SAYAXCHÉ

BY BETH TALLY

About and hour west of Flores in the Peten of Guatemala, the properly paved  highway comes to a screeching halt at a severe bend in the Río de la Pasíon.  The span of the river isn’t significant, but the passage across it to the town of Sayaxché on the opposite shore rolls you back a few decades.  The presence of electricity, cellphones and the internet have barely dented the daily routine of this very third-world community.

For all of its humility, Sayaxché remains commercially strategic.  The river provides transportation of commodities all the way to the Tabasco region of Mexico.  It’s also the sole access to several popular Mayan ruins including Aquateca and Ceibal.  No matter what time of day or night, a steady hum of activity pulses through the rutted streets and along the river shore.

We ventured to Sayaxché at the nudging of Bob and Trish Meredith, good friends that we’ve made while domiciled at Mario’s Marina in Río Dulce.  Their idea of adventure always includes an element of the offbeat and this trip was no exception.  Nine of us agreed to accompany them on the excursion.  We rented a van to follow Bob and Trish in their car.  They recommended that we stay at the Hotel Guayacán which proved to be very comfortable, even without hot water, and had two noteworthy benefits – the personal hospitality of owner Don Luis and his beautiful macaw, and a ringside seat to the primary entertainment in town which is the round-the-clock ferry hauling traffic back and forth across the river.

The Sayaxché Ferry

The laws of Physics hold no sway with the Sayaxché ferry.  As the bumble bee shouldn’t fly, the ferry shouldn’t work.  But for years this patchwork of machinery, with its cargo of everything from bicycles to tractor-trailers, has served as the only direct connector between the cities of Western Guatemala and the Peten.

The construction is simple and primitive.  A flatbed constitutes the main body with a metal ramp at each end controlled by a manual pulley.  There are thatch-covered, semi-circular compartments at both the stern and bow on the down-stream side of the flatbed.  These are the pilothouses which lodge simple outboard motors used to propel the ferry and its cargo.  The thatch provides shelter from the sun for the pilot. 

Only one motor at a time operates with the pilot moving from house to house depending on which side of the river is the destination.  With painstaking reliability he maneuvers this unwieldy float back and forth.  Each crossing takes about fifteen minutes and stops when the ferry runs aground where the end of the road dies into the river.  A ramp handler, the only other crew on board, vigorously cranks the pulley which releases the ramp slowly downward allowing the vehicles aboard to drive off and new passengers to run up.  (Note:  At the time we witnessed the ferry, one of the pilothouse engines was out.  A fifteen-foot skiff was tied to the dead end of the flatbed and used to guide the ferry.)
 
As fascinating as it is to watch the ferry in motion, it pales in comparison to the creative choreography needed to arrange the assorted trucks, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians on the flatbed so that the ferry can move at all.  Vehicles can’t just drive onto the flatbed willy nilly.  Weight distribution and ballast have to be considered, otherwise things might go slipping off into the brink since the guardrails are merely token. 

There is a particular challenge when an 18-wheeler needs transportation.  In this circumstance, the crew will arrange all of the other vehicles on either side of the flatbed leaving a vacant corridor running down the middle.  On cue, the driver of the tractor-trailer guns his engine and races onto the flatbed then slams on the brakes just as he brings the rig to the opposite edge.  It looks insane and fraught with peril, but it’s a necessary exercise because the weight of the truck can ground the ferry to the point where it can’t leave shore.  The intense forward force and momentary concentration of the truck’s weight on the front of the flatbed combine to give the ramp an upward thrust.  Simultaneously, the pilot propels the engine forward easing the ferry away from shore.  If this procedure is successful, the tractor-trailer can roll lazily backwards and rest in the middle of the flatbed.  If not, however, the driver will have to back it off onto shore and start the whole thing over again.

The ferry operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  We spent every afternoon on the second-story patio of the Hotel Guayacan sipping beer and watching the ferry work, mesmerized at the efficiency with which this antiguated system operates.

