Early Friday morning, as my squinting eyes attempt to adjust to the new day’s light, the chorus of a catchy little song seems to flash into my mind out of nowhere. As the tune becomes stuck in my head, I begin to wonder if the Universe is giving me another hint – another little prompting.
Gary Stoddard is a local Utah singer-songwriter, one to which I have not listened in quite some time. While attending a small concert a few years ago, one of his songs spoke deeply to my heart. I ended up buying his album just so I could own a personal copy of that stirring song. It was not long before I memorized the chorus—a group of words that continue to inspire me to this day.
As I proceed to pack my bags during my final morning in Flores, the words and melody of this captivating little chorus continue to flow again and again through my mind.
Get Out Of The Way
Written and Sung by: Gary Stoddard
[Chorus]
Get out of the way – let it happen
Get out of the way – and just be
Get out of the way – and become the change you want to see
Get out of the way – let love flow through you
Get out of the way – bless the world as you do
Get out of the way – and all things will come to you
As I finish my travel preparations, a subtle little hunch tells me that I am about to encounter situations in which my ego may resist. Spirit seems to be forewarning me to forget what I think I know, to lower my defenses, to get out of the way, to allow inspiration and guidance to flow freely through my soul.
River Crossing
Shortly before 9:00 a.m., I am standing on the narrow cobblestone street in front of the Hotel Mirador Del Lago, watching eagerly for my shuttle. To my surprise, I quickly learn that my little twelve-passenger tourist van is the same one that has been parked just across the street all night long. I am the first to board, selecting a window seat on the front bench.
Yesterday afternoon I was still convinced that I would travel via a crowed public van. I found myself eager to take on the challenge of several required bus changes along the way. For the first time in my travels, my backpack would be thrown on top the roof rack of a small van. I would be tightly squeezed into my seat with local people, immersing myself into a cultural experience that until now had seemed quite frightening. But a chat with a tourist agent had quickly changed my mind. A direct non-stop tourist bus would consume over six and a half hours of travel time. I could only imagine how much slower the constantly-stopping public vans would be. Then when I learned that the tourist van would only cost a dollar or two more, the decision quickly became a no-brainer.
As our driver turns onto the causeway joining the little island of Flores to the shoreline town of Santa Elena, I am quite surprised that only five passengers have been picked up. I have a whole bench to myself. I am in comfortable air-conditioned luxury.
The surrounding countryside is green and hilly. Portions are cleared and cultivated with small farms. Other areas remain mostly untouched with older trees and thick foliage. I am in a state of deep peace, finding every sight along the way to be beautiful and perfect.
About an hour into our journey, our comfy gray van turns off the paved highway and proceeds several hundred yards down a very rough and bumpy dirt road. What I see next totally surprises me. The dirt road ends at a very unique river crossing. The slow-moving river is perhaps fifty yards wide—and there is no bridge anywhere in site. Floating adjacent to the shoreline directly in front of us is a large run-down-looking wood-topped platform. A metal ramp stretches from the platform up onto the earthen shoreline in front of us.
Our driver stops and waits as the vehicles before us slowly take turns driving up onto the ramp. Smaller vans, trucks, and cars fill up both the left and right edges of the floating platform. Our van ends up parallel-parking into the right rear corner. I am quite surprised as several large heavy trucks then pull up into the remaining middle space. The three lanes of vehicles are squeezed quite tightly.
Jutting out at water level from each of the platform’s four corners is a rusting, round, thatch-roof-covered little captain’s hut. Attached to each of these small circular metallic perches-with-chairs is a 75 horsepower outboard motor. As soon as the last truck pulls onto the platform, I watch as an older man climbs into the perch nearest to our van. I cannot help but giggle as he cranks up the outboard motor and begins to push us slowly across the river. The little motor seems greatly outmatched by the weight of our platform, but somehow it manages to propel us slowly across the open waters.
After about fifteen feet, I notice as workers quickly instruct, first the trucks, and then all remaining vehicles, to back up as far as they can. It appears that we are front-heavy, and a major shift in weight is necessary so that we can successfully dock on the far shore.
I can only smile as we finally drive up a metal ramp back to dry ground. Somehow, in the absence of fancy modern equipment and technology, these humble people still manage to make things happen. As we climb over the top edge of the river bank, we once again return to paved roads. Directly in front of us is the small remote town of Sayaxche.
Did Someone Say Direct/Non-stop?
“What happens if I need to use a restroom?” I had nervously asked the tour agent.
“If you need to stop, just ask the driver.” The helpful man had responded. “This is a direct non-stop trip, but the driver will stop for you if you ask him.”
As we head south from Sayaxche, I soon realize that stopping is not going to be a problem. In the first three hours of our trip the young driver has already made two quick stops so that he can purchase snacks.
