot?Minutes
later I am screaming and flying, Superman-
style, through the treetops. Fear of heights:
conquered.Need for a nap: also conquered.
We drive for an hour or so to Flores, the
capital ofPetén,whichoccupies a small island
inLago Petén Itzá.We cross the bridge into
town and García drops me off at the red-
and-white, chalet-styleRamadaTikal,which
opened last year on the sleepy waterfront.
At check-in I’m given a glass of watermelon
juice,which soothesmy throat, still scratchy
from jungle-sweat dehydration and zipline
bansheewails. Just beyond the lobby I pass an
indoor pool and head up tomy room,which
has a balcony overlooking the lake.
The view is great,but the sight of the
bed is evenbetter. I feelmyneed for a
nap returning.
It’sdarkwhenIwakeup,andImake
myway down the road that rings the
edgeof the island toRaicesGrill.I take
a seat on thedeck,which juts out over
the lake,andorderaplateof
camarones
al ajo
,huge shrimp stuffedwithgarlic
andservedovergrilledpineapple.Even
atnight it’s tropically steamyhere,and
I fightback theheatwitha few rounds
of the national lager,Gallo, whiling
away the evening by tossing crumbs
of tortilla to the fish swarmingaround
theboards.
I’MUPBEFORETHESUN
in order to
catch the hourlong flight from the
nearby Flores airport toGuatemala
City. By midmorning, I’m in a car
andon theway toAntigua,oneof the
NewWorld’sgreatcultural landmarks.
TheUNESCOWorldHeritage Site
and former capital of most of colo-
nial Central America is a jumble of
cobblestone streets, colorful houses
andcrumbledchurches (due toa1773
earthquake that destroyedmost of the city). It also plays
host to frequent, lively festivals.
IdropmybagsatMansiónde laLuz,aseven-roombou-
tiquehotel thatopened lastyear.Theopencourtyard looks
like a setting from aGarcíaMarquez novel,with sprays
of calla lilies, tile fountains, archedwindows andman-
nequins dressed inMayan garb. I head to the
restaurant for a late breakfast withmy friend
NormanRaxón, a cheerful 29-year-oldwho
works as a guide for theGuatemalan tourism
agency. I get a
desayuno típico
: scrambled eggs
lacedwith tomatoandonion,blackbeans,
friedplantains,cheese and a spoonful of
cream.The salsa I ladle over my eggs
is so ragingly
picante
that I frantically
hail our waiter for a
mint lemonade
>
todousemy tastebuds.
Nowwe’rereadytotacklethosecobblestones.
We strolldownTerceraCalle,toward the town
center,makingadetour intoIglesiayConvento
DAY TWO
InwhichJustinvisits crumbled
churches,momentarily finds religion
andwitnessesavolcanic eruption
Purple-robed
cucuruchos
at a
religious procession
in Jocotenango
Fried
mojarra
fishat
Restaurante el
Pescador, in
SantiagoAtitlán
