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We’re on the 4am bus back to Antigua, Guatemala, where in the dark, the bus driver takes our passports to be processed by immigration. They’re returned to us and we speed off into Guatemala. I notice that the visa stamp in both our passports is incorrect and we’ll overstay in Guatemala. Hopefully we’ll sort out the problem when we finally leave ( which we do as the immigration officer will ignore the discrepancy).

After sunset, we’re sitting on the roof terrace of our hotel in Antigua, watching the periodic eruption of Fuego volcano in the . It’s been quite active the last few weeks, spouting out great clouds of ash every twenty minutes or so. Now, in the dark, the volcano itself is invisible, its presence manifested by streaking sparks of red hot ash and lava bursting into the night. The town is covered with a fine layer of it. Whilst Jo will climb volcan Acatenango, the real show is volcan Fuego next to it.

Today, Jo and I have been together for twelve remarkable years. This morning I got this text from her, ‘Run, got orange juice, been to Atm for cash and booked the shuttle for tomorrow. Plus got you an anniversary gift for breakfast. Be back in 15. Love you. ❤️.’ 

What a terrific message first thing in the morning.

This evening we celebrate, with dinner on the terrace of Tartines French restaurant overlooking the ruins of the cathedral. Strolling through the town afterwards, in the warm evening, we stumble across Gertys cocktail bar, a place of some character with an interesting collection of vinyl records and very good margaritas.

Rio Dulce or Sweet River is a revelation. It has taken us ten hours on an old Hyundai bus to get here.  We departed Antigua in the pre-dawn twilight at 4.30 am, on board an old, almost empty Hyundai bus, and skirted north Guatemala city on traffic choked roads.  Life commences in Guatemala at dawn, and as we crawled through the slums I saw and sensed the harshness of life for the poor of this sprawling city; tough women with their toddlers waiting for a 5am bus, men hanging around at junctions waiting for work, street food vendors lighting their wood burners. The shanty towns, visible in the blue grey twilight, beyond the highway, hug every scrap of undulating land, only the steepest ravines are unpopulated. Then the city thins out and we had a clear run for several hours, through the mountains (we’ve been on this highway before, to Honduras) until we stopped, for reasons we’ll never know, for two hours on a hot stretch of dusty road. 

But now we’re in a motor launch with a young Norwegian couple, Jodgren and Aurora (after the lights?) speeding across lake El Golfette towards Livingston on Guatemala’s narrow Caribbean coast – squeezed in between Belize and Honduras. Is El Golfette a lake? It appears to be, but it’s really an extremely wide stretch of the Rio Dulce, with many islands, mangroves and inlets, in which live elusive manatees. It’s busy too with lots of river traffic; launches like the one we’re in, and ocean going sailing boats, ketches, catamarans, swift canoes paddled by stocky, diminutive Mayans, and at the other extreme, smoked glass gin palace, luxury yachts flying the stars and stripes. This waterway is a haven into which vessels can escape from Caribbean storms during the hurricane season. Today there are massed cumulus clouds in an azure sky whose colour is perfectly reflected in the river. There are hundreds of cormorants and great white egrets, many of which are perched on trees on the islands, like tropical Christmas tree decorations.

After thirty minutes the El Golfette narrows into a 200 metre wide river and, fifteen minutes later, the launch slows as we approach, on the southern bank, a big split level wooden deck on concrete pillars. There’s a large dog barking loudly on the lower deck, accompanied by a young man who, in very good English, cheerfully introduces himself as Luis. He deftly grabs our two heavy bags and climbs the stone steps to the restaurant terrace of The Roundhouse where there’s a brief introduction: kayaking routes, boat trip timings to Rio Dulce and Livingston, waterfalls, nature reserves, where the manatees hide, swimming in the river off the deck, and how to avoid the dog (whose name is Baloo) nipping your ankles as you’re about to jump into the water, ‘He’s not being aggressive, he just doesn’t want you to drown.’