Between stops, our driver zooms down the road, racing over hilltops and around sharp bends, rarely remaining in our own lane. He seems to be quite impatient, honking loudly and frequently at anything and everything in his way. At times he lays on his horn for almost ten seconds at a time as groups of pedestrians along the road seem to infringe on his space. I notice that we often get several dirty looks as we pass by.
But I simply tune out the noisy honking and impatient energy. I am having too much fun conversing with the young couple from New Jersey seated right behind me. They have been on a one-week whirlwind trip around parts of Guatemala—including Tikal—and are eager to spend an afternoon in Semuc Champey before returning to Guatemala City for their flight home.
The young woman is deeply interested in sociology, archeology, ancient ruins, and indigenous cultures. Our conversation is filled with connecting energy. I enjoy learning about them, and they seem fascinated by my own journey and experiences. We talk frequently. At one point, the young man points out that we just turned the wrong way on the map that he is following. I check the sparse map in my guidebook, and realize that he is right—we are going to Coban, a detour that will add more than 150 kilometers to our travels.
“Why are we going this way?” I curiously ask the driver.
“Because this is the way to go to Lanquin.” He replies in a not-so-convincing way. I have a hard time deciphering everything he says and choose to not pursue my curiosity.
Our only option is to trust and remain peaceful. Two hours later, at the five hour mark in our journey, we arrive in Coban—still two hours away from Lanquin.
“We’re taking a fifteen minute lunch break.” The driver tells us.
We all quickly scatter into a local, fairly modern shopping center. I scurry for the nearest restrooms before picking up a fast-food order of fried chicken. I am the first one back to the van. Still being quite curious, I get out my guide book, show my map to the young driver, and again ask for clarification on why we didn’t take the shorter route.
“Yes, that other road is shorter, but it is very bad, and very slow.” He responds, using many other words that pass right over my head.
Finally, as our fifteen minute break approaches thirty minutes, our driver informs us that we will be changing buses. The couple from New Jersey has decided that they will not have enough time to enjoy Semuc Champey before nightfall, and has decided instead to remain in Coban. The remaining three of us will be pawned off on a different driver.
Another thirty minutes later, the other bus finally arrives with ten tired and hungry passengers. They are just now arriving after having left Flores at the same time we did. As soon as my backpack has been transferred to the new bus, I am shocked to hear the new driver say that we are taking yet another thirty minute lunch break.
Thirty minutes later, all thirteen passengers are present, but there is no driver to be found. Yet another thirty minutes later, after a full one hour break, the driver finally shows up, wondering why a few people are impatient. I have now been in Coban for slightly more than two hours.
“Breathe deep, Brenda.” I peacefully remind myself. “Get out of the way … everything is happening for a reason … let it happen.”
Change of Plans
With a peaceful smile on my face, our crowded, non-air-conditioned tourist bus finally pulls into the little town of Lanquin shortly after 5:30 p.m., arriving more than eight and a half hours after our journey began. We park at the far end of this small mountain town, right in front of the Hostel El Retiro—a place that was highly recommended to me by my friends Marty and Carolyn.
“Just take a daytrip to the pools at Semuc Champey.” Carolyn had told me. “Then you can relax at the El Retiro where they have great internet, good food, lots of hammocks, and beautiful views.”
“Maybe it is not too late to get a room at the El Retiro.” I eagerly reassure myself, as I quickly hop off the van, grab my backpack and hurriedly scamper toward their sign just down the road. As I arrive at the office, I realize that I have taken the long way around. Nearly everyone else from my van is already standing in line just a short hike below where the van is parked. Someone then tells me that the private rooms are all gone—only shared dormitory rooms remain.
“Get out of the way,” The little Jedi voices whisper. “… and just be … let love flow through you … let it happen.”
Then the silent voices calmly add. “Go to Semuc Champey tonight … you know you want to … just do it.”
Peacefully, I walk back up the short path to our van where several eager young “vampires” are anxiously waiting for fresh tourist blood. Before I even have a chance to breathe, these young men are pushing Semuc Champey flyers in front of my face, valiantly attempting to convince me that their tiny eco-tourism hostel is better and closer to the springs. One young man is especially persistent, continuously forcing his flyer to the front, right in front of my face, trying to keep me from being able to read any of the others.
Calmly and lovingly, I talk to each young man, carefully glancing at each flyer while asking questions. Finally, using only intuition and gut feel, I select a hostel. Within seconds my backpack is in the back of a pickup truck owned by the Hostel El Portal. In the meantime, the young men quickly turn around to pressure a few other tourists who are straggling back up to the van.
Forty-five minutes later, after a gorgeous ride winding up a steep mountain and back down the other side, my little pickup truck crosses a small one lane bridge over the Rio Cahabón. With the darkness of night about to consume my surroundings, I toss my bags into a tiny private room with an external shared bathroom, costing only 80 quetzales (about $10 US). Rather than unpack, I quickly check out the hammock in front of my room.
