Adequately warned about the danger? Sure. The Government bulletins from the State Department all but screamed, "Don't you dare go to Guatemala; you'll never come back!"
Our Bishop had cautioned me with some unsolicited advice, "Watch yourself, be careful! You won't be under the protection of the Lord there, you know." (A strange man. One had to consider the source.)
A week before our departure, headlines chronicled the execution of a Catholic nun, exactly my age, in Guatemala City. A couple of days before we were to fly out of San Diego, a neighbor a block down the road, whom I barely knew, showed up at our doorstep. He had grown up in Guatemala, eventually leaving, but not before his Father had been ambushed and killed by the native Guerrillas. Even though he ventured back every year, he was always careful to blend in, taking pains to look authentically Guatemalan (as if he could pass for Danish). Over and over, he would plead for us to reconsider. "Really, just don't go!"
But, HELLO! One of my babies, as sweet and pure as they come, had been living there for the past 18 months. So, though it appeared somewhat ominous, I insisted to my husband we were going, come you-know-what or high water. I'm nothing if not a rebel by nature.
Besides, from Day One she had braved a lot of intimidating circumstances over there. The first weekend she arrived, she couldn't go to church on Sunday because of a funeral taking place in the Chapel. A doctor had left his office, then stopped to call his wife.
The phone booth was as far as he got. He was shot at point blank range.Next day funerals are par for the course in Central and South America because air conditioning is the exception to the rule; bodies don't keep. Did I mention the erupting volcano on the outskirts of the city as her plane was landing? And that was just her first weekend. She'd seen much more in the ensuing year and a half. And luckily had survived. During that entire time, the lady missionaries were confined to the city. I wanted more, wanted her to see places she had heard of and places she hadn't, from ocean to ocean. I was more than determined to reward her with a trip to see the country she had unselfishly served. I didn't expect it would be scenic or compelling or enchanting...or dangerous. Boy, was I wrong.
How exhilarating to meet the native people, the children with ravishing smiles, shining eyes. As amazing as the places we went were, nothing compared with the beauty of the people Treesje introduced us to. Friends she had made in the time she had been one of them. Some homes we went to were one room hovels, some really nice for the area. Haves or have nots, all were gracious and friendly and made us smile. Some moved us to tears.But talk about frosting on the cake!
How stark, yet colorful were the primitive mountain villages, pristine the jeweled lakes. Roasted sweet corn with salt and lime at the markets in Chichicastenago and Panajachel seemed exotic.
Not nearly so as the exquisite taste of the fuchsia fruit someone offered us on the boat as we crossed stunning Lake Atitlan in the Guatemalan Highlands---I'll spend the rest of my life searching for exactly what that was, and angling for my next bite. (Maybe only available in paradise and the next life....)
Beautiful beyond reasoning, Lake Atitlan is the deepest lake in Guatemala, and is the Mayan word for "place where the rainbow gets its colors". Three volcanoes anchor it to the top of the world. Our first slice of heaven. What more could you ever want?
How humble the huts along the Rio Dulce as we floated down the river to the Caribbean village of Livingston on the Atlantic.
Fascinating were the Mayan ruins of Quirigua, the monuments with hieroglyphs in the midst of the jungle that seemed to thrust us back more than a millennium.
Then throw in the vibrant charm and architecture of old Spanish Antigua, and the breathtaking elegance there of a candlelight wedding at the open air ruins of the Chapel on the grounds of Casa Santo Domingo, a former Dominican Monastery from the 1600s. And on and on. The land, the people, their handiwork. An endless kaleidoscope of dazzling color, dramatic shape, dream like magic.
Of course there was the reality check in the town of Santiago, a primitive town accessible only by boat on the shores of Lake Atitlan. Despite being explicitly warned not to, we wended our way to a shack to pay homage to the village protective "Saint", Maximón, stumbling over passed out drunks littering the sidewalks like cairns pointing the way.
Inside the darkened room was an effigy, which was a stretch to take seriously, but when in Rome.... Paradoxically this protector---and the padded image is just the representation of the more ethereal "reality" hovering mysteriously around---is guarded by villagers 24/7 on a rotating basis. The rather subdued ritual involves placing nicotine and cigarettes into his mouth. Villagers wait their turn with their offerings of alcohol and spirits, and strangers are readily admitted as long as they leave a donation for the upkeep of Maximón, who seems possessed of some pretty massive, questionable habits for a Saint. Maybe he was more of a Marlboro man, or a Mafia dude back in the day, and just couldn't let go. Anyway, we shelled out, and hoped he might opt for some sparkling cider and gum for a change of pace. Still, the variety, the contrast, the beauty was without parallel. The drama was even more palpable as we flew into the jungle heading back in time, to the daunting ruins of Tikal.
