Guatemala > Capsized with a jet ski

Guatemala - Kayaking in the mangrove forests in search of howler monkeys

I wake up early. Outside, it’s still dark. A kayak is ready by the water. At dawn, I paddle through the mangrove forests to watch the howler monkeys and other animals awaken. It slowly becomes light as I paddle my kayak onto the wide river. I have a slight headwind as I cross the broad water, which makes my kayak turn immediately whenever I pause paddling. After about half an hour, I reach the entrance of the mangrove forests. The water level is high, allowing me to paddle deep between the trees. I hear the howler monkeys in the branches. I maneuver my boat to get a good view of the monkeys. The guide makes an awkward motion while pointing at the monkeys and tips over in his canoe. Clearly irritated by his own action, he climbs back aboard. This probably doesn’t happen to him often. The young monkeys play in the trees, searching for food. Bits of food occasionally fall down. They come closer and sit directly above me. A tiny baby monkey jumps from tree to tree—beautiful! I return to the lodge for breakfast.

Guatemala - The Castillo de San Felipe to defend against pirate attacks from the lake

I change clothes for a boat trip to Livingston. Livingston is a town at the end of the El Golfete River at its mouth. Here, descendants of slaves live—a predominantly black community. On a fast boat, I first travel a short distance along the lake to the Castillo de San Felipe. This fort was built by the Spanish in 1652 to defend against pirates who plundered from the lake. I can still see the cannons aimed at the water. The skipper turns the boat, and I speed north toward Livingston. The bow of the fiberglass boat rises high out of the water. Along the banks, I see only resorts, large houses, and many expensive sailboats. This is clearly where wealthy Guatemalans gather. About five kilometers before Livingston, the river narrows. The skipper maneuvers the boat between small islands, where simple huts are located. From the village, children approach in a canoe, hoping to sell souvenirs. Then we continue toward Livingston. The last stretch flows through a gorge flanked by high, forested mountains. Eventually, I arrive at the Caribbean Sea and step out in Livingston. The town is entirely geared toward tourists. Numerous restaurants, shops, and souvenir stores cater to visitors from Rio Dulce. I walk along Mainstreet toward the beach. On my way back, I meet Polo, an older man with rasta hair and a gray stubble beard—a typical reggae man. He is a musician and has visited the Netherlands several times.

Guatemala - In Livingston descendants of slaves live together

He points out that I am only seeing the Spanish part with the tourist shops, “the tourist trap,” as he calls it. He invites me to follow him into the black part of Livingston. As I follow him through small, simple houses, he explains that the center was taken over in the 1980s when people fled to Livingston during the civil war. “This is the real Livingston,” he assures me. He shows me a small school destroyed in the last hurricane. I look out over the sea. Livingston lies right in the bay between Honduras and Belize. When I return to the main road, I say goodbye to Polo and donate a little for the projects he mentioned. Whether the money will actually reach them, I doubt. On the way back by boat to Rio Dulce, I have lunch at a nicely located riverside restaurant. From the first floor, I have a view over the river. My fish soup turns out to be a surprise. Instead of pieces of fish, a whole fish, including head and fins, is in my soup. I have to fillet it myself, but it tastes fine nonetheless. Back at the hotel, the pool calls. It’s sunny and very warm. However, the pool is closed. I learn that chemicals were just added to the water to combat algae, so swimming is not allowed. As an alternative, I’m allowed to swim in a small pool in the forest. Normally, this is part of the walking tour, but if I promise not to wander further into the forest, I may swim there. A brief set of directions is given. I follow the path along wooden walkways and through the forest. I can’t find the indicated turn to the pool. When I reach the long, 17-meter-high suspension bridge, I realize I am off course. Still, I cross the bridge briefly to admire the trees and plants below, then turn back. I need to return in time for my jet ski trip. Exactly at four o’clock, three jet skis arrive. I get on the first one and receive minimal instructions: this is start, this is stop, and this is throttle.

Guatemala - Riding a jet ski on the lake

I start the machine and ride up the river. It’s a bit exciting, but I quickly get the hang of it. Only taking turns feels awkward at first. Full throttle, I speed along the river. Turns gradually get easier. At the end of the hour, I try to take a turn when a wake hits my jet ski. It tips over. I lose balance and fall into the water. The jet ski flips upside down beside me. I don’t know how to right it and wait for help. The owner quickly comes. He doesn’t look pleased as he flips the jet ski back upright. The rear end is submerged. He gestures for me to ride behind him. He takes me back to the resort. The ski is later recovered by his helpers. When paying, he asks for 100 euros extra for the damage. I refuse, believing I did nothing wrong. He later explains I should have jumped off the jet ski earlier. A difficult discussion ensues, mediated by an American tourist translating. Eventually, I settle for 28 euros, which the rental owner accepts. In the evening, I reflect on the unusual jet ski adventure over dinner at a unique restaurant along the riverbank. The restaurant can only be reached by boat, so it’s not surprising that it’s not very busy.