Chicken, Chicken – Who’s Got the Chicken?

The main reason we came to Sayaxché was to visit the Mayan ruins of Aguatecha and Ceibal.  Both sites are only accessible by boat with each being a day trip.  Once we checked into the hotel, the men dispatched to negotiate a guide for two days.  The women concentrated on finding where we might buy both liquid refreshments for our stay and lunch provisions for our excursions.  This proved to be quite a challenge since the closest grocery store was a 30-minute bus ride to the next town.  All we had to work with were vendors cooking their fare on the street and small tiendas with limited supplies of beer, bottled water and snacks. 

There was one beacon of hope, however, right across the street from the hotel – the bright red, cheery Madison Avenue knockoff sign announcing Pollolandia, Land of Chicken.  We strolled over and cased the place, surmising that it was Sayaxché’s attempt at KFC.  Bins of scattered fried chicken pieces sat under infrared lamps alongside French fries.  Several whole roasted chickens occupied another bin.  Even though the signs overhead were in Spanish, we could tell that the chicken could be sold in quantities from two-piece meals to buckets of twelve. 

Collectively we had enough vocabulary to communicate with the young lady behind the counter.  We explained that we were leaving the next morning for Aguateca and wanted to order 30 pieces of chicken.  “A que hora abierto?” What time did she open?  “Esta possíble?” Would that be possible?  “Cuánto questo?” How much?

The answers:  7:00 – Yes – 225 Quetzals ($30 US)

We confirmed everything and, with a great deal of satisfaction, tromped back across the street to the hotel.  Not only had we arranged the meal, but we had done so in an establishment that appeared culturally familiar.  For some reason this gave us comfort.

Our guide suggested a hole-in-the-wall place for breakfast and we congregated there early the next morning.  As the clock approached 7:00, our friend Debi Canon volunteered to go over to Pollolandia and pick up the chicken.  We had a three-hour trip to Aguateca ahead of us and this would expedite our departure.

The door had hardly shut good behind her when she returned to the restaurant empty handed.  There was enough steam coming out of her ears to leave a vapor trail.

“They don’t have any fried chicken ready for us,” she fumed.  “Tried to sell me those sorry roasted chickens that were sitting there last night.  I’m so mad, I decided I better leave before I said something.”

With simultaneous motion, all of the women scooted back their chairs.  We marched up to Pollolandia  like an army of wet hens, grumbling and cackling, not sure of what we would accomplish but at least wanting to complain as vociferously as our hamstrung Spanish would allow.  Thank heaven we had not paid for the chicken the night before.

Our state of fervor did nothing to solve the very immediate problem of figuring out what to do for our picnic lunch.  We came out of Pollolandia in a herd milling around in the street truly perplexed.  And then, as if drawn by a magnet, we spotted a woman two doors up, her little street cart prominently placed as a fixture outside a small tienda.  Its festive  frame promoted her product – Pollo y Papas – fried chicken and French fries.  Hidden behind a glass shield, a metal bowl already bubbled with pieces of chicken sizzling in hot oil. 

Although it’s very prevalent throughout Guatemala, none of us had ever been inclined to buy “street meat.”  But our dire circumstance caused us to hastily rethink this hesitation.  We watched her work.  She definitely knew what she was doing, carefully cutting into the chicken pieces to see if they were done, gently turning them to make sure the golden brown color was uniform. 

In a not-to-democratic method, we appointed Cindy Miller to be our negotiator.  Little did we know that she would pretty much be chopped liver.  She was a very shrewd woman named Rosa who probably had observed our multiple entries and exits from Pollolandia.  We weren’t toting any chicken, we wanted chicken, she had chicken.  She had the upper hand.

Cindy told her that we wanted 30 pieces of chicken.  Rosa didn’t bat an eyelid, too cagey to signal that we had just made her day. 

“Cuándo y cuánto questa?”  When and how much?

“En una media hora (half an hour),” Rosa replied.  “350 Quetzals.”