I notice a handsome young man lying in the other hammock on my shared porch. A young couple occupies the room directly adjacent to mine.
A deep feeling of peace tells me that I am exactly where I need to be. I can feel myself staying here for two or three days, simply being—with no need to do anything.
Miss Social Butterfly
My new temporary home—the Hostel El Portal—is like several other isolated eco-tourism places where I have stayed. Electricity is generator based, only available from sundown till about 10:00 p.m.. For food, the hostel has its own small restaurant with a limited menu. The dinner meal must be pre-ordered, and is served to all guests at 7:30 p.m..
Throughout most of my recent travels, I have felt somewhat disconnected from other tourists. I learned in Valladolid to simply follow the energy of the moment. With some people I unexplainably feel an instant connection, forming an immediate magical bond. However, with most other people, the energy is simply not there. In these cases, I no longer beat myself up with guilt, telling myself that I am socially inept or inadequate. Instead, I allow myself to simply enjoy some meditative quiet time alone.
As dinner time approaches, the young man in the other hammock approaches and asks if I am going to go eat. He invites me to walk up to the restaurant with him and his girlfriend. Before I know what is happening, I am sitting directly across the table from my new friends from Montreal.
I seem to bond instantly with this delightful young couple. Clara is only 18, and her boyfriend Gael (pronounced Ga-ale) is only 20—but both are mature and wise beyond their years. For more than three hours we talk almost nonstop, sharing a strong energetic and magical bond of intuitive understanding. Gael has been traveling off and on since he graduated from high school. Clara is on her first amazing journey of discovery.
Gael shares a favorite quote with me, going something like this: “A tourist is someone who does not really know where they have been. A traveler is someone who does not know where they are going.”
Gael and I both recognize each other as fellow travelers—loving the experience of getting to know the places we visit, never really knowing how long we will stay, or quite where we will go next.
At various points in the evening, several others on our table join in with our energizing conversation, sounding very interested in what is being said. I am amazed and invigorated by the social energy that flows through my veins.
During a quieter portion of our bonding conversation, I hesitantly follow my internal promptings to share my own life journey with this delightful young couple. As much as I know that I am following an inspired feeling to share, I still feel a twinge of fear over divulging hidden secrets. As usual, I am thrilled with the bonding that results from trusting my feelings.
Gael, Clara, and I remain talking in the small restaurant until well after the generator is turned off. One of the staff soon walks out with two candles, allowing us to continue our conversation. Thirty minutes later, my candle comes in quite handy when I return to my dark room.
My heart overflows with peace, joy, and gratitude. There is no doubt in my mind that this day has been filled with amazing, peaceful energy—and it is all a result of getting out of the way, allowing love to flow through me, and allowing things to just be as they are.
Tour Triumphs
Saturday morning I feel a strong desire to sign up for an all day tour—a morning tour to the cool fresh water pools of Semuc Champey, an early afternoon tubing run down the Rio Cahabón, and a late afternoon spelunking adventure in a water-filled cave just across the river. A quick calculation in my head tells me that after subtracting the cost of full-priced admissions, the all day tour guide will cost me a mere $2.50 US.
Normally, the “logical me” would forgo the tour, opting to simply enjoy the peaceful nature on my own—but today, the idea of a tour is loudly calling to my heart. I choose to listen.
As our group gathers at 9:30 a.m., I soon discover that we are only three: Our tour guide Alex (who asks to be called tiger), a 27-year-old woman from Australia named Jennifer, and me.
To my delight, the tour proceeds as planned, even with only two paying guests. Our first hour takes us on an exhausting and difficult hike up a steep and rugged trail to a lookout point high on the mountainside. At the top we have a towering view of a beautiful series of cool, green, terraced pools in the canyon far below.
After returning to the canyon floor, Alex then guides us to the upper end of the pools. I am shocked to learn that the rushing waters of the Rio Cahabón plunge through a large underground cavern passing directly beneath the pools. This beautiful series of clear-water terraced pools seem to be fed by water magically flowing out of the hills themselves.
One by one, we take turns swimming in each of seven or eight pools. Each pool flows slowly into the next. Some pour over small natural terraced walls. Others flow over small waterfalls, a few as high as ten or fifteen feet. Alex strategically guides us between pools, showing us places where it is safe to jump into the next pool below.
The hiking, swimming, and then subsequent river tubing are all delightful, but the real pleasure comes as I gradually make yet another new friend—my fellow tour-mate from Austrailia—Jennifer.
As we enjoy an early afternoon lunch together, Jennifer begins to ask me questions about my family and my life back home. At one point her questions reach an area where I feel internally prompted to ask, “Just how open minded are you?”
