Tik’al; more than a just a Rebel base

Tik’al: Depending on your knowledge of pop culture this place is either an impressive set of Mayan ruins in Central America or an excellent place from which to launch an assualt on the Death Star.

Not following me? This may jog your memory…

Need it spelled out? If you rent a copy of Star Wars (Episode IV; A New Hope) you will find that the rebel base set in the jungle of Yavin is in fact Tik’al. Unfortunately I wasn’t actually aware of this fact at the time of our visit to the ruins, so I wasn’t able to ask our guide any smart-arse questions about Stormtroopers or The Force. A missed opportunity right there.

Anyway…Tik’al. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (or perhaps about 1000 years ago in Northern Guatemala) the local Mayans built a vast city which went on to become one of the most powerful kingdoms of its era. Hundreds – if not thousands – of palaces, pyramids and plazas were built here during the 700 years the city thrived, however these were all reclaimed by the jungle with the abandonment of the kingdom. Today the majority of these structures remain covered, with only a handful fully excavated and restored. No matter – that handful are amply impressive.

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Understandably all by one of the temples was closed off to tourists (damn Rebels must have ruined it for everyone…). We were able to take stairs up to the top platform of Temple IV – the tallest temple at the site – and the view up there was stunning. Lush untamed jungle stretched out before us, punctuated only by the stately crowns of the other temples. I spent many minutes up there, taking in what lay before me, and again reflecting on the wonders of ancient Mayan engineers.

We spent four hours on our guided tour tramping through the winding jungle paths, learning about the moss-covered structures and the stories behind them, and of course snapping these grand monuments from every possible angle. Every time we came to a clearing we were presented with yet another “Kodak moment” and it took me hours to sort through the number of images we now have of this site (and yet I still don’t think our photos quite do it justice).

The tour also came with something of an unexpected bonus – our guide was also something of an amateur zoologist and was intent on seeking out the animals of Tik’al for us. Spider monkeys and a precocious coatimundi (think racoon with a monkey’s tail) made a welcome appearance. However despite our guide’s best efforts he could not find a tarantula for us to see…which I really didn’t mind.

I’ve seen many ancient Mayan sites on this trip and I confess to becoming a wee bit bored at some of them. The ruins at Tulum in particular were distinctly underwhelming. But Tik’al really did blow me away; the scale, the grandeur, the vastness of this place really is something else.

There was only one downside to the day. After our tour had finished we were left to explore the main plaza and its buildings, which I happily did. Except when I was inching my way down the moss-covered stone steps of one of the buildings, I took quite a tumble. Of course, I took a tumble. Sunnies, bag, camera all went flying in random directions and I came close to taking out two teenage tourists just a few steps below me. My hands received some cuts and scrapes, but in the end it was only my dignity that got bruised. The force was clearly not strong in me that day.

The Barton Creek Outpost

There are few times in this blog where I’ve felt the need to mention our accommodation. Mostly because it’s been standard hostels – some good, some not so good, some quite rubbish – and really it’s just not that interesting. Who really wants to know about the New York YMCA? Or Godzillas in Moscos? But I do feel compelled to mention the Barton Creek Outpost.

Run by American ex-pats Jim and Jacquelyn and their three (probably four by now) children, this hostel is a destination all by itself. Set on the edges of Mountain Pine Ridge this hostel is not just close to nature, it is in nature. Seriously, I was watching hummingbirds go about their business over my morning coffee.

Plants and vines and orchards surround the main house and the bunk house, which are set on the edge of fresh-water creek. That creek is also the bathing facility, and while it is chilly there is something wonderful about bathing down there. You feel like you’re one of those luxury soap advertisements where the actors are bathing in some tropical lagoon.

Jim and Jacquelyn themselves are lovely to chat to over the communal evenings meals, and Jim has his own blog about his experiences in Belize which makes for interesting reading. It’s here if anyone is keen.

The worst Christmas Song ever???

So it’s a few weeks out from Christmas. A and I are cosying up in a little hotel in San Ignacio – it’s off the main street so hopefully traffic noise will be at a minimum. But – whatever – we have earplugs for that.

We slept just fine except we were rudely awoken at the ungodly hour of 7am. Yes – 7am is ungodly to us travellers. I say rudely because it wasn’t roosters or traffic or even people talking in the hallways – all of which I could have coped with. No it was the record store across the road blaring out Christmas Carols. At 7am in the morning. Call me a grinch but that’s a level of Christmas cheer I don’t need. And it went on all day.