Luis shows us to our cabin further up the hill in the woods. Jo has shrewdly, at a small extra cost, booked a detached private cabin with its own bathroom. We have a small terrace overlooking the river, with a hammock, and a bathroom hewn out of solid rock, in which live small red freshwater crabs. We’re booked here for four nights, but tomorrow we’ll have a chat with Luis and extend it to seven.

After dinner, which is a communal affair at a long table, Luis comes round with a clipboard to inquire about activities tomorrow. ‘What would you like to do tomorrow, Armand?’ ‘Nothing thank you Luis.’ Everyone else is off exploring. After dinner the following evening Luis once again appears with his clipboard. With an optimistic smile he asks, ‘Plans for tomorrow Armand?’ ‘Nothing Luis.’ On the third evening again he asks, to which I reply, ‘Tomorrow is a recovery day for me Luis. No plans.’ So now it’s a standing joke, the energetic Norwegians, Germans and Dutch are doing all the activities and the Englisher is a sloth. Also, Jo has developed an irritating dry cough (dust? diesel fumes?) and needs to rest.

But the days are not passed indolently on the river deck. I’m reading Uncommon People, the Rise and Fall of The Rock Stars 1955 to 1995, and Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust, where, appositely, the protagonist is held captive by an old eccentric in the Amazon Rainforest. Writing this journal eats up a bit of time and I’m developing techniques for getting into the river without getting my ankles nipped. In a half-hearted attempt to improve my Spanish, I signed up to the internet language app, Duolingo, but it’s hopeless. I sometimes go for days without internet and the Duolingo algorithms demand daily tuition, ideally a series of consecutive lessons. If you fail to do this you won’t get beyond repeat sessions of Yo como manzanas, tu comes manzanas, ella come manzanas (I eat apples….) There’s no internet here at Roundhouse so I’ll get a series of emails with berating messages, like ‘How do you say quitter in Spanish?’ Much more useful is a mouldy, insect ravaged, coverless paperback I found on a bookshelf in the bar; A Spanish English Dictionary – Student Edition. Here are some useful gems: bland – soso, flemish – flamenco, swim – nadar, relax – reljar, old – viejo, accidents will happen – los accidentes occuriran, spooky – espeluzante.

Luis confirms my guess that Baloo is half Rottweiler, half Labrador; a Labrarot. The Labrador half accounts for his obsession with the river and his instinct to pursue birds. To avoid his Rottweiler ankle snapping, I stand idly on the deck for several minutes, feigning a jump. When he’s bored and turns around I’m off. He barks madly and jumps in after me. Another trick is to quickly run up the steps to the top deck and jump off before Baloo realises what you’re up to. Drives him crazy. We’re both in the river. I swim away as fast as I can, he follows, sometimes getting much too close when his paddling front paws will scratch. Cormorants are his prey. He’ll jump into the river to chase one that seems attainable (it’s futile, they’re not) or he’ll paddle way out into the river in pursuit. It’s not safe, one day a high speed launch will take his head off. He’s bonkers and obsessed with cormorants, barking loudly at any passing, low flying flock.

Another diversion is our Central American backgammon tournament. Thus far we’ve played 74 games and the score is 37 each. The first to reach 51 is the winner. To up my game I’ve been watching a few YouTube videos presented by a young Scandinavian backgammon grandmaster, on timing, and attack and defence strategies.

The river is tidal; nothing turbulent, ebbing down to Livingston in the morning and flooding in the afternoon. Here at Roundhouse it’s a couple of hundred metres wide, both banks densely wooded. I sit on a sun lounger on the deck, with close up views of the prolific birdlife: small flocks of cormorants flying with their beaks open, and swallowing impossibly big whole fish, elegant great white egrets flying with their elongated neck neatly tucked up, dinosaur like pelicans cruising centimetres above the river, pterodactyl like angular winged Magnificent Frigatebirds – the mature males with their bright red neck pouch – crashing into the river in pursuit of fish, red headed vultures and kingfishers. All of these birds feeding off the plentiful Rio Dulce. The guide books promote the boat rides from Rio Dulce town to Livingston, which seems to be the primary attraction. Occasionally a boatload of life jacket trussed tourists whizz past. There aren’t many hotels like Roundhouse on the river, it looks very classy (it isn’t) and Jo has perfected a regal wave from the deck.