Soon, I have another amazing close friend who knows the basics of my lifetime journey. I have not shared my story to this level for almost two months, and suddenly, in two days, I have poured my heart out to three amazingly loving and accepting people. I feel deeply blessed by the connecting energy that is flowing all around me.
Shortly after our late lunch, Alex guides us across the river to the entrance of our next adventure.
The cave tour is amazing, reminding me of my “Rainbow Connection” experience just a few weeks ago. For this tour, we are combined with a large group of other tourists. Each of us is given a candle to hold as we walk and/or swim through the cave. For the first half of my journey I opt to use both my flashlight and the candle, but I soon grow enchanted by the magic of simply using the candle.
Our explorations take us through pools, some shallow, but most too deep to touch bottom. We climb around obstacles on wet, rickety ladders, continuing back into the darkness of the mountain’s interior for nearly thirty minutes. I laugh to myself as I realize that for liability reasons, such a tour would never be allowed in the United States. Here it is simply assumed that we are responsible for our own safety—that we will know our own limits and deal with what happens.
Halfway through our journey, but nowhere near the end of the cave, we are instructed to blow out our candles. For ten minutes our guide continuously moves from place to place in complete silence. Periodically he generates sound effects, attempting to spook us, giving us an energetic experience with our senses.
The return journey is ever so more magical as I rely solely on my candle. On our way back, rather than climbing ladders around a small waterfall, we are encouraged to maneuver between two narrow rock walls, carefully dropping three feet down the waterfall into a pool below. As I drop, I am pleasantly surprised when my head goes under water, but I manage to keep my candle burning above the surface.
As daylight returns gradually to my awareness, I feel exhilarated at having triumphed over another adrenaline-filled challenge. But the real triumph in my heart is the realization that the simple act of getting out of the way and following my heart is what guided me to an amazing day of experience and people connections—a day that is far from over.
The Place To Be
As Saturday night dinnertime arrives, the amazing energy continues to flood my surroundings. Not only am I enjoying a delightful repeat evening with Gael, Clara, and now Jennifer, but I feel an emerging connection with a few others as well—Holly from Great Britain, and Richard from the United States.
I cannot help but be amazed at the realization that if I had not gotten out of the way, but had instead insisted on doing the journey my way, I would have missed out on all of the amazing connection and oneness. At this point in my weekend, there is no doubt whatsoever that I am exactly where the Universe wants me to be—no doubt that our small group was all guided together for this brief moment in time.
After visiting with my three new friends until after 10:00 p.m., I feel a natural break in the energy. For some reason the generator continues to run for another 30 minutes, but my internal energy is rapidly shutting down.
A sense of knowing inside tells me that my time in Semuc Champey has now reached a natural conclusion—but the part of me that is loving the experience longs to hang on for one more day.
Doing Nothing
Sunday morning is beautiful and delightful. A heavy mist lingers in the trees, only adding to the mystical feeling all around me.
For the first time in a very long time, I feel an urge to do absolutely nothing. I don’t want to take a tour, I don’t want to travel, I don’t want to write, and I don’t want to study Spanish.
Remembering that I have an unread book that I have been carrying for more than a month, I quickly retrieve it from my backpack and begin to immerse myself in the peace of simply being.
At 10:00 a.m., I wander up to the pools, pay another admission, and spend about two hours simply kicking around in the refreshing waters. But something is missing. The energy is not calling to me, the magic is fleeting. I look for a comfortable shady place to continue my reading, but my heart instead pulls me back to the hostel.
During lunch, I have one last opportunity to say my goodbyes to Gael and Clara who are about to set off on a new adventure of their own. I am sad to see them go, but happy to see them following their own hearts.
For the remainder of the daylight hours, I hang in my hammock, devouring my book, simply being present doing absolutely nothing. I cannot imagine a more glorious relaxing afternoon.
Shifting Tides
Throughout the day Sunday, a whole crop of new tourists begins to show up at the Hostel El Portal. By nightfall, all rooms are occupied, and the number of dinner guests in the restaurant seems to have doubled compared to previous nights. As I search for a place to sit in the restaurant, almost every available chair is occupied. The people are beautiful, and they all seem to be having a wonderful time together—but my energetic connection is inexplicably non-existent. I feel no internal prompting whatsoever to reach out.
Looking around the crowded outdoor patio, I finally locate and make eye contact with Jennifer. She quickly motions for me to squeeze in at her table, where she is visiting with three guys. For two hours, I enjoy a casual conversation with sincere and genuine people from all over the world—but I simply cannot get over the fact that the magical social energy has vanished.
“You have made the connections that you needed to make.” The quiet little Jedi voices tell me. “Don’t make new connections now … it is time to move on … time for new experiences.”
By 9:00 p.m., I am back in my room, continuing to devour my almost-finished book.