What really got my attention was the calibre of Christmas Carols on rotation. Apart from the traditional carols there were the country carols. Now I know that country music has a reputation for sometimes being morose, but these were something else. There were two in particular that somewhat floored me.

First up was this classic by – I’ve since learned – John Denver. Titled “Daddy please don’t get drunk this Christmas”. Really. I couldn’t help myself. I looked up the lyrics:

Just last year when I was only seven
And now I’m almost eight as you can see
You came home at a quarter past eleven
Fell down underneath our Christmas tree

Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mumma cry
Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mumma cry

Mumma smiled and looked outside the window
She told me son, you better go upstairs
Then you laughed and hollered Merry Christmas
I turned around and saw my Mumma’s tears

Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mumma cry
Please Daddy, don’t get drunk this Christmas
I don’t wanna see my Mumma cry
No, I don’t wanna see my Mumma cry

And then there was this equally sad one “Daddy won’t be home again this Christmas”. Again, I couldn’t help myself:

Daddy won’t be home again for Christmas
But I’m hoping that this little cheque will fit
Daddy won’t be home again for Christmas
Maybe this will serve to let you know I don’t forget.

The Christmas tree where I’ll be won’t be lighted
But the rain and cold will let us know December’s here
Forgive me for the letters I don’t answer
 I keep thinking I’ll be home again each year.

But daddy won’t be home again for Christmas,
Here’s hoping that this little cheque will fit;
Daddy won’t be home again for Christmas,
Maybe this will serve to let you know I don’t forget.

I know Santa Claus won’t bring you all the things you need,
But maybe he’ll be kinder if he knows,
That I won’t be home again this year to play his role,
Besides I’m much too thin to wear his clothes.

Aren’t they just the cheeriest Christmas songs you’ve ever heard! They are quite sad when you read the words but when they were played straight after Deck the Halls, it did sound quite funny and left me with the giggles. Anyway – I’m now interested to know if anyone else has ever heard bad Christmas songs? What are they – let me know!

More than a tourist trap

If truth be know, I always prefer to describe myself as a traveller. It sounds so much more intrepid and exciting than that other T word. But let’s face – whatever my preference, I am still very much a tourist, and like every other tourist I happily trot off to see all of the tourist attractions. Red Square, Berlin Wall, Chichen Itza; tick, tick, tick. I’ve come to accept the crowds and the cameras, and enjoyed many a ubiquitous guided tour.

But every now and then, there’s a tourist attraction that surpasses expectations. It becomes more than just a guided tour, it becomes a memorable experience. That is what happened for me at the Actun Tunichil Muknal cave just outside of San Ignacio, Belize.

San Ignacio was not in our original travel plans, but we heard so much about this cave from other travellers that we decided a detour was in order. I’m so glad we did.

The ATM cave system was used heavily by the Mayans for many ceremonies and rituals; it’s chambers and ledges are littered with ancient ceramics and the remains of human sacrifices. To see them involved first a 40 minute hike through the Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve, to the cave mouth, and then another two hours swimming and scrambling through the caves. The scrambling, swimming and climbing was always going to win me over but what took this tour beyond merely another show-and-tell was our guide, Martin. Of Mayan descent, he spoke with such eloquence and pride about his ancestors that you couldn’t help but be moved by his words.

At one point he had us turn off our headlamps and walk single file – one hand placed on the shoulder of the person in front – through the cave in the dark. I cannot stress how dark it was – you could not see your hand in front of your face. And then – as we waded through the waist-deep water in the black – Martin began to sing a Mayan prayer which echoed all around the chamber. It was truly beautiful moment.

Soon afterwards he took us to some rock formations which he – after leading tours through the cave for years and years – had learned to “play”. Tapping gently on different parts of the stalectities, he was able to create a rippling melody that left everyone amazed and delighted.

When it came to explaining the significance of the relics, Martin again had all the knowledge. He told us the stories of Maya – how they lived, who they worshipped, what this cave meant to them. He told us the stories of the human sacrifices – including the Crystal Maiden – who willingly gave up their lives for their beliefs. What I loved about him was that he would give you the official explanation – devised by learned anthropologists – and then he would tell you what he thought. His interpretations often made as much sense – if not more – than all the academic theories.