Cindy rolled her eyes in mock horror.  An animated conversation ensued loosely translated as follows.

“Wow!  We can get 30 pieces at Pollolandia for 225 Q.”

“Well, where are your 30 pieces?  They don’t have them, do they?”  Rosa nailed us.  “And my chicken is much better – the best.  Who is Pollolandia?”  She almost spat the word.  For a minute, we thought she might just refuse to sell us the chicken just to prove her disgust.

Realizing that Rosa held all the marbles, Cindy downsized our order to 22 pieces to keep the price more in line with what we wanted to pay.  We all chipped in some Quetzals and told her we’d be back in 30 minutes.

When we returned, Rosa had the steaming hot chicken wrapped inside two black plastic bags.  Intuitively we wondered about that, but decided that we really didn’t want to know what chemical might be in the bags to keep them from melting.  Cindy grabbed the chicken and we hustled down to the waterfront to meet the men and our guide.

We ate the chicken five hours later after three hours on the boat to Aguateca and two hiking over the site.  It was still warm, truly the best fried chicken any of us had ever eaten.

It didn’t take long to form a concensus that we should repeat the order for the next day’s trip to Ceibal.  Fortunately, Rosa was still at her stand when we arrived back in Sayaxché.  Like a chastised child, Cindy “oohed and ahhed” to Rosa about the chicken. 

“I told you it was the best,” she said, finally letting a smile cross her lips.

“And, we want 22 more pieces in the morning at 7:00.”

“No problem.  You pay me and you’ll have your chicken.”

Without fail, the next morning Rosa kept her promise.  We gleefully packed our chicken on the boat to Ceibal knowing what a treat was in store.  Rosa closed up shop before we could even round the corner, having probably made a week’s wages off us in two days. 

I don’t know if we’ll ever get back to Sayaxché, but there’s one thing for sure.  Rosa will still be in business.  Pollolandia?  Don’t count on it.

Aguateca and Ceibal

The Yucutan of Mexico and Peten area of Guatemala are riddled with ancient Mayan sites.  Many have yet to be discovered.  Sophisticated technologies such as heat sensitive imaging from NASA satellites are helping to penetrate the thick jungle cover which camouflages thousands of structures dating as far back as 1500 BC. 

Some sites, like Chichén Itza and Tikal, are well excavated, tourist friendly and truly magnificent for their size and grandeur.  Those like Aguateca and Ceibal are more modest, located in remote places with less archeological work due to minimal funding.  But all are interesting and offer a fascinating individual piece to the whole puzzle of the Mayan empire.

Located on the southern shore of Lake Petexbatun, Aguateca is a three-hour boat trip from Sayaxché up the Río Petexbatun, a tributary of the Río de la Pasion.  The tour boats used to navigate the slow slog against the current are long and narrow with wooden benches running along both sides.  A hard canopy top offers limited protection from the sun but gives essential viewing of the scenery, wildlife and community that stimulates the shoreline. 

Just before entering Lake Petexbatun, the riverhead thickens with a swamp of young saplings and reeds that only an experienced guide can navigate.  We found ourselves dodging limbs and brush that slapped at us under the overhead.  When we came out of the ticket into the lake, we had secured another passenger, a green grasshopper-like bug that seemed perfectly comfortable hitching a ride with us.  He ambled from person to person, even crawling all the way up my arm, shoulder, neck and onto my face.  Since he seemed so affable, we named him Bob the Bug after the instigator of our trip, Bob Meredith.

Once in the body of the lake, the shore presented a spectacular array of flora reminding us again that the rainforest jungle constitutes the landscape in this part of the world.  We passed huge Ceiba trees (the national tree of Guatemala) with massive, pronged roots that look like giant elephant’s feet.  The “Tourist Trees,” so named because the bark becomes tan and then peels like sunburned skin, rose stately from the hillside.  Huge bromeliads clung to every available limb adding thousands of pounds to their hosts with their weight and that of the water they carry.