Mountain Roads
For nearly two weeks now, I have been intrigued and obsessed with the idea of travelling the back high-mountain roads between the Guatemalan cities of Coban and Huehuetenango (pronounced Way-way-ten-AWN-go). My guidebook hints at the beautiful scenery, the rugged mountains, and the small ridge-top villages along this infrequently traveled route. The ego adventurer in me longs to experience the journey that my guidebook indicates is one of the prettiest roads in Guatemala. Spirit patiently and peacefully tolerates my detour.
I have no idea how I will complete this back-road journey. There are definitely no tourist shuttles, and I have heard rumors that the route had been closed by a large rockslide. But a strong sense of inner confidence tells me that I can do this—that I simply need to go to Coban, orient myself, ask questions, and then take it one day at a time.
Early Monday morning, as I wipe the sleep out of my eyes, I contemplate rushing out of bed to catch the hostel’s 7:00 a.m. pickup truck to Lanquin. From there I could link up with a tourist shuttle to Coban.
“No,” my little Jedi voices whisper. “It is time to learn how to travel with the locals.”
I pack up my belongings and stroll up to the restaurant just as the little shuttle-truck is pulling away. The next two hours are relaxing and energy filled—I finish my book—I enjoy a delightful breakfast—and am blessed with one final connecting visit with Jennifer.
“I would like to ride with you to Lanquin.” Jennifer tells me. “I need to get some cash from the bank there, and maybe use the internet.”
At 9:00 a.m. the two of us walk together up to the main dirt road about fifty yards above our hostel. We expect to wait for up to thirty minutes for a public transport of some type to drive by—but within two minutes an old high-top van appears from around the next bend. I stick out my arm to indicate we would like a ride. Seconds later my backpack is stuffed in the front seat, and Jennifer and I are comfortably seated in the back.
“It is not even crowded.” I tell myself with a smile.
Within ten minutes, our formerly-comfy little van now has over 26 people squeezed everywhere. Jennifer stands up to allow an elderly Mayan woman to sit. I am so squished in the seat behind that I have no room to stand up even if I wanted to.
As we pull into Lanquin, Jennifer and I have no idea regarding the layout of the town so we simply wait until our little van seems to come to a final stop. When it becomes obvious that we have reached journey’s end, we step onto the dirt road below. As we begin to walk away from the van, a young man named Jairo (pronounced HIGH-row) approaches and asks in Spanish if he can help us. Soon he has pointed out the nearest bank to Jennifer.
I give Jennifer a final hug before Jairo proceeds to guide me down a few confusing streets. Jairo quickly locates a van that will be heading to Coban at 10:30.
“Is there another van that might leave sooner?” I ask innocently.
Jairo asks a few more questions to the camioneta drivers, and tells me that there is a van from another village that will pass down a different street. Ten minutes later, we are sitting on a shady curb, waiting.
“I love Nike.” Jairo begins. “Nike is in the United States, right?”
I soon learn that Jairo also loves science and technology, and longs for the opportunity to learn more.
“I am stuck here.” He tells me. “I cannot get the education that I want. I don’t feel like I can grow and learn while I live here in Lanquin.”
Fifteen minutes later, the original 10:30 a.m. van drives by, attempting to pick up more passengers.
“Should I just go ahead and take this van?” I ask inquisitively.
“I think it would be your best bet.” Jairo replies.
After gratefully thanking Jairo for all his help, a young man stows my backpack on the roof rack while I take a seat in my temporary home for the next two hours. I am amazed by the persistence of the driver and his young assistant. We repeatedly drive to various portions of the town, hoping to locate additional passengers. By the time we finally pull out of town at 10:30 a.m., our little van is overflowing with people. I am very grateful for my comfy (but squished) window seat.
Coban
As my transport parks in a maze of other vans at the edge of Coban, I have no idea where I am. I quickly accept a taxi driver’s offer for a ten-minute ride to the Casa Luna Hostel—a place that Gael and Clara told me about earlier. The taxi ride costs me $2, which is almost as much as my two hour van ride.
Coban is a small town of about 58,000 residents, situated in hilly countrysides at around 4300 feet above sea level. For most tourists, Coban is mainly a transfer point between other destinations.
A stop at a tiny tour office confirms that the road to Huehuetenango is indeed open. I can catch an early morning public van near the city center. I will need to change to different vans at several points along the way, but I am told that such public camionetas are plentiful and easy to find. I am excited to begin my little adventure.
As I study the maps, I notice the little village of Nebaj (pronounced nay-BAH) nestled away in a valley about an hour’s drive north of the midpoint of my journey. I have read a little about it in my guidebook, and the town sounds fascinating.
“I think I will stop there on my first day,” I tell the young man that is answering my questions.
Quickly, I learn that there is an early morning camioneta that goes directly from Coban to Nebaj. I won’t need to change vans several times like I had originally thought.
My heart tells me “Do it,” and I quickly settle into a lazy relaxed afternoon of exploring Coban.