Ah, yes, Tikal. Plunging into millenniums past. Climbing up the perilously steep steps and looking out in astonishment from the very top of the Temple of the Jaguar. Taking in the deep green vastness as it must have appeared all those eons ago to the eyes of the ancients. Eyes that must have been wide with wonder every time they surveyed the endless view. Profound.
Maybe it was the singular terrifying sound of howler monkeys, which has been compared to the din of dinosaurs giving birth, that made my mind race; I became convinced I could hear the cries of the doomed humans, being offered as sacrifices as their hearts were being ripped from their bodies, mingling with the frenzied chanting of the natives assembled below for the ceremony. Wasn't that actual blood I saw staining these very steps as the intensity of the crowd was whipped into hysteria? Surreal.
But not as surreal as it was about to get. We got to our lakeside hotel that afternoon and found only one other couple there. Rainy season---mid May--and others knew better than to be out vacationing. Crazy Americans. We'd had guides tell us it was an unusual treat to host us, as Americans rarely venture to Guatemala (guess someone heeds those Government advisories); their cash crop was actually tourists from Spain. Well, 1 point, team America! Rainy season, and not one drop fell the entire time we were there! Hardly ominous.
The earlier drama and adventure from the ruins seemed to be giving way to "laid back", so wanting to make the most of every minute we had and jazz it up a bit(we'd been on a roll with excitment for days), I noticed a little card posted on the wall as I waited for my husband checking into our hillside hotel. "Crocodile Hunting", it beckoned.
Now the one thing in the whole world I'm most scared of is alligators. More than sharks, more than snakes, spiders, or the boogeyman. More than all of them combined. I had refused to even consider taking my kids to Disneylworld because you-know-what lurks in Florida. Ditto New Orleans. I wasn't even sure about Philly---what if they had a zoo? So who was that lady who opened her mouth and blurted out to her daughter, "How about going crocodile hunting tonight?"
How ludicrous! Absolutely preposterous! But we were in vacation mode and had left common sense and all responsibility behind, so we giggled at the idea and sauntered over to the desk where my husband was still registering(the language barrier was a delay), and informed the clerk that we wanted to sign up to go crocodile hunting. Gasp! She replied that that was highly out of the question because the place was deserted, and since there were no other people around to go, that wouldn't be feasible. Sigh of relief. She took our names anyway.
We spent the rest of the day meandering around by the water and lounging leisurely. Think hammocks. Very mellow. Dinner that night on the veranda, virtually in isolation. Enchanted by tranquil Lake Petén Itzá and the surrounding hills, mesmerized by the sunset, we were absorbed by the beauty of the moment. Far, far away, the world. Yet its best was right before us. Suddenly, the peace was interrupted by the intercom, paging us..jpg)
What on earth could that be about, we wondered, totally forgetting our inquiries at the desk hours earlier. Sure enough, we went to the lobby and were informed that our dedicated crocodile hunting guide was coming to get us at 8 o'clock. Not knowing what to say, what to do, we went to our room to change, virtually in a trance. At least I was filled with dread, but ironically never even thought of calling it off. The plan had been made. Destiny awaited. I didn't even have the courage to ask if my daughter and husband were scared as well. What if we'd just had our last meal? Right on time we rendezvoused with our guide in the lobby of the Hotel. He was predictably small and predictably spoke no English. Even though Treesje was Spanish fluent now, none of us had figured out what questions to ask, so we followed robotically behind him, down the steep hill to the water. It was dark, oh so dark. And irrevocably still. A world away from cities, a world away from any civilization, it appeared. I squinted to see if there would be any lights from other boats, or from an enclave or two on a far shore. Then I remembered noticing during the day that the shore melted into the horizon after the curve of our beach disappeared from the eye. The lake was vast, and no far land was within seeing distance. We were so alone. So very alone.
And then a miracle! Dead ahead---a small yacht. And, sigh of relief, men with machine guns loomed above us on the second deck. The fear inside me suddenly vanished; we would be protected; we would be more than safe. Phew!
