In the middle of the night the Guatemalan sky unzips its pockets to spill a marimba of water on the tin roof of our wooden room. By morning, the downpour persists, offering both disappointment and relief: both “I forbid you to explore paradise,” and “I grant you heavenly rest.” After eating pancakes in the open-air lodge of Posada El Zapote, we stare at gray rain that sews up the garden, hemming in long red bromeliads, yellow trumpet flowers, coconut palms, and the vines of a jungle that threatens to take over.
We stare at gray rain that sews up the garden of our lodge, Posada El Zapote.
My husband, Dale, sways in the only good hammock, while two cheap fishnet hammocks attempt to strangle me. I retreat to our room to nap on the hard little bed and dream of Semuc Champey hiding beyond the rain.
I dream of Semuc Champey hiding beyond the rain.
I wake when silence strikes like a gong, announcing the rain’s halt at 10:15 a.m. Dina, one of the lodge owners, hurries to pack us dry cheese sandwiches and small yellow citrus from her garden. By 10:30 we’re waddling like penguins down a steep, muddy, ankle-twisting, one-lane road that Dina calls “la carretera,” (the highway) without a trace of irony in her voice.