Nebaj
At 5:20 a.m. on Tuesday morning, I am sitting in a camioneta by the town plaza of Coban. A small sign on the roof rack reads “Coban Uspantan Chicaman Nebaj.” Directly behind the sign, up on the roof, my backpack is securely tied to the rack.
“I am doing this.” I giggle as I pinch myself.
We leave the central plaza at 5:30 a.m., but our little van does not end up leaving the city until shortly after 6:00 a.m.. First we drive to another little mini-bus terminal. Then we scour the main streets on the west end of town attempting to locate more passengers.
As we finally pick up speed on the highway, our little fifteen-passenger camiioneta is packed with over 25 people. There are so many of us that I have a hard time counting—plus there are several outside sitting up on the roof rack.
Soon, we are climbing the side of a tall mountain. The scenery is indeed beautiful as we wind around narrow roads, hugging the inside edge of the steep slopes, constantly climbing toward the ridge above.
At the first village, the roof rack empties, along with five or six people from the inside of the van. But before leaving the village we have added several more passengers. The numbers continually fluctuate, but we usually average around 20 adults in the van.
After about an hour, I notice a large earthen scar in the side of the mountain ahead. A massive slide, several hundred yards wide, has collapsed from the top of the mountain down to the valley below.
“Do you speak Spanish?” The man in front of me asks as he briefly turns around to chat.
“Yes, a little.” I respond curiously.
“Over five hundred people are buried here.” He tells me.
“When did this happen?” I ask.
“About a year ago.” He responds after a short pause.
As we work our way across the face of the huge mud and rock slide, our dirt road is very narrow and rough. Vehicles take turns waiting at wider spots so that we can safely pass each other.
Soon we are back on a narrow paved road. The quality and width of the roads constantly change. The one constant is that they twist and turn, up and down, around steep mountain slopes.
I am amazed by the number of little Mayan villages scattered all around the slopes and upper ridges of these rugged mountains.
Shortly before 10:30 a.m., I am standing in the central square of Nebaj, wondering where a good budget hotel might be. I sit briefly on a staircase and open my guidebook.
“The hotel Turansa sounds OK.” I tell myself, “But where is it, and how do I find it?”
A man sees my puzzled look and approaches to ask if I need any help. Soon I am confidently walking to the hotel which is only one block away.
This little mountain town of 11,000 residents is very isolated, situated about 6200 feet above sea level. The town rests in the base of a natural bowl, surrounded on all sides by tall towering mountains.
After exploring the central area of the town, I find one restaurant and a closed tourist office. In five hours of walking around, I only briefly see what appear to be four other foreigners in the entire town. The energy I feel is not one that invites me to stay and visit—but I recognize that this energy is my own internal feelings urging me not to stay here—telling me to move on quickly.
As beautiful as the town is, and as much as I would love to spend several weeks here to fully immerse myself in the culture, I recognize that this is not where I belong—that there are other places that I need to be.
Huehuetenango
Wednesday morning, April 14, I decide to sleep just a tiny bit longer. But as 7:30 a.m. rolls around, my backpack is weighing me down as I hike three blocks toward where I am told I will be able to find a camioneta to Sacapulas—a small town where I will need to find a new van to take me the rest of the way to Huehuetenango.
As I reach my intended intersection in the narrow cobblestone streets, a small van pauses and waits for me.
“Where are you headed?” the young driver’s assistant asks.
Seconds later, he throws my backpack on the roof and we are speeding down the road. As usual, our little camioneta is soon quite overcrowded as we constantly stop to pick up new passengers along the way.
As we approach Sacapulas, I ask the young driver’s helper if he will show me where in town I need to get off so that I can catch my next van to Huehuetenango. Ten minutes later he gets my attention, points to the door, and tells me it is time to get off. As soon as he retrieves my backpack from the roof, he carries it for me to a different camioneta. Then to my surprise, he personally carries my bag to the roof of my new van.
“That was easy.” I tell myself. “I simply need to ask for help. What a novel idea.”
The drive continues to be beautiful as we constantly climb up and down steep mountainsides. Between frequent villages and farms, tall stands of pine trees line the edges of the narrow winding road.
Even though I am thoroughly enjoying the scenery and amazing travel experience, my internal energy is agitated, disconnected. With camera in hand I am constantly living in the future, trying to capture the perfect photo to use in a blog posting. Peaceful feelings are fleeting.
Putting my camera away, I breathe deeply and focus on the beautiful scenery and the peaceful Latino music that the driver is playing, putting myself back into the present moment. After about ten minutes I begin to feel the amazing peaceful energy running again through my body.
Shortly before 10:30, the little camioneta pulls into a parking spot in a crowded market, somewhere at the edge of Huehuetenango. As usual, I am completely disoriented, having no idea where I am at.
Believing myself to be near the city center, I begin to walk. A taxi driver immediately gets my attention, asking if I want a ride to the center of town.