Guatemala was awash in guns. Small trucks making deliveries to neighborhood grocery stores would have at least a couple guys with semi automatic rifles riding in the back, obvious to all that the goods would be delivered, no matter what. Everywhere guns, making the mundane, the routine of life flush with danger. Always danger around the corner. The 36 year civil war had just ended a couple years previously, and so many had grown up knowing nothing but violence, that it had merely gone underground in some ways, renegade in others. But finally, it would work for us. We had at the last minute hired a private guide and driver to escort and protect us, but we had left them behind when we flew to Tikal. So it was fitting that other precautions were being taken for our ultimate safety. Impressive, really. Menacing mental images melted away instantly.
As we approached the side of the boat to board, my exuberant bubble burst instantly as I noticed the muzzles of the machine guns were focused directly on US! For crying out loud, what kind of sense did that make? It was a little disconcerting as well, when our guide marched right past the yacht into the little rowboat I hadn't even noticed there at the water's edge. There awaited his partner in crime, who handed us each one of those plastic 99 cent flashlights. I turned mine on and the beam flashed weakly and flickered out. This is what we were going hunting crocodiles with? CROCODILES?
So men had machine guns aimed at my head as we slipped into the water to go after monsters and we were armed with play flashlights, one of which wasn't working. Did I dream this up? Where was a rational thought? I couldn't locate one. Our little boat had a little motor; it started up as my heart thudded to a stop.
As we moved to the middle of the lake, the irony was apparent. It could have been the ultimate serenity experience. Tangible darkness. Not to be interrupted by an occasional plane flying overhead, not pierced by any light from the shore. What shore? Absolute, penetrating isolation. But wait, this was not serenity. Not for me. Not even close. My Aha moment seized me---we were removed from every hope of rescue. It swept over me, how foolish I was. How foolish I always was. But this was over the top, even for me. And everyone I loved was about to pay a heavy price for that. A very heavy price.
Here we were, having just previously spent time learning all about the violent human sacrifice history of the Ancient Mayans, out in the middle of an endless lake in the middle of an endless jungle nobody had any idea we had come to---with the very grandkids of the grandkids of the grandkids, etc., of those very relentlessly bloodthirsty Mayans!!!
Was I living in my very own novel, on the last page so soon? Were we truly about to be sacrificed to pagan Gods? A crocodile feast? I knew I deserved it. No question now. I made my peace. Even rationalized my husband's end. He let me do this! Wasn't this somehow his fault by now? We had both led full lives, I mused. We'd made it all the way to middle age, after all. It couldn't go on forever. But this precious daughter, so achingly young, so overwhelmingly beautiful. Twenty two and just starting life. How did I get her into this? Never, ever should I have been a mother. I was no longer worthy of the word. I needed to be stripped of my mother license immediately. I should be thrown to the sharks(And by the way, coincidentally, wouldn't Providence have to intervene and get us out of the way of the crocs to accomplish that? Temporary reprieves are the Holy Grail to desperate souls). Internal torment was ripping me to shreds far more brutally than any giant teeth ever could.
Finally, I pierced the silence. "I am SO SORRY!" I bleated.
"What?" my husband replied. He turned around with an enormous grin. His eyes were shining, his face was luminous. He was virtually a 15 year old boy on a great adventure. He was transfixed. "This is incredible!" Men. We were about to die.
"Treesje", I struggled, aiming to take back some control, interject some hope, find a way to manage a final good-bye. Trying to forget every National Geographic Special I had ever seen on PBS, I continued, "Ask the guys(in Spanish)just how big these crocodiles are." My mind was racing. The Guatemalans, being very small in stature, logically should live in a land amidst very small crocodiles, right? Life being fair and all. It could happen.
She translated and answered, "The cocodrilos are three or four meters." Hey, now we're talkin'! That's kind of on the small side.(It didn't dawn on me at all that she had said meters---the metric system is unnatural to me, so I heard feet, and did not begin to conceptualize the closer to 9 foot reptiles she was reporting about.) So 3 feet? It wasn't impossible. I could clobber one in the eye with my non-working flashlight, while those with the working models could focus the beam of light in crocodilian eyes and blind them at least temporarily.
I recalled General Patton's advice, something like a good plan executed today is better than a great plan next week. There was a way, if only the mini crocs played along and took turns with me. I was no Eagle Scout, but finally, I had a plan. Oh that adrenalin rush! I began getting cocky, almost feeling sorry for those little creatures who would soon have to face the indomitable me. I had once killed a rattlesnake in the garage that I perceived was a threat to my "babies", and I couldn't stop fiercely beating it with the shovel I used long after it was dead. I was virtually a serial killer! I would save my angel daughter, I would save my family, I would even save the Mayan progeny. Heck, I would save the entire free world! Five minutes into this scenario, I was interrupted by a rational thought. What if these cocodrilos were babies? Maybe they weren't so much a mini species, maybe just young and innocent.
