What’s up guys, it’s Emily again. That’s right, you haven’t gotten rid of me yet. And don’t think you’re going to, because for the rest of the trip, you’ll be hearing from me once a week. That’s seven blogs. Get excited. Anyway, to begin.
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed this, but we’ve encountered quite a bit of wildlife lately, starting in Chicacnab. After being assaulted by insects on our two hour hike to the village, we were greeted by the shrill barking of several dogs, undoubtedly perturbed by the sight of muddy, sweaty gringos. We looked at each other knowingly; we’d seen this before. So we continued walking and talking until another noise stopped us. Our heads whipped in all directions; we wondered what creature could possibly have produced that gargling, throaty call. We all saw it at the same time. A massive turkey stood before us, chest puffed out as if to say, “this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.” It became immediately clear that our new acquaintence essentially owned Chicacnab, and it was best that we stayed out of his way. The other animals in the village (chickens, dogs and less domineering turkeys) managed this just fine, calmly moving within their own territories. We quickly realized that we would have to carve out a place of our own before the wildlife took over. And between working on the kitchen, trying to stay warm, and sleeping for 12 hours a night, we came to find this task a little bit difficult. The village dogs paid no attention to the door on the outside of our cabin, and more than once we returned to our beds to find them covered in pawprints. To my horror, one of them even stole the loaf of bread I left on top of my sleeping bag. Even as we ate, the animals made it clear that we were merely visitors to their domain. The mother hen that lived in the village dining room clucked sharply at us whenever our feet moved near her chicks, and the roosters operated on their own clock, completely indifferent to the fact that their 3 AM crows were not appreciated by those trying to sleep. And worst of all, the alpha-male turkey and his brood set up camp beside the bathroom, gobbling madly whenever anyone tried to pass. So for someone like me, with a deep-seated irrational fear of birds, peeing became impossible. Needless to say, I was kind of relieved when we threw our bags over our shoulders and and high-tailed it out of Chicacnab. However, our wildlife encounters had only just begun.
We got through Semuc Champey without seeing much in the way of animals, but as soon as we got to Tikal, we realized once again that humans weren’t the only inhabitants of Guatemala. No more than five minutes into our tour of the Mayan temples did we notice the black clump of fur attached to our guide’s back. He was carrying a tarantula. A few of us screamed and jumped backward despite his insistance that the four-inch spider was “really friendly.” I immediately asked to hold it, because even though I refuse to go within five feet of a pidgeon, spiders don’t frighten me. After a few more of us got a turn to hold Harry the tarantula, we trekked deeper into the jungle, greeted by the dinosaur-like sounds of howler monkeys. We wondered what it must have been like for the ancient Mayans to try and sleep despite the screetching. Eventually, we got to a small clearing in front of temple number four and took a break to eat. It was here that we saw an army of furry critters similar to raccoons. They bounded through the grass with the strides of an antelope, shyly sprinting away whenever we got too close. Then we noticed a little one lagging further behind the pack, its nose buried in a discarded bag of Lays chips. “It’s too bad that people litter all over their home,” said our guide, looking at the animal reproachfully. As I continued to gaze at the little mammal, I felt an epiphany creep over me. The animals in Chicacnab weren’t the nuisance that I’d originally they were. We had encroached on their territory, on their land, on their home. We were guests in Guatemala, and the people and animals who lived there were understanding enough to let us explore their world. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so quick to forget how to be a good visitor. Only in Central America can a pissed off turkey and a shy, furry dude teach you how to respect the land you walk on.
