El Remate, Guatemala

Our cabaña at La Mansion Pajaro Serpiente - Photo by Ron S. Doyle

I marvel at how quickly perspectives change. Circumstances which on one day appear as a thorny briar of threat, blossom the next day into the aromatic petals of adventure. The flower never really changes, but our senses do.

Our bungalow at Hotel La Mansión del Pájaro Serpiente compensates for my lack of effective intramarital communication during the border crossing. Eleven cabins overlook the eastern shore of Lago de Petén Itzá, nestling themselves among steep, lush hillside gardens. Mesh windows with velvety curtains, carved hardwood furniture and colorful rough hewn tile, steaming hot water and a canopy bed construct the most romantic place we’ve stayed on the trip.

We wind down the hill on quaint flagstone paths into El Remate, less a village than two rows of houses and businesses built up on either side of the road to Tikal.

Mating season for the Ronrones in El Remate, Guatemala - Photo by Lisa L. Doyle

Comedor Susana lies beneath a corrugated tin carport-two plastic tables with chairs outside Susana’s home. Her young daughter, Maria Susana, leaves her schoolwork to serve us while Susana cooks in her kitchen.

We feel awkward at first, obviously interrupting a quiet weeknight. The beetles continue to drone, pelting the tin roof like clumsy arthropodic hail. Maria Susana tells me that the bugs are called ronrones-a most amusing example of taxonomic onomatopoeia-and we giggle together when I tell her that my name is Ron.

LaFleur and I settle in and take turns helping Maria Susana with her math homework, sipping on bottles of Gallo, supping on stew chicken and black beans, watching other local children revel in the entertainment of this annual insect plague. Their interminable ability to find an excuse to joyfully squeal reminds me that all moments are flowers to be sniffed, gently plucked and placed behind one’s ear.

At three o’clock in the morning, black howler monkeys begin to wail their banshee songs. LaFleur and I peer wide-eyed through our netted windows as the dark silhouettes of top tree branches bend, swish and crack with nocturnal frolics.

The sun rises late behind the eastern hills, glittering the surface of the lake, heating the scented oils of tropical fruit trees and native orchids, warming our skin and perfuming our noses. Outside, the human citizens push wide brooms through the streets to clear the remains of last night’s ronrones orgy into piles. The bovine citizens, assisting as best they are able, dine at the mounds, crunching and snorting with gleeful enthusiasm.

Over scrambled eggs and fresh fruit, LaFleur and I decide to rent a scooter and ride to Santa Elena and Flores, thirty kilometers southwest, then Tikal, twenty-seven kilometers north. The manager, a thin, gap-toothed woman with salt and pepper hair, shakes her head in doubt, claiming that no one rents scooters-only horses and canoes.

Nonetheless, she suggests we ask around town. Each attempt offers another lead-a canoe rental shop leads to Hotel Mirador del Duende leads to Tortita’s husband leads to Pablo at the internet café. Pablo points to his motorcycle. LaFleur nor I know how to operate it, so Pablo takes me for a lesson. I wrap my arms around his soft midsection and he tears down the road, shouting instructions in Spanish at fifty kilometers per hour.

When we return, LaFleur sees my terror and asks about cascos; Pablo turbidly shrugs as if he’s never seen a helmet. As if I’m at a metropolitan auto dealership, I ask for something smaller. Pablo shouts for his girlfriend—the tiny, tightly dressed epicurean María—and explains everything to her. An argument at a verbal rate beyond my capacities briefly ensues, María storms off and returns with a shiny new scooter.

We fly past lazy cattle, banana trees, quaint cottages, the constant smell of honeysuckle, the lake always on our right. These successful moments, inspired by improvisation, fill me with a sense of interconnectedness. Guatemala’s countryside blooms before us. LaFleur squeezes my ribs and kisses me on the neck. The road widens and a hot, wet wind pushes us forward.