The tour left us quite exhausted – four hours hiking, swimming and climbing will do that to you. But it also left us with the distinct knowledge that we had just visited a holy place, as holy as any church or mosque that you may care to step into. It was a cave and it was a tour, but at the end of the day it was also a very spiritual experience.

Chilling on the Cayes

Don’t bother. Too American. Bit of a shithole. These were some of the things I had been told about Belize before I arrived. In truth I was hesitant about spending too much time there. However, after spending a good two weeks there I can now only conclude that the people who had told me this were either a) blind or b) never saw the cayes.

Our first stop was Caye Caulker, a tiny island which in parts is less than 100m wide. It’s not the prettiest island I’ve seen –  it had the ubiquitous swaying palm trees and blue waters however the beaches left something to be desired – but there was just something about this place.

It’s a place where shoes and shirts are optional, swimming substitutes for showering, Bob Marley is compulsory, lobster tail is an affordable menu staple and rum is stupidly, stupidly cheap. In all seriousness, 1.75L of rum costs around $12. That would explain my pathetic attempt at “The Worm” in the Oceanside (the best and only nightclub on the island). Probably would also explain the Kylie karaoke and crashed bicycle.

Incidentally, here’s another for the “It’s a small world” file. On our first night at the hostel, one of the guys tells me he’s a second year medical student at Notre Dame University, and given I know a little bit about the medical school system, we start chatting. And then I remember something:

“You know, I once had a personal trainer who was studying medicine at Notre Dame, but at the same time he was also looking into becoming a jet-fighter pilot. I wonder if you know of him?”
“Yeah. He’s in the kitchen drinking rum.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah. He’s my mate, he’s in the kitchen drinking rum.”

And so he was. To top things off these two med students were also best mates with my physiotherapist back in Sydney.

Caye Caulker is a lazy lazy place – there’s not much to do other than drink rum and make friends, which was just fine with us. It took us six days to decide we should probably leave or risk becoming part of the furniture at Bellas, our hostel.

A and I hopped on a Raggamuffin three-day sailing and snorkelling tour. Twenty of us piled on to the Ragga Queen which took us along the Belize Barrier Reef – the second biggest reef in the world. Snorkelling, storms and story-telling by the bonfire – this trip had it all.

The first snorkel stop was a dream. We anchored just metres from the reef and within seconds of plunging into the water I found myself casually swimming among hundreds and hundreds of fish. And beautiful fish at that; they shimmered in silvers, yellows and blues as they darted around rocks and delicate fan corals.

That night we camped on Rendezvous Caye, an island no bigger than your average suburban block. Entirely formed from sand and reinforced with some cleverly placed retaining walls, there are exactly three palm trees on this island.

The next day was more swimming and more snorkelling. However at the second snorkel point, off Tobacco Caye, I had to face my newest fear. A stingray. A big bloody stingray that was patrolling the inlet. But I am proud to say I did it – I got in the water after only 10 minutes of minor hysterics, and then proceeded to explore the surrounding reef for the next half hour. It was here we saw the fabulous Lion Fish, and made friends with a tiny yellow fish that seemed intent on swimming alongside us for the entire time.

Our last day however, was no so great. A tropical storm had whipped in overnight, and the sea was quite rough. For me this meant several hours battling sea sickness – but I managed to make it to shore without disgracing myself, thankfully.

So, Belize. Too American? Not yet. Bit of a shithole? Not one bit. Don’t bother? That would be a huge mistake.

I’ll just take the fish…thanks

“You have to go to Stingray City,” my sister said. “You have to go.”

She lived there for two years, she would know right? So when we arrived in Cayman Islands, Stingray City was at the top of our to-do list. We quickly signed up for a half-day snorkelling tour that would take us out to a sandbar just off Grand Cayman where the stingrays hang out. Historically this was a place where fisherman cleaned and gutted their fish, so a good feeding place for hungry stingrays. Now its a place where the tourists come to feed them.

I was looking forward to it.

Except…

Except I was envisaging stingrays perhaps a little bit bigger than your average serving plate. Small, manageable, cute even.

These stingrays were none of those things. As we approached the sandbar I saw these huge black shapes whizzing through the water. These things were the size of tabletops, and they were hungry. As the the boat slowed and dropped anchor, those stingrays continued to fly in from all directions. I became somewhat nervous.

Soon everyone was happily rushing into the water. Mums, dads, five-year-olds were all leaping in without a second thought. I was having that second thought.