After a while, the guide steered the boat into a relatively inconspicuous spot on shore where a couple of other tour boats rested tied to overhanging branches.  A small sign at the base of a set of wooden stairs indicated that we had arrived at Aguateca. 

The location of Aguateca is its principal and most impressive characteristic.  Even with the 150 or so steps facilitating us, the climb up the hill was so steep we had to pause periodically to retrieve some air into the lungs.  The severe incline provided a natural fortress offering protection from any enemy that might have approached the city from the lake.  On the opposite end, beyond the excavated buildings and main plaza, an earthquake fault 50 feet deep guarded against incursions coming from the jungle.  Several of us hiked into the fault to get a sense of its formidable force as a barrier.

The total exploration of Aguateca took only a couple of hours.  When we were through, we sat on some stone bleachers overlooking a plaza, or perhaps an ancient ball court, and ate Rosa’s fried chicken.  The group made its way back to the stone steps and was grateful for the ease of the downward direction.  We were equally grateful for the ice

cold beers an enterprising tour guide had for sale in a cooler on his boat. 

Because we traveled with the current, the trip back to Sayaxché took half as long as earlier.  We made it back to Hotel Guayacán by 4:00 which gave us plenty of time to check with Rosa about lunch for the next day and unwind on the patio watching the ferry plow its way back and forth across the river.

The next morning after eating breakfast and securing our stash of fried chicken, we boarded another boat for the two-hour trip up Río de la Pasion to Ceibal.  The river once again offered an intriguing glimpse into life along its shores.  We passed fincas (farms) with rolling hills scattered with horses, cattle, palm trees and the occasional majestic Ceiba.  Children played at the water’s edge while women washed clothes.  A cowboy sat gracefully atop his horse as the animal quenched its thirst.  Flocks of herons moved in unison overhead.  An occasional hawk posed just out of camera range on the top of a tree.

The entrance point to Ceibal resembled that of Aguateca in that it was relatively nondescript.  The small cadre of tour boats tied together indicated the spot.  The river had receded quite a bit from its high mark leaving a temporary muddy beach to traverse before reaching the bank.  Huge palm fronds were laid across the mud forming a walkway to the bottom of the path leading up to the site. 

The hike to Ceibal wasn’t nearly as steep as the day before, but it was plenty challenging and proffered an inkling of one of the site’s unique features – a magnificent jungle canopy hovering over the place.  The Ceiba trees were so massive their roots dwarfed us as we stood like Lilliputians underneath.  A subtle coolness enveloped us, the sun not able to penetrate the blanket of green overhead. 

We came to an active archeological camp at the end of the trail.  There was a relief map in the welcome center which explained the suspected massiveness of Ceibal and also revealed just how little of it had been excavated. 

The true treasures of the site were the original stellae (large stone blocks used to record the history of the Maya in code and picture) strewn throughout the property.  In many other places, original stella had been removed to protect them from the elements and vandalism.  They were replaced by cement-cast copies.  But in Ceibal, the originals stood shielded only by small shelters with thatched roofs.  Their clarity and condition were remarkable for the circumstances. 

Once again, it took just two hours to complete our tour.  We climbed up onto the top of what looked like a temple structure, one of the few places cleared enough for the sun to shine, and ate the second batch of Rosa’s fried chicken.  When we retreated back down to the river, our beer-selling tour guide was there, but alas had sold out his inventory. 

We tiptoed back across the palm-frond path to our boat.  The guide slipped us back into the river and we caught the downstream flow back to Sayaxché, back to the hotel, back to the patio, back to the ferry. 

A Town Stuck in Time

We snuck out of town the next morning, across the Río de la Pasion on the ferry to the paved highway taking us home.  As I looked out the rearview window of the van, my mind took a mental picture of Sayaxché.  I imagine that if I ever return, the picture will be the same.  It is truly a town stuck in time.

SURVIVOR SAYACHE

Click for VIDEO BY Cindy Miller

on S/V Dragonheart

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