To heavily paraphrase Anthony Bourdain, it’s impossible to visit Guatemala and not hate the CIA. What the United States government did to this country – and so many others in Central and South America (and the world, of course) – was abhorrent, and has seldom been properly discussed. In short: in 1954, Guatemala elected a new president. The American powers that be decided that they didn’t like this whole Liberal Leader Who Doesn’t Care About Our Fruit Profits nonsense, and thus took it upon themselves to back a coup. Seven decades later, the country is still struggling with the repercussions of this interference, and the political unrest that it incited. But it is also an undeniably beautiful nation, its scenery lush, its indigenous cultures multifaceted and thriving, its towns filled with a special atmosphere that’s difficult to fully articulate. Drinking coffee in the shadow of an Olympus-like volcano will really make you fond of a place. But before I could experience all of this, I first had to get into Guatemala from Belize, which proved… slightly complicated. 

The trouble was in the tests. Thinking that I should be as ahead of the curve as possible, I had gotten my test 72 hours in advance. As it turned out, because I hadn’t gotten it exactly 72 hours before – I suppose it had been something like 74 – they were unwilling to accept it. Sometimes it does pay to be slightly less prompt. But at the time, it was a lesson learned too late, because of course, there was no one available to administer another test on either side of the border, and they were refusing to budge. That’s when my friend Hallie intervened. She stepped outside with our shuttle driver, and after conversing with him, and then the border agents, for a few minutes, she came back and said, “We worked it out.” I was delighted, and curious how they’d managed. The suddenly cheerful faces of the border agents should have given it away. Once we were settled in our shuttle, I asked Hallie how she’d convinced them to let me through.

… There is a wonderful phrase that is often utilized these days: “Know your worth.” I now truly do know my worth: 600 quetzales, or 100 dollars. Suffice it to say, I bought Hallie several meals in gratitude for buying my way into the country. 

Having made our way across the border, we spent the night in Flores, an absolutely gorgeous town on a lake. Sipping horchata, admiring fireworks, and watching small lizards scamper overhead, it was hard not to feel enchanted. We would return to town a few days later, and it was even lovelier in the daytime, as we roamed around the lake’s borders, people-watching and chatting with fellow travelers.

But between these excursions, we headed inland for a completely different experience. It was another set of Mayan ruins, but these ones would make Cahal Pech look like a Lego set.