“Aren’t we in the center now?” I ask confused.
“No, it is over four kilometers away?” He responds with a grin.
Soon I am whisked away through the narrow confusing streets of Huehuetenango. I have a short conversation with the driver, asking for recommendations on a good economical hotel in which to stay.
Ten minutes later I am checking into the Hotel Mary, just one block from the historic town center.
As usual, I explore the area for five or six hours—but my internal energy continues to tell me “This is not where I belong.”
My heart is anxious to move on.
The Road to Xela
For several months now, my internal feelings have told me that while in Guatemala I would be spending some time in the western highlands, with one of those stops being the city of Quetzaltenango. Most locals and tourists call this city by the name of “Xela (pronounced SHAY-luh) which is a short version of the ancient Mayan name. This beautiful little city has over 140,000 residents, and is very high up in the mountains, at over 7600 feet above sea level.
Early Thursday morning, as I prepare to leave Huehuetenango, there is no doubt in my soul that the next stop on my journey will be Xela. As I leave my hotel, I have done my research. I walk four blocks lugging my heavy backpack, hop onto a local city bus, and pay 32 cents for a four kilometer ride to the second-class bus terminal.
As the beat-up old school bus parks at the terminal, I begin to slightly panic as I realize that I don’t recognize anything.
“Did I take the wrong bus?” I wonder as I begin to walk up a small hill.
Soon, I turn around and walk back toward my now-parked bus. A man approaches and asks where I want to go.
“I am looking for a bus to Xela.” I reply hopefully.
“Two blocks that way.” He points with a smile.
Soon, my heart is glowing as I begin to recognize the same spot where I was dropped off just yesterday morning.
As I reach the bus-crowded streets, I see twenty or thirty buses all lined up in what looks like a chaotic mess. Street markets and food venders are crowded all around these old 32-passenger school buses.
Like clockwork, a very friendly man approaches and asks me where I am going. He quickly tells me to follow him, and in less than five minutes he has located my bus. Seconds later, my backpack is tied securely atop the huge luggage rack and I am sitting patiently in the right front bench, eagerly awaiting the final leg of my now-four-day journey.
The scenery is very similar—beautiful mountains, pine trees, plentiful little Mayan villages, and hilly winding roads that climb up and down steep slopes. The main difference is that I am now riding in a school bus that thinks it is a sports car. I never feel unsafe, but I must say that I swallow a tiny lump in my throat as our bus speeds toward two oncoming semi trucks. One of them is in our lane, trying to pass the other. Our driver soon realizes the futility of playing chicken and firmly steps on his brakes, causing us to momentarily jerk forward in our seats, while giving the semi time to move back into its own lane.
Something else that completely catches me off guard is the way the bus is filled. I fully expect to have standing room only, but am completely surprised to see everyone soon begin to crowd three people onto each two-person bench. At one point in our journey, our 32-passenger bus has nearly 60 riders.
But hey, it only cost me 20 Quetzales ($2.50 US) for a three hour ride, and we arrive quite safely. The experience is actually quite fun.
Just as with Huehuetenango, as we pull into the boundaries of Xela, our bus stops and parks in the middle of a large outdoor market, somewhere on the edge of town. I have no idea where the center of town might be, but I am determined to not rely on a taxi.
“Follow those people there.” The driver tells me. “They are going to the micro-buses that run to the center of town.
I hurry behind these people, but they soon scatter in random directions. I see no small passenger vans, and am now totally lost.
“Go over that way, all the way to the other side.” A helpful man tells me as he points up and over the crowed outdoor market to my right.
With my heavy backpack in tow, I maneuver my way through the never-ending maze of markets. Soon I am walking down tiny narrow indoor walkways between vendors of all types of clothing and shoes. I see no end in site other than what appear to be dead-ends. But nonetheless, I continue, following my instincts for another ten minutes until I finally emerge into daylight and more outdoor markets.
A long row of taxis is lined up, tempting me to give up in my travel quest—but I am determined to learn how to travel the way that the locals do.
Soon, after another long block of outdoor vendors, I approach a street crowded with little mini-vans. The moment that my foot hits the street, a young man asks me where I am going.
“To the Centro.” I respond timidly.
“Climb in.” He responds.
“What about my backpack?” I ask curiously, noticing that there is no roof rack and no luggage space in back.
“If you pay for two fares, I will put it inside.” The young driver’s assistant responds.
Soon, I have paid for two fares, coming to the grand sum of 2.5 Quetzales (32 cents US).
Thirty minutes later, after scouring my guidebook and following hunches, I successfully locate a beautiful little hostel called Casa Doña Mercedes. This comfy little oasis has about ten private rooms, five of them with shared bath, five with private bath.
As I settle into my little shared-bath private room, I feel so peaceful and at home.