Sometimes there’s nothing to do but sit in the sun, watch and listen. We’re alone, in the golden light of the late afternoon, on the river deck.  I’m in the shade gently rocking in a hammock, Jo’s in full sun, on the sun lounger, doing her reptile impersonation. The buzz and whine of cicadas in the forest has receded into the background and all I can hear is the lapping of the river on a gentle flood tide against the deck’s pillars, and the occasional trumpeting, rasping cackle of the grackle bird. There’s a kind gentle breeze. Jo spots Victor the chef and beckons him over. He’s another lovely guy who, together with Lucas runs the place. Jo orders a couple of frozen banana milk smoothies. Some minutes later Victor returns to apologise, ‘I’m sorry. We’re out of ice.’ ‘That’s ok.’ says Jo, ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘No.’ says Victor, ‘I’m sending a boat up river to get some fresh ice. I’m sorry but your smoothies will be a little delayed.’ ‘That’s absolutely fine Victor. Thank you. We’ll still be here.’ A boatman jumps into a small boat with an outboard motor.  I watch him disappear up river. Ten minutes later he returns with two big plastic bags of fresh ice. The banana smoothie on the deck of Roundhouse Rio Dulce is one of the best smoothies in the world. I place my hand on the deck to gently rock the hammock to and fro.

Luis occasionally wanders down to the deck for a chat. Now in his thirties, he hails from Livingston where he succumbed fully to the temptations of drugs and alcohol and ended up sleeping rough. He learnt his English in the USA. He’s intelligent, affable and amusing; traits recognised by Gaby and Carlos who own Roundhouse and gave him the opportunity to work here. Now he’s the main man who manages the day to day running of the hotel with little oversight. He refers to me as ‘old school.’

Victor is a splendid chef, and the set meal every evening at the long table is fresh, varied and imaginative; king prawn curry, pork chops (with mash!) shrimp pad thai, beef kebabs. The boys also know how to mix terrific margaritas, caipirinhas and bloody marys. The national lager is called Gallo (chicken) and its logo is the silhouette of a hen’s head with a tall cowl. When at dinner or on the river deck, there’s no need to shout out your order for a Gallo. Just gesture to Lewis or Victor by holding your open palm on top of your head like a hens cowl and your order is placed. 

I’m being repeatedly bitten by a type of large blood sucking fly, mostly on my lower legs and feet. I swat one, gorging on a vein on my left foot. The bites are causing my feet to swell. I mention this to Luis who recognises the symptoms and the offending insect – a cross between a horsefly and a wasp. He gives me a tube of Allergan cream which quickly alleviates the swelling. ‘Keep it for the week.’ says Luis.

At the convivial, communal dining table we meet Hartwig from northern Germany and his delightful travelling companion Elsie. He was last in Guatemala, as a young backpacker, forty one years ago. He feels that little has changed, other than perhaps the burgeoning housing construction. A few weeks hence, in the market town of Chichicastenango we will have lunch with Sue and her friend from California. Sue was first here in 1975 with her boyfriend and a VW campervan. ‘Wasn’t that during the early years of the Guatemalan revolution?’ I will ask. ‘Oh yes.’ she’ll say with no hint of foolish naivety,  ‘But we didn’t have a clue what was going on in those days.’ She will tell me that Guatemala has changed dramatically in the last ten to twenty years. The population is increasing rapidly and the four billion dollars in remittances (money from expat Guatemalans living in the USA) is funding a housing construction boom unlike anything in the past. ‘They’re building thousands and thousands of what are called remittance houses in the style of US townhouses.’ Hartwig and Sue have different recollections and views. 