I got my built in interpreter to ask, and she confirmed that indeed they were babies. Wow, this was going to be a piece of cake. I was destined to be invincible. We were going to the baby crocodile place, where there were only baby crocodiles and we would all be JUST FINE.We moseyed along, me in quiet reverie at last, gratefully smiling in the dark, confidently smiling at the dark. Unfortunately, because it was a moonless, dark night, as luck would have it, that meant we were now lost. These guys were likely born in this very boat, and had spent every waking hour since they were 7 months old trolling every inch of this body of water, and they go and pick this night, of all nights, to get lost?
Apparently, we were looking for the mouth of a tributary river to get to the favored cocodrilo hang out, and it was such an exceptionally black night that we had missed it and wandered afar.
We found ourselves in a dire situation; reptiles aside, we had ended up in a shallow area, a submerged dead forest, that was both eerie and threatening. They cut the motor, and we desperately floated about, dodging one projectile after another, trying to avoid being impaled by any of the sharp pointy tree trunks a few feet above the water's surface. Or ambushed by any other...lurking dangers.Time stands still in circumstances like these. After awhile, I had become numb to the danger following so many close encounters. However long it took to get out of the spooky underwater forest, it took. Unscathed, we eventually got away. The motor luckily turned back on without incident. We had been out for what must have been quite a long time, with not much hope left of finding where we were supposed to be. It seemed like they were deciding whether to keep going or not.
Keep going, it was. My adrenalin ebbed away. It only lasts so long. Again, it was painfully clear, no cell phone coverage, no 911 backup, no posse, no cavalry, no helicopter search, no trained dogs, no national guard to summon---whatever the contingency. Not a soul to even look for our bodies(not that there was much likelihood that there'd be any traces left to be found), much less come to the rescue. Of course. Euphoria gave way once more to foreboding. I retreated to contemplative silence. Then out of nowhere, a reality check. The facts of life popped up on my brain screen, not solely as a distraction. Once more I was prompted to ask Treesje to inquire. "What about those baby crocodiles? Are they orphans? Are we going to a crocodile day care/night care center? Bottomline, where are the Mommy and Daddy crocs then?"
Hoping the zoo had signed them all up, I held my breath. Not for long. The answer was quick and sure, "The Moms and Dads are THERE, of course, they're just way too smart to let you see them. Unless, of course, they want you to see them." And then, of course, it's too late to matter. Of course. Holy flashlight!
I wasn't paying attention, clinging to my doom and gloom. I have no idea how long it took to find the mouth of the river we wanted to reach. But it's clear that's the moment when it all changed. I remember they cut the motor again as we began to float up the river to whatever fate awaited.
I don't know why or how, but it immediately became so exquisitely beautiful; so perfectly, and I mean perfectly, peaceful that there was room for nothing but absolute joy in the deepest level of my soul. I thought beauty was about color, and form. Eye candy, melodic harmony, whatever. But this experience transcended all my expectations. I felt what it was to be part of it all, one with the moment, one with the universe. And to know how every detail therein was totally, unquestionably as it should be.
Passing by a huge tree, we noticed the thousands of "leaves" were actually bats, hanging there upside down. In another life I would have been "concerned", but there was no fear now. Only total love, raw appreciation for this perfection. Pervasive serenity. Transfixed by this glimpse of heaven, I wanted it to never end.
As we glided up the narrow river in sheer ecstasy, my husband and daughter would catch red eyes in the water with their flashlights, that weren't powerful enough to discern anything beyond that. No sudden violent attacks by truculent monster reptiles. No movement disturbed the tranquility. It was as if we just belonged there, and "they" knew it, welcomed it. Like being in a living work of art. Nothing happened, and yet somehow everything did. I expected to be terrorized, at the very least. Instead, it was a transcendent experience for all of us. How does it get any better than that?
We continued up the river until it was time to go, and we came back across the lake in absolute bliss. No words were spoken, no words were needed. What words could there be?
Still there are no words. But besides being ever grateful for my family, and yes, for their safety, finally I am grateful God made even the alligators and crocodiles. I know it's been a long time He's been waiting for my approval. Well...way to go!
TREESJE, I HAVE TO HAND IT TO YOU AS WELL! YOU ARE ONE BRAVE, BEAUTIFUL CROCODILE HUNTER!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY GIRL!
P.S. Chris, just don't get any ideas:
