"You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown, that reveals you with yourself." - Ella Maillart
I have been to Flores before. On this tiny island in the lake — wound up in the central-most of its few streets — I have been in this very hostel before too. Almost exactly a year before I came here with a friend from Brooklyn half-way through a trans-Central American journey. Here the travelers' paths (lovingly coined the gringo trails) split into two common directions: 1) north-east through Tikal and on to Belize or 2) south to Semuc Champey and on to Honduras.
I hadn't intended to come back because, well, I'd already "done it", so to speak. And what I hadn't done the previous year was Semuc Champey. The promise of those seven magical, glittering waterfalls — that every vagabond had raved about after we had committed to Path 1 — has brought me back to Guatemala determined to get there so directly that I've made many missteps in my rush.
Deep down I know that the art of traveling is to flow from one place to the next. To move like a bead of water down the rocks, pooling where you are welcomed and trickling out where it is full. But what I know to do and what I can do don't always align. I'm stuck, stubborn, and starting to think I shouldn't be traveling. My body is depleted from the mysterious tropical fever back in Mexico. My spirit is broken because I allowed other people's opinions of me (my whiteness, my nationality, my motives) to define this journey, rather than just the experience of it. And mostly I'm completely lost about how to reset that.
So I will see the goddam gleaming falls of Semuc Champey, buy a ticket back to America, and be done with it.