Over dinner one evening  with Norwegian Jodgrena and Aurora, we accept an invitation to visit a small family run cacao plantation in Livingston. I’ve been stuffing myself with Mars bars my whole life but am shamefully clueless as to its origin and production. A short rickshaw ride north of Livingston is the cacao farm, a small family run business. We’re taken into a small cacao tree orchard where we pick several cacao pods – discernibly ripe when their colour is pink, red or dark yellow. Back at the open sided kitchen shack we break open the pods to reveal the cacao beans – coated in a sweet nutritious pulp, delightful to suck raw. The beans are dried in the sun for about a week, then roasted in a pan over a wooden fire before the husks are removed, leaving just the bean. The husks can be used to make tea. Finally the beans are ground six times in a traditional whirling blade coffee grinder. The result of this labour intensive process is a pure, dense, rich, dark cocoa paste which we mix with boiling water and cardamom to make a delicious hot chocolate.

We dine with a young man from Berlin. He’s a politics graduate who is interested in, and  knowledgeable about contemporary Central American politics. He’s young, idealistic and liberal – we agreeably disagree about El Salvador’s president Bukele and his approach to stopping mass murder in his country. The young German –  perhaps for understandable reasons, given the history of his country – is vigorously against the incarceration of thousands of people without due process. I give him my copy of Vargas Llosa’s political thriller Harsh Times, which I hope he reads (I often give books or offer book recommendations to youngsters but I know that most of them don’t read much more than text messages). It’ll inject some harsh reality into his jejune political outlook.

It’s day six at Roundhouse – we leave tomorrow. The hotel is a cash only business and we don’t have enough Quetzales, so today we’ll kayak for two hours downstream to Livingston which has a couple of ATMs. ‘It’s easy.’ says Lewis, ‘Just stay close to the north bank. When you get to Livingston, leave the kayak on the wall by the Hotel Viejo, it’s just this side of the small dockyard.’ ‘I’d rather kayak on the south bank.’ says I, ‘there’s more shade.’ ‘ok.’ says Lewis, ‘but cross the river before Livingston at the old Russian nickel factory, the current is weaker there. You can’t miss it.’

We miss the old Russian nickel factory. But it’s a calm day on a slack tide and we bounce across the river with ease. The waterfront at Livingston is a patchwork of timber and concrete shacks overlooking a  junkyard of rotten and rusty hulks providing useful perches for scavenging pelicans and cormorants. We paddle up alongside the Hotel Viejo dock, Jo climbs out and I pass her our bags. With a landlubbers confidence I pull myself upright to step onto the dock. The kayak wobbles with increasing ferocity and I tumble headlong into the murky waters of Livingston harbour. I’m able to stand, and slowly sink into the muddy ocean floor before heaving  myself onto the wooden deck. The sun will dry my swimming shorts quickly enough but I need a dry shirt. Just up from the harbour is a stall selling second-hand clothes. For a dollar I buy a faded yellow Banana Republic T shirt, ideal for an afternoon out in Livingston.

There are no roads into Livingston – the only way in or out is by boat, either downriver or along the coast from the Guatemalan town of Puerto Barrios or from Honduras or Belize. We’re walking up the hill which is Livingston’s main dead end where I’m approached by a ragged, diminutive, unshaven Mayan. He gets his face up close to mine. ‘Hey, you remember me?’ he says. ‘No man. I don’t.’  An old blind black guy in sunglasses, a Ray Charles lookalike, in a very smart milk chocolate brown Hawaiian shirt and cream chinos is being guided down the hill by his buddy. At a crossroads at the top of the hill stands a sharp looking, armed female Livingston traffic cop.  Disconcertingly, PMT is emblazoned in big yellow letters on her jacket. But I should chill out as PMT (Policia Municipal de Transito) is the logo for the local traffic police service, nothing to do with her mood.

Jo extracts the maximum permitted daily wodge of Quetzalas from the ATM and we stroll back down the hill to the seafront Casa Rosada hostel overlooking the harbour where we order grilled lobster, the local Caribbean fish soup called Tapado, and a several Gallo beers.

We depart Rio Dulce on another marathon bus ride with long inexplicable delays. We’re booked for a week back at Armand’s place in Santa Cruz on Lake Atitlan where Jo will do some serious training in preparation for her ascent of Volcan Acatenango.

For the final stage of our Central American trip please visit Lake Atitlan, Antigua and Volcano Acatenango, Guatemala.  

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