The International Writers Magazine: World Travel

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El Mirador • John Finnegan I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished line to your lordship….but if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised: William Shakespeare

"Go not gentle into that sweet night, but rage rage against the dimming of the light." No one did it but everyone talked about it or knew a friend of a friend who had done it. This all started about a year ago when I went to Belize and stumbled across my first Mayan ruin near St. Ignacio. I was fascinated by the accomplishments of a civilization which built huge pyramids and had city states of tens of thousands developed a calendar as accurate as ours is today, performed brain surgery, discovered the zero and invented a hieroglyphic writing system before the time of Christ.

While in Belize I visited the ruins of Caracol rumored to have had a population of 180,000 in a 10 by 10 square mile area. The whole country of Belize has only 250,000 people today. I took a boat trip down a jungle river full of crocodiles and 6-foot iguanas to see Laminai. When my wife, Kim arrived we went to Tikal in Guatemala but because of time restraints could only stay one day, but like General MacArthur I vowed,
"I shall return".

On January 4, 2006 I arrived in Antigua Guatemala to study Spanish for a week. I had a private tutor for 4 hours a day for 5 days cost $100. I stayed with a Guatemalan family for $70/week and three meals were included. After 2 days I was sick and my Spanish lessons were not progressing very well.

It was here that I first heard about El Mirador, rumored to be one of the largest Mayan ruins in the Peten jungle of Northern Guatemala. So as I began to feel better I thought I might check it out. I first went to Copan in the Honduras to see the Mayan ruins that are considered to be the Athens of the Mayan world. From there I figured I would head to Tikal via Lake Atitlan and Livingston, always asking for information regarding El Mirador. My guidebook was out of date because Guatemala added more numbers to the phone system. Terry, a Frenchman I met, said they cancelled the trips. An archeologist in Copan said if I felt strong I should go. The Hotel proprietor in Rio Duce said the world is getting smaller and unless I went to the Amazon or Pau Pau, New Guinea I would never see a virgin jungle like this. I did learn that it would take 5 days hiking there and back and the best place to get information was in Flores.

I arrived in Flores by way of the Chicken Bus. Immediately, the coyotes, guides who get commissioned from the hotel and tour operators, got a hold of me. We found a hotel for $10/night and booked a 5AM shuttle to Tikal. I mention that I wanted to go to El Mirador and their eyes lit up. The first travel agent said it would cost $200 but he did not have a group going until next week. Well that did not deter my guides. We were traveling in a van now and we went to see Henry. Henry ran an Internet café and also booked tours and God knows what else. He had a group going in two days but needed the money right now. After careful negotiations I was back in the van with the Cayotoes heading to an ATM to withdraw $230. The average wage in Guatemala is $2,000/year so my guides were happy to get these commissions from the Gringo.

After my visit to Tikal and buying boots and a small backpack, I was ready to leave the next day for El Mirador. The only problem was the rest of the group cancelled and Henry wanted more money for a private tour. I told him to go to hell. He already overcharged me. He agreed and the trip was a go. A car would pick me up a t 11am and drive me to the jump-off town of Carmalita. I emailed Kim, telling her that I am going into the jungle and if there is a problem, get a hold of Henry at Amigo Internet in Flores. This was my discrete way of telling her that if I do not return, send my brothers after Henry. Also I sent an email to my friend Meixner, who is a rocket scientist and told him my plans. He responded that he would never go into the jungle alone with a non-English speaking guide and a mule and he hoped the guide had a gun. Well that made my day.

The next morning I wanted to buy some health bars, Gatorade, and other practical stuff, but Henry informed me that I would have to leave early because the car and driver got in an accident. Apparently there was only one car and driver in all of Flores and I would have to take the bus, which was leaving in 20 minutes. He assured me that I could stock up in Carmelita with supplies. So after leaving most of my luggage at Henry’s house, I was back on the chicken bus.

I thought the last bus ride was bad but this one came from a terminal in hell. First, they overcharged me, explaining that there was a gringo tax. Next, the seats were so close together that my knees kept banging on the seat back in front of me but I had a seat probably because of the Gringo tax. The bus had a capacity of 35 and the further we went the more they put on. It wasn’t until we had about 80 people in the bus that the started putting people on top.

I had to stand to stretch my legs and four little kids took my half of the seat. I explained in my broken Spanish about the Gringo tax but they pretended they didn’t understand and kept the seat. Things got so crowded that I could not move my feet. Really there was no room on the floor to move my feet. The conductor was hanging out the side door.

To make matters worse, the driver felt the road was his and all the other vehicles had no right to intrude. He would pass on the right or on blind turns, it didn’t matter. God was on his side. At each major stop the vendors would rush the bus and try to sell fruit, pop, water or tranquilizers. I would not negotiate my hands into my pockets to get money and the vendors did not accept vista. Finally, I got my seat back when the four kids left via the windows.

This three-hour trip was now into the fifth hour. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, God sent me another test. A guy with a huge potbelly stands next to my seat and before long; he is resting his belly on my shoulder. I did not say a word but in my heard I cursed Henry and his offspring for ten generations.
I finally arrived in beautiful Carmalita after my six-hour scenic bus tour. Liked the late Pope John, I kissed the ground and swore that I would be good for the rest of my life.

Carmalita consisted of about 20 huts and is appropriately nicknamed "the end of the line." I was met by my jungle guide, Jose, and his family. How he picked me out of the crowd is still a mystery. I was given a choice of setting up my tent in the front yard with the horse or the backyard with the chickens. While pondering this dilemma that would require the Wisdom of Solomon, it was decided that I would sleep inside, in the hammock, because of the rain.

The house consisted of three rooms; a living room a bedroom and a kitchen, a tin roof, a dirt floor and no running water or electricity. Chickens and dogs welcome.

It only goes down hill from here. After ten minutes, of exploring the whole town I realized that the only supplies I could buy were Fanta orange and Doritos sold from someone s front room. Damn you Henry! The rain came down all night. I figured we would delay the trip and wait for better weather. Alas, no one was interested in what I thought, even if I could have expressed myself. So with my new rubber farmer boots and my backpack loaded with a sweatshirt, windbreaker, and a bottle of water; Jose, the mule, and I began our trek.

The line from Dante’s Inferno kept entering my mind, "abandon all hope ye who enter."
The first thing I noticed on my jungle promenaded was not the lust vegetation or the strange sounds of the birds and animals but the God-awful mud. A path would be cut through the brush and not very well because there were always angled shaped stumps waiting to impale me. The ground would never dry and because of the mules, horses, and people traveling through, it would get wider and muddier and deeper. If I went to the right or left of the path I would get caught in the trees, vines and thorns. To compliment the ambiance of this jungle highway, the mules and horses thought nothing of leaving little mementoes of their presence. Needless to say, my new farmer boots started giving me a blister.

After about an hour, we noticed some people coming back from their experience. The first man who looked strong and healthy did not stop to talk but just kept on walking. So much for jungle etiquette. The next guy appeared to be about 26 or 27 and he rode a horse. He had a glazed look about him that made me think of Moses when he received the 10 commandments from the burning bush on Mount Sinai. I wish Henry would have given me the option of a horse. Damn him!

Finally, when we would start to go uphill, the mud would vanish but then came more rain. To fit in with the local population and disguise my 6-foot frame and Irish-American, red hair and pale complexion, I tucked my pants inside my infamous blister-producing boots. This had the effect of serving as a funnel for the rain. The water would soak my clothes and run down my body and fill up my boots. I just prayed that it was fresh water and not some local mixture of mud and manure.

Three hours into the trip we encountered a chicle factory. Prior to 1945, people would gather sap from the sapodillas trees by cutting grooves in them with a machete. The sap would then be boiled down and formed into bricks, transported out by mules. Since the end of WWII, they had been using a synthetic substitute, but no one told these guys. I don’t’ think OCEA ever inspected this factory. Actually, it consisted of a family of four that lived here in a hut with a palm roof and walls made of back plastic roll. They had just finished baking some bread and next to my mother’s Irish soda bread, it was the best bread I ever had.
We continued our trip for a few more hours. Up and down hills and in and out of mud, always keeping my eyes on the ground to figure out my next step and avoid tripping on roots and vines. Finally, we made camp for the night.

I tried to dry my clothes by hanging them over the fire but it was a very slow process. I was extremely concerned that my foot might become infected. We had a few visitors. The first was a journalist from Chili and his guide and their faithful mule. They stopped and talked for a few minutes and then kept going toward El Mirador. I was very impressed at how fast they were moving. The next group was returning to Carmelita. They consisted of 2 guys and a girl from Sweden. They told me how great the trip was and reluctantly sold me some tape for my foot. This greatly lifted my spirits and I decided that it was El Mirador or bust!

Thank God for Dr. Havey because the sleeping pills he gave me did the trick. I felt great in the morning and after lubricating my blister with lip balm and taping it, I was ready. Needless to say, my guide Jose and the tour director Henry considered a first aid kit to be a weight too excessive for the poor mule. After three hours of hiking we hit the halfway point. My final chance to turn around. The mud was not as bad but the rain was worse. I knew I could not give up. I dumped the water out of my boots and retaped my foot and continued. Along the way, we saw Howler monkeys, Spider monkeys, wild turkeys and an ancient Mayan storage cellar on the side of the road. After about 8 hours, we came to El Mirador.

I knew immediately we were at El Mirador because an old wooden hand painted sign said "Bienvenidos a El Mirador." Well, we set up camp in a clearing near a wooded shack that housed three guards. I was asked to sign the guest book, which I did and the thought kept going through my head "what the hell are these guys guarding." I was aware that the ruins were unexcavated but I saw nothing.

José proudly directed me to the bathing facilities. This consisted of an elevated plastic tarp that funneled water into a trough were upon you used a five gallon plastic bucked to draw water. Modesty be damned, if the monkeys or turkeys wanted a peek, I was going to give them an eyeful. My only regret was that I did not have a hard plastic perforated floor mat, red or blue, the color did not matter. My feet kept slipping off the wooden board and into the mud. At least it was a mule-free zone. Not to let an opportunity pass, I also did my laundry, which had a strange smell of smoke.

Upon returning to camp, Chef José had prepared a delicious chicken vegetable soup, sans chicken of course, accompanied by homemade tortillas from his wife. After thanking the cocinero for the epicurean delight we had Folgers instant coffee. Apparently, all the excellent coffee grown in Central America is exported. Oh well.
While enjoying my "good to the last drop," I inquired with little hope of the possibility of acquiring an antibiotic.
"Antibiotica", José replied.
"Si " I said, with spirits rising.
José went to check with the guards, who in my opinion would be lucky to have a copy of Playboy dated later than 1975. O ye of little faith, the Chilianno came through. He had a first aid kit. Armed with macurancone, gauze, and more tape. I went to sleep with dreams of conquering the pyramids of El Mirador.

Day three consisted of exploring the ancient Mayan ruins. We climbed to the top of an 18-story pyramid that had a base the size of three football fields. The pyramid, called El Tigre, was built around the time of Christ and is the largest in the Mayan kingdom. Unlike the pyramids of Egypt, this was totally covered with plants and trees. Some trees, 30 or 40 feet high, growing out of the pyramid. Only after reviewing other Mayan sites, especially Tikal, could one truly appreciate this immense structure.

Until 1986, airplane pilots thought it was a natural phenomenon and were astounded to learn it was man made. To reach the top of El Tigre, you must haul yourself up on ropes; there are no stairs there, much less elevators or escalators. Once on top, the whole trip was worth it. I could see for 200 kilometers. There were other hills and mounds waiting to be excavated that concealed smaller temples and pyramids. With a little imagination and awe, I could envision a 2000 year-old metropolis of tens of thousands and I was in the center of this jungle valley.

Why they picked this area no one knows. I think modern man would have a hard time living in a spot like this much less creating a society of 40 or 50 thousand people. How did they solve the sanitation problems, the agricultural and distribution problems and further more, to do this so well to have time to build temples, pyramids and hundreds of other structures? This begs the question, why did they not progress? Why was it that technology and building methods in 500 BC were basically the same as 500 AD? Why did most of these great empires collapse long before the European invasions? Why is there no equivalent evidence of great societies in the United States or Canada? (See Ice Age2 - Ed)

El Mirador is hiding in the jungle and 99% of its structures remain unearthed. However, unlike Rome or Athens where they sell tickets to their historical treasures, the price of admission here is a two-day hike and the guards of this land of El Dorado only ask that you sign a guest book. There is a certain aura or mystical presence that permeates this ancient ghost town. You cannot but wonder if the citizens of El Mirador who contributed so much blood, sweat and labor could envision it’s demise. Also what of our own society? Will someone one thousand years from now stand on a huge mountain that was once the Sears tour and think about us?

The Lonely Planet guidebook says, "El Mirador dates 150 BC to 150 AD and contains the largest cluster of buildings and biggest pyramid in the Mayan world. No major excavation has taken place at this city of 16 square kilometers so everything is still hidden beneath the jungle. Trecking to El Mirador is not for the faint of heart. There are no toilets, beds, cold beverages and bathrooms. The ants, ticks, and mosquitoes never relent, the mud is knee deep and the hiking is strenuous and dirty. That said folks who make this journey will never forget it."
Hey, I did it. A 55-year-old, married for 29 years, father of three, retired caterer who grew up on the West side of Chicago.
© John Finnegan April 5 2006
johfinnegan1@msn.com

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