Yaxha and border

Today we go to Yaxha, pronounced “Yah-SHA,” some more Mayan ruins about an hour and a half outside of Flores. Our taxi driver is playing the Billboard hits from 1986. What a great year! Pretty much every song that comes on I have as an a capella recording.

Yaxha is lovely and pretty opposite from Tikal. Mostly because it is supremely empty. We walk ourselves around in a counter-clockwise direction (the book tells us to) and climb a few pyramids to get a nice view. Many pyramids have not been excavated yet, but you can tell they are pyramids because the dirt and trees are piled into a tall, triangular mound. This park would be amazing if they fully excavated everything and you would be able to get a much better sense of what the city-state was like. Alas.

It is really hot and humid and my knees start hurting after the eight thousandth flight of stairs this week.

We had to return to Flores in order to retrace our steps and cross the border, even though that added another 4 hours to our driving time. We ate lunch at a lovely lake-side restaurant where the tables were painted bright colors and had glass and pottery mosaics on the walls. It took forever to get the bill because our waiter (the only waiter) disappeared and a sad man on crutches who we thought worked there could not for the life of him locate the receipt pad, the pens, proper change.... it was like a black comedy.

Several things happened on our way to the Guatemalan/Belizian border:

• We took a collective taxi bus with real Guatemalans
• We sat in the front seat
• Food sellers came on and off the bus at the bus station
• The windshield is completely cracked
• The bus (van) is overfilled with 25 people plus the driver
• We go through loud and busy Santa Elena
• My mother almost loses her prescription sunglasses when they fell out the passenger window right before we left and she didn't notice
• The driver uses the same hot yellow microfiber rag to wipe off his dirty dashboard and then wipe off his sweaty face
• We meet some guy named Edwin Garcia from North Carolina/Guatemala who is a bit too friendly for my taste and invites us to stay at his house the next time we visit the country

Finally we reach the border and walk through immigration with little fanfare. We take a taxi to San Ignacio, which is bustling with life and with ENGLISH. Our hotel, Casa Blanca, is essentially a Motel 6 level place, and our exclamatory reactions to the clean floors, fully made beds, and clean bathroom indicates that we've been staying at places well below our station. For dinner I have red beans and rice, fried plantains, and the best vegetable soup I've ever tasted. Crazy dreams again.