“Haven’t they heard of Steve Irwin?”

I forced myself into the water, begging A to stay close. As soon as I was in, the panic started in earnest and A found himself used as a human shield against the stingrays. I watched in horror as these things rushed up to people in search of food, and then slimed their way up people’s arms, chests and even the face of one small child.

Our guide began his spiel on how safe and how tame the stingrays were. I wasn’t listening. I was keeping me eyes peeled for the wayward ray that would surely leap out of the water and smother me at any given moment.

Suddenly the guide was gesturing to me. “You want to hold him?” he said, offering me the stingray he was practically cuddling.

Do I what? I don’t think so mate. Not on your bloody life do I want that thing flapping about in my arms.

Others went forward to hold the “tame” stingray. A began feeding some of the others, and I hovered in the middle of the sandbar yelping any time a stingray wafted in my direction. In the end I gave up, this was not fun. I climbed back on the boat and watched from a distance, secretly hoping that one ray would turn rogue and thereby justify my cowardice.

One girl came back on the boat briefly and saw me. “You get used to it,” she said sympathetically.

I narrowed my eyes at her. Personally, I don’t think having a 1.5m wide marine animal slime its way up my arms, neck and face is something I actually need to get used to.

When it comes to admiring marine life, from now on I’m just sticking to the fish.

Casa Correy; the best place on Grand Cayman.

I think there comes a point in every extended holiday where you are reminded just how much you miss the small comforts of home. You start to remember just how good a hot shower is, how good it is to curl up in a decent bed, how good it is to flop on the couch and watch tv.

For me, that point came in Cayman Island, when we walked through the doors of the home of the Suzanne and James Correy. Tired and a bit worn down from Cuba, we whispered together as they let us settle into the guest room.

“This is the best bed in the world.” “We can actually flush the toilet paper down the loo.” “We don’t have to share a bathroom.” “Can we stay here forever?”

I could rave on about the stunning beaches, the snorkelling and the kayaking tours we enjoyed while we were on the island. But for me the best thing about the island was Suzanne, James, Jack and their home. After so many months of travelling it was an unexpected treat to be invited to stay, and to have such hospitality shown to us.

It was wonderful to be able to sleep past 10 without worrying about checkout times, to be able to lie motionless in front of a tv for a few hours, to be able to eat home-cooked dinners, to play with two-year-olds, to be able to chat to mates over a glass of really good wine. Really good wine and I now lay my growing taste for red wine squarely at James’ feet. He does not realise the damage that may come from this….

And there was an added bonus: they had a poodle. A small black poodle called Astro to be more exact. Those that know me well will understand why I lost the plot over this dog. I don’t think her little feet touched the ground in the five days we were there. I even convinced her to sleep on the bed with me one night – though I’m not sure A was too happy about that. He usually has to fight me for space, that night he was fighting me and Astro for space (for a small dog she sure does know how to spread out).

A in the meantime was the real hit with Jack. After meeting us for all of a day, Jack was cuddling A and asking if he could have a shower with him. We left it to James to explain why that probably wasn’t appropriate.

It was a bit of resignation that we went back to our travels and back to the world of lumpy pillows and lukewarm showers. Not that I’m expecting a resounding chorus of sympathy from the masses, but it was damn hard to get back into the travelling mindset after those five days with the Correys.

A trip to the doctor

I can’t mention the trip to Cuba without also mentioning CJ’s accident. I mention it because in the past I’ve heard so much about the grand Cuban health system – I’m sure we all have – but what I saw was nothing like this.

The smallest stumble on the cobblestone streets of Trinidad left her with a dislocated and fractured little toe. A nearby taxi whisked us to the clinic, where after waiting for a short time, we were taken by ambulance to a home where the local doctor was on a house call. In the back of an ambulance he re-located the toe and sent us on to the hospital for an x-ray.

And it was here that I saw so many contradictions. The doctors were clearly well trained, and knew what they were doing, but yet the setting in which they were doing it left a lot to be desired. It was a concrete building with peeling pink paint, with a semi-open air waiting room that had only concrete slab benches. A visit to one of the bathrooms on one of the wards left me really surprised – no running water.

The radiologist that saw CJ was kind, polite and efficient. We were into the radiology suite – decked out with the most modern equipment – in less than 15 minutes of arriving, which would be record-breaking time back in Australia. The films came back, confirmed the fracture, and then CJ’s poor foot was bandaged up, and we were on our way back to the first clinic to pay for the treatment.