“Finally,” my heart tells me, “I have arrived. This is where I belong—right here, right now.”
Trusting Synchronicities
As I begin to explore the beautiful city of Xela, my feelings tell me that I will be spending at least one week here studying Spanish. The city has over forty budget-priced Spanish schools, and the task of knowing which school to select is daunting to say the least.
I randomly stop at one as I walk by on the street. For forty-five minutes, I speak (in Spanish) to a young man in the office. I have a good feeling—yet something tells me to wait.
“Not this school … at least not yet.” The internal feelings tell me.
Thirty minutes later, I walk past a city information center. Doing a double-take, I feel an urge to turn around and enter the office, waiting my turn to ask questions.
“Can you please give me some information about Spanish schools in town?” I ask. “And would it be possible to give me a recommendation on which ones are better?”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she replies, “but we are not allowed to give out recommendations,”
As I begin to walk away, a young woman from Germany captures my attention.
“She cannot give you a recommendation,” The young woman quietly tells me, “but I can.”
“When I came here, a friend of mine highly recommended a certain school.” The young woman continues. “I went there and loved it so much that I ended up staying for ten weeks. You absolutely must check them out.”
Not being one to ignore such synchronous events, I soon walk three blocks away to the doors of the CBA Amerindia Language school. After talking with the owner (in Spanish) for nearly an hour, I fill out an application.
Beginning Monday morning I will be participating in a week long course of intensive Spanish lessons. I will have five hours of individual instruction for five straight days. In addition, I will be allowed to participate in free daily field trips into the community and surrounding villages.
And best of all, I will be living and eating in the home of a local family.
The grand total expense (and this is one of the more expensive schools around) is $150 US. That is less than $22 US per day for a place to sleep, three full meals, and 25 hours of individual instruction.
For the last few days, I took a slight detour of exciting travel adventures, but spirit constantly pushed me forward, reminding me to “Get out of the way”. Even when I felt quite disconnected (which was the case during much of those four travel days), I always knew that spirit was communicating with me, telling me that I was not yet where I belonged—pushing me rapidly onward to my next destination.
My heart is peaceful. A powerful energizing sense of knowing tells me that I am now exactly where I am supposed to be, right on time, about to enter another fascinating adventure.
Get Out Of The Way
I love this little song. The words have inspired me now for over ten days. I have listened to the words and music over and over, letting the tune and lyrics push me forward. At this point I would love to share the lyrics in their entirety.
Get Out Of The Way
Written and Sung by: Gary Stoddard
Sometimes I sit here frustrated
Asking God what more can I do
To make the changes I see this world needs
To make it better
You know I’ve been working so hard, and praying
Shedding blood, sweat, and tears
I’ve been keeping myself in constant motion for years.
Well,
If you want spirit there to guide you
If you want God to lead the way
If you want Jesus to walk you through your path, OK
If you want love to work through you
If you want miracles every day
If you want peace in your world
Get out of the way
Get out of the way – let it happen
Get out of the way – and just be
Get out of the way – and become the change you want to see
Get out of the way – let love flow through you
Get out of the way – bless the world as you do
Get out of the way – and all things will come to you
If you want peace in every nation
If you want hunger to be fed
If you want the homeless to have shelter and respect
If you want clean rivers overflowing
If you want the forest to be green
If you want more change than you’ve ever seen
Get out of the way
Get out of the way – let it happen
Get out of the way – and just be
Get out of the way – and become the change you want to see
Get out of the way – let love flow through you
Get out of the way – bless the world as you do
Get out of the way – and all things will come to you
If you want your body to be healthy
If you want your mind to be clear
If you want your heart to share love in relationships dear
If you want to know the secrets of the ages
If you want to hear God’s voice
If you want greater understanding
Get out of the way
Get out of the way – let it happen
Get out of the way – and just be
Get out of the way – and become the change you want to see
Get out of the way – let love flow through you
Get out of the way – bless the world as you do
Get out of the way – and all things will come to you
Get out of the way – let spirit guide you
Get out of the way – let God lead you through
Get out of the way – and all things will come to you
Get out of the way – and all the answers will come to you
With every energizing element of my soul, I feel that I am exactly where I need to be at this moment in my life.
I desperately desire to make a difference in this wonderful, magical world. But I also realize, as this song so powerfully illustrates, that the way I can make this difference is by continuing to treat it an inside job. It is not about what I do “out there.” It is all about what I do inside my own soul.
The way to change the world is by changing me—my perceptions, my beliefs, and my personal connection with the divine.
If I truly want to change the world I need to get out of the way. I need to stop stubbornly thinking that I know what is best for me—because I simply do not.
As I learn to let it be, to just be, to let love flow through me, to become the change I want to see, my life becomes increasingly peaceful, ever more magical and energizing.
Yes, simply put, my goal is to learn how to “Get out of the way.”
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved