Towards Semuc Champey, our rusted pickup tumbled like a tank over the muddy rainforest road. Amid a rolling green backdrop, men adjusted their packages in order to avoid them jostling into other men’s asses. We were fifteen dudes packed into the cab of a rumbling pickup truck. “Where are all the girls?” an Australian asked in different ways every few minutes. “This is the sausage fest tour,” said a Canadian.

A 22-year old from Buffalo, who had been living for the past year in Australia, discussed with everyone in earshot the mad tail he was certain he would be procuring at the hostel based on who he’d seen checking into the Zephyr Lodge in Lanquin that morning. A few Australian Surfies hanging onto the side rail mused about the many cervezas they’d be consuming later that night. Along the way, our driver stopped to say hello to a few neighbors and pick up some hop-alongs.

Semuc Champey – Land of The Hidden River Underneath

Semuc Champey means, “Land of the river hidden underneath.” It is located in the central North of Guatemala, in the department of Alta Verapaz. The northern part of the department touches the rainforest, which reaches the ruins of Tikal and yields in the east to Lake Izabal, which sits atop one of the largest nickel deposits in the world. This is why parts of Lake Izabal’s beach shimmer gold in the sunlight. This was the region where the Spanish met some of the fiercest resistance from the Mayans they sought to conquer. It was not by the sword, but by submission to the friars’ Catholicism that led to these jungle lands being put under the rule of The King of Spain. Alta Verapaz—Land of lasting peace—was named thusly because it was not conquered by warfare. No one in Los Zetas Drug Cartel cared about the region’s meaning, and they overtook swaths of the area in 2010, leading the Guatemalan military to declare a state of siege.

Semuc Champey River Tour

 

Most gringos come to Alta Verapaz to visit the Natural Monument Semuc Champey. Semuc Champey was formed by the River Cahobón at the point where it plunges noisily into an underground chasm before reemerging downstream to form temperate pools of paradisiacal wonder.

This was my second trip to these pools and it was the wonder I had forgotten about. The Zephyr Lodge, along with several other outfits, runs a $20/day tour of Semuc Champey. The tour is touristy, but well worth it. I was traveling with a friend from back home, Matt. This was the second time I traveled here with a Matt, as I came with Matt from the Expeditioner in 2012. I remembered every part of the tour save for a moment of quiet wonder that took me by surprise when we reached the pools of Semuc Champey.

I had forgotten what it was like to float on your back in those pools, look up at the rainforest and in the silence of submerged ears and just be.

We were a group of dudes aged 19-30ish and after the jarring truck ride the Semuc Champey tour our sausage fest tour began by swimming in an underwater cavern guided by each of our candle light. In the cool earth, we passed another group, this one of mostly women. And after the last woman disappeared around a corner of the cave, we all said something, of varying degrees of appropriateness, relating to the general concept of women.

After the caves, outside in the platonic daylight, we swung off a swing into the emerald Cahobón River below. Then, we listened as a 9-year-old boy explained through example how to jump off a bridge into a river that seemed a good 40 feet below. “I am Rolando,” he said, “Only Rolando, nothing more.”

Then the little guy spread his legs in a way that made all of us guys cringe and jumped spread eagle off the bridge and into the river. The Surfies were one-by-one off the bridge, flipping in ways that would give their mothers a heart attack.

After we broke for lunch, we hiked through the jungle until we saw the pools from a lookout point above, then we descended to them. A 19-year-old from Sweden mentioned a river back home and how his family would swim in it during the summer months. A 23-year-old from Canada recalled a situation in Mexico involving a motorcycle and a machete he had gotten himself into. A 22-year-old from Buffalo talked about his breakup. Someone told a sex story. A French dude told us a tale from his travels by motorcycle from Panama.

When we reached the pools of Semuc Champey, the chatter tapered off and we were mostly silent, occasionally swimming and chatting, but mostly forgetting ourselves to these waters. I don’t know much about the Mayan history of Semuc Champey, but surely it was a rich one, surely this was a land where Mayan gods bathed and a place where people felt close to those deities.

I pushed away from the group and floated to the edge where the shade of the canopy casts a shadow on jade water. There was so much to think about. There always is. I was back in Guatemala, a friend was visiting from back home, a trip to Asia loomed on my not-too-distant horizon, the recent death of my grandpa still floated behind every thought. There was the individual thought of every one in my family. I recalled my recent New Year’s kiss in Antigua and subsequent embraces of that surprise romance. I assume everyone shares such moments in the world, times when you just sorta float pleasantly through your entire life, past and present. In Semuc Champey, I had remembered the details of the geography and logistics of transport and accommodation. But the moment of floating in Semuc Champey took me by surprise like a deep breath that keeps inhaling.

Back To Lanquin from Semuc Champey

On the way back Ronaldo, the kiddo who had jumped the bridge, was managing two other kids selling beer to the truckload of gringos. They had been all over our truck that morning, but everyone had opted out of having a beer before noon, since we had caving and hiking and swimming on our horizon. But on the way back, our brotherhood strengthened by what everyone agreed had been a great day, everyone was in the mood for a cheers. The kids slung us 10Q ($1.2) beers and we toasted and spilled in the back of the roving pickup.

One Australian, clearly not aquainted with the culture, paid with a 100Q bill. He narrated his ongoing struggles to us. “I gave him 100Q and now he doesn’t speak English.” The kid bartenders shuffled their way to another part of the pickup to sling more beer and neglected to give the Aussie his 90Q in change. He continued to demand it, and each time Ronaldo passed him 5Q bill and then shuffled to another part of the pickup, to sling more beer.

“He keeps just keeps feeding me fives!” 40Q was all he ever got in change, but I imagine the beer still tasted delicious as we all raised our cans in the air and spilled half on ourselves in rhythm with the random bumps of the road.

Back To The Zephyr Lodge in Lanquin

Back at the hostel, groups meandered in and out of each other. Everyone from the trip greeted everyone else in our sausage fest brotherhood when we passed each other through the night. A couple from Canada dominated the pool table for six consecutive games. Some of our group cleaned themselves up and began disappearing in and out of various groups of girls.

Matt and I hung out with Nathan, the 23-year-old from Canada on the trip. He rolled spliffs and we chatted by Zephyr’s pool. The night led from conversation to a jam session in the jungle. We were again all dudes at the jam session, and we sung and rapped and passed the guitar and Nathan busted out wonderfully interpreted covers and surprising originals. Three kids from Australia referred to their traveling trio as Los Tres Quetzales, the three quetzals. They were on their first big trip and it shone in their smiles. We swapped stories, made up songs, smoked spliffs, drank beer, and laughed our asses off.

I retreated to my room to retrieve a copy of my new book, The Nomad’s Nomad, and before the night ended I gave Los Tres Quetzales a copy, which they received with an air of solemnity and passed back for me to inscribe.

As I wrote Los Tres Quetzales a missive in the inside cover, I thought about a Canadian I had befriended in Nicaragua when I was a franticly young 22-year-old hitch-hiking vaguely north. I remembered how much the approval and friendship of an older, veteran traveler had meant to me. The three Quetzales leaned over my book and read the inscription with big smiles. Twenty-one, twenty-one and twenty-two were their ages and their eyes shone with that wonderful light the gleams when you are experiencing that first big trip around a big hunk of the globe. I remembered the feeling. I hope everyone has this at some point.

I swear to anyone who has never taken a long trip to unknown parts of the world that doing so is as valuable as your college degree and stable job. Get these things if you like, but don’t do it at the loss of a chance to see the parts of the world that capture your attention.

At some point the jam session finally fizzled out and everyone returned to their rooms. Since The Zephyr was full, Matt and I had managed only to find a cabin with a small bed, so I claimed the hammock on the porch. I positioned myself in the hammock, threw a blanket atop me, and was lulled to sleep by a choir of insect calls.