Here again, another surprise for us. When we asked for crutches for CJ, we could only get one, not two. Puzzled, we took what we could get. And then on the way back to the guesthouse where we were staying, with CJ in the back, the ambulance driver started trying to convince me to stay at the guesthouse he ran. He said he would waive the ambulance fee of $20 if we went to stay with him, except moving at this point was really not an option for us. So we paid – only to find out later from the clinic that the ambulances shouldn’t charge a fee. Cheeky sod.

Anyway the bigger problem for CJ only having one crutch. How does one walk with a broken foot and one crutch? Well, you don’t. You hop for a bit and then find other modes of transport. And so for next few days we flagged down all manner of passing transport for CJ; a horse, a horse & cart, a motorbike and taxis. There was also a very friendly waiter who carried her in his arms for a spell, and of course Alex, who piggy-backed her around for a day.

We went back to the hospital for one more check-up, and at that point CJ was able to buy a second crutch, which helped a bit for walking short distances. Interestingly, back at our guesthouse we spoke to the owner about the problem of crutches. Turns out while CJ had to pay about $75 convertible pesos for the pair of them, so too would any Cuban. Which sounds just fine, until you realise the average Cuban wage is $25 convertible pesos a month. If you break your leg and you’re not able to front up three months salary for a pair of crutches, seems it’s just hard luck. Or perhaps its off to the black market to see what can be found.

Incidentally, this $25 wage is the same earned by most Cubans, including the doctors. They may earn marginally more, but not much. They are trained and then employed by the state, and apparently that amount is quite sufficient for their doctors. With tips, waiters are able to earn more than this, and we heard a few stories of doctors chucking it in to become waiters.

All of this left me wondering just how good the Cuban health system really is. I’m sure it works fairly well for the important heads of state and perhaps also rich foreigners who wish to have treatments at the major Havana hospitals, but what of the ordinary Cubans out in the regions? Once again, I was reminded of just how good things are back at home.

Cuba…well it’s complicated…

Where to start? Where to start? To wax lyrical about the splendour of Cuba would be to underestimate the level frustration and general annoyance I felt on a daily basis fending off the touts in Havana. To write it off as a country full of nothing more than con-men would be to underestimate the delight I felt while dancing at the salsa bars, hiking through the forests or swimming at the beaches. I guess the most honest description would be to say Cuba is an astonishingly beautiful country, but you need patience and a sense of humour to travel there.

Havana is a wonderful place to explore. It’s in a state of elegant decay, with its grand buildings plainly showing the toll of time. But there is still beauty to be found here, mostly down the side streets and alleyways of Old Havana. Here there is a litany of bars, art galleries, museums and restaurants where you can happily lose days. I took great delight in knocking back $3 mojitos at La Bodeguita del Medio the same bar frequented by one Ernest Hemmingway. I was hoping that by some feat of time-travelling osmosis, some of his literary genuis may have rubbed off on me. But so far, it seems not.

The other Havana highlight for me was the elegantly quirky Playing Card Museum, where more than 2000 cards are displayed. Decks decorated in all kinds of manner were pinned up around the rooms – my favourite being the pack that was adorned with 1980s pop idols. George Michael never looked so good.

And of course there were the cars. The grand old 1950s American cars that patrol the streets are a tourist attraction within themselves. They look fantastic, to the point where even a reserved person like myself couldn’t help but drape oneself across them and pose for photographs. The cars have been maintained well, on the outside at least, with bright paint-jobs that have usually been polished to a high gleam. Driving down the highways in of these babies to the beach was pure joy.

But while the city was bustling, it was also exhausting. With every Cuban now after the tourist currency – convertible peso – it feels like everyone is after your money. You can’t walk 10 metres in Havana without someone trying to offer you a taxi, a horse-ride, cigars or food. There are also plenty of scams about. Cubans will “befriend” you in the street, try and convince you to go along to a “salsa festival” or a “cigar festival”, in the hope of getting you to set foot in their friend’s bar, shop or restaurant. We learned the hard way that if you do set foot in these places, you’ll end up paying for it, either in massive service charges, or commissions. We also heard stories of extra drinks being placed on bills. In the end, every time a Cuban approached me I instantly assumed I was about to be taken for a ride, and almost always tried to politely fob them off instead of listening to them. Which was actually a little sad. But I know I’m not the only one who felt this way.

