The Future of Petén

Lost in the jungle at night with no water, but lots of mud and mosquitos.

Paco went missing. On the first of two days of walking, on Monday, I was enjoying a series of mini botany and archaeology lectures from Paulino, the archaeologist we’d nicknamed “The Philosopher.” He was pointing out the differences between the ceiba and the ramon tree along the 47-mile, two-day walk to the ancient Maya site of El Mirador and the talk was so fascinating that we both neglected to realize that not only had we fallen 10 minutes behind the rest of the group, but our traveling companion, Francisco (Paco) had apparently struck out on his own, seeking a shortcut through one of a thousand muddy trails through the forest that, even to experienced travelers, started all to look remarkably the same.

The cliche I’d been warned about as a writer, and what I wanted to avoid, was how hard the trip would be. “Not for the meek or faint of heart,” was the approximate translation of the warning we received from all the archaeologists who’d made this trek.

It’s not an idle or self-indulgent concern. This is an area that, someday, must accommodate thousands of tourists a year if it is to realize its potential as an economic engine for the Petén region. But it turned out that blisters, leg cramps, bug and snake bites, and the indignity of giving up the walk to mount a mule weren’t the worse that could happen. Even in a group, it’s not hard to get lost in a jungle larger than Rhode Island. It was getting late, and the sun was setting over the unbroken canopy under which we’d trodden for five hours The Philosopher and I were starting to run down to the end of our three-liter supplies of water, and there was no replacement, and no sign of the others.

“Paulino, are we lost?”

“Not yet,” he said confidently, but within a minute he was whooping in uncanny mimicry of a howler monkey — the way the team members have learned to keep within earshot with one another. No return whoops for more than a kilometer. We slogged through shin-high mud, occasionally swinging at an angle over the trail from small trees. I wasn’t too worried about being lost, since I was pretty sure that even if we had to spend a night before being rescued by a chiclero, or chicle harvester, on a mule, Paulino would know how to get water, food, and shelter.

The we eyed the first pond of the whole trip. We might have to drink it, he said. But about ten minutes after filling his water bottle with the brown fluid and adding two vitamin C tablets, we heard a return whoop.

Saved!

Well, we were saved. Paco, it turned out, was nowhere to be found. Paulino and I, and about half the team, finally made it to the first chiclero camp just before sundown around 6:30 am. It was still a two- or three-hour hike to the midway point where we were supposed to meet the rest of the travelers, but Paco was going to spend the night in the mountains.

To be continued….