Out of Havana there were much less touts, which is why I enjoyed Trinidad and Viñales so much more. Trinidad – or at least the centre of it – was like a town preserved in time. The cobblestone streets were lined with gorgeous colonial houses in pinks, blues and yellows, which made strolling through the place a great way to spend time.

My favourite place here was the Casa de la Musica, a small bar on the steps of the town square that played salsa all afternoon. In the evenings it was the place to be, a place where locals showed the crowds of tourists just how salsa was done. I was told by one local that “Salsa is in the blood of Cubans”. Standing here, watching the locals step and twirl with the music, I could well believe it. They were fantastic to watch. After a few mojitos I was happy to give the salsa a try, and found though I wasn’t entirely incompetent, I certainly could not swing my hips like the Cubans. And yet they made it look so easy!

What did surprise me about Cuba was the natural beauty of the place. I had heard much about the bars and jazz clubs of Cuba, but nothing about the beaches and national parks. The beaches were the perfect stereotype of a Caribbean beach. Long stretches of soft white sands lined with palm trees, while the sea is best described as tranquil pale blue waters. Fruit and coconut vendors walked the beach, along with the odd pizza vendor. If that didn’t take your fancy, then you only needed walk a few metres to a beach-side bar selling good food and strong mojitos. As I said, the perfect stereotype.

Travelling in Cuba is a unique and beautiful country and I’m so glad I ended up experiencing it. I do think everyone should go at least once, and soon, because there are growing calls for reforms within the country, and I think eventually the Castro regime will have to give some ground. When that happens, I don’t think the Cuba that I saw will continue to exist. Within the next 10 years I’m willing to bet that Havana will have its first McDonalds and probably a Starbucks next door, and the quirks (even the frustrating ones) that make this country what it is will be ironed out.

When is a church not a church?

I’ve stepped inside many a church in my time. Living so close to continental Europe for so many years I was lucky enough to see many of the grandest churches going around – The Vatican, Notre Dame, Berlin Cathedral. I’ve even be known to bow my head and offer a prayer of thanks (though I’m still not entirely convinced anyone was listening).

However, I’ve never been so delighted to step inside a church as I was went I visited the Catholic Church of San Juan Chamula. It’s in a Mayan village, just outside the Mexican town of San Cristobal (which is worth a visit just to look at the ambar in the jewellery stores – amazing stuff).

On the outside, San Juan is a very very ordinary and rather run down Catholic Church. Anything but impressive. However, I now absolutely adore this church.

When you step inside however you quickly see this is no ordinary Catholic Church. Sunshine pours in through the windows, on to a concrete floors which is void of any pews or any place to sit. Instead the floor is covered in masses of pine needles and lumps of wax, from the hundreds of tiny candles that are stuck to the floor. Bunches and bunches of marigolds are placed at the feet of the icons of various saints, along with the odd shot of mezcal and packet of cigarettes. To top it off, our guide reassured me that mass hasn’t been said here in more than 30 years.

It is the most un-church like church I’ve ever been inside. Our Mayan guide tried to explain how this place came to be, and how the Mayan belief system has reconciled itself with Christianity. I really hope I don’t mangle the Mayan beliefs of the local people in my summary…. When the Spanish came to this town they razed the existing Mayan temple, a place of offering to the Mayan Gods. In its place they built the Catholic Church, and began preaching this new religion. But the Mayan attitude to the introducted religion was perhaps unexpected by the Spanish; it went something like this:

“We have heard about your God. You revere your God like we revere our Gods. You pray to your God like we pray to our Gods. Your God is the source of all light and life, as are our Gods. In our minds, they are equal. They are the same. The temple you razed was a place of offering, the church you built is also a church of offering. We may use the name of your God, and kneel in your church, but it really makes no difference what we call him or where we kneel, because they are the same. We will always be worshipping our Gods.”

Like the temple that stood before it, it remains a place of offering. Along with offering prayers to Mayan and Christian Gods, the Maya people come here for traditional healing. So local shaman come here to conduct ceremonies which involve rubbing eggs on peoples’ bodies and sometimes even the sacrifice of a chickens. So here, in this tiny town, is a Catholic Church which is barely a church at all.

I love this church, I love knowing that places like this have survived, and that the descendants of this conquered race can still find ways to keep their culture alive.