Off the Trans-Mexico Trail in Guatemala
Antigua and Livingstone, Guatemala
and return to Colorado
March 14 — 21, 2025
Day 30-32, Livingston Trip
March 14–16, 2025
Alright, so last Friday around lunchtime, once Leslie Karina wrapped up her final Spanish class for the week (phew!), the four of us piled into Marco’s trusty Kia SUV—that’s Leslie, yours truly, and her awesome parents, Marco and Andu—and pointed the nose towards Rio Dulce. Now, Google Maps, bless its little digital heart, claimed a breezy six-and-a-half-hour cruise. Ha! More like a ten-hour odyssey punctuated by the thrilling spectacle of four separate traffic mishaps slowing us down. We did manage a couple of pit stops for grub and leg-stretching, though, gotta keep the human engine running.
Eventually, we rolled up to our hotel, “Bruno’s,” only to find the gate looking all “no trespassing” with a big ol’ lock. Marco gave the horn a friendly “beep beep,” and this night watchman ambled over to let us in. He handed over the keys to a couple of second-floor rooms – one for yours truly, the other a love nest for Leslie and her folks. Fair enough.
Come Saturday morning, I woke up with the sun’s first peep around six AM, sniffed out the coffee situation (priorities, people!), and soon we located our designated boat captain, Eduardo, and his trusty vessel. We shoved off towards Livingston around seven thirty. Eduardo, bless his optimistic soul, said it was an hour trip. Cut to three hours later, after a delightful breakfast detour and some seriously laid-back sightseeing, and finally we docked in Livingston. Time flies when you’re… not making good time.
And then, BAM! We’re greeted at the dock by this super enthusiastic dude with a big smile, “Bienvenidos a Africa!” Seriously, it felt like we’d hopped over to a whole different continent. Turns out, Livingston is home to the Garifuna community, who are descendants of escaped slaves from St. Vincent in the Caribbean. Their history’s got a few twists and turns, and they’ve also set up shop in Belize and Honduras. Their language, Garifuna, is this cool mix of African languages, English, and surprisingly, not a whole lot of Spanish. Go figure!
So, we moseyed our way up into Livingston proper, which was your classic small-town vibe with eateries and shops lining the street. Eventually, our internal compass (and maybe a helpful local or two) guided us to a sweet white sand beach. We plopped down, soaked up the sun, and generally tried to look like we knew how to “enjoy the ambiance,” whatever that really means. Pretty sure I just looked like a pasty dude trying not to get sunburned.
A couple of hours of peak relaxation later, we somehow managed to retrace our steps back to Eduardo and his trusty water taxi. The return voyage was blessedly speedier, although we did make a pit stop at Castillo San Felipe, this old fortress near Rio Dulce. Figured a little history lesson would be good for the soul, plus they had a restaurant, so, you know, priorities. Lunch with a view of ancient ramparts? Don’t mind if I do!
Finally, we were back in the car, peeling out of Rio Dulce around three in the afternoon. For a hot minute there, it looked like we might actually hit that nine PM home arrival time. Famous last words, right? Nope. Just one teensy-weensy, probably-involved-a-tractor-trailer-and-a-small-country accident (all cleared by the time we got there, thankfully, no rubbernecking from us!) added a casual three-hour delay to our grand plan. We finally stumbled back home sometime after midnight, feeling like we’d run a marathon… in a car.
Sunday was apparently a huge deal for Semana Santa, which, it turns out, isn’t just a week – it’s a whole five or six weeks of holy parades leading up to Easter. Talk about commitment! I tagged along with Leslie’s parents to mass, followed by lunch at this super popular, old-school restaurant called Riconcito Antigüeño.
Then, to experience the full religious fervor, we staked out a spot to watch one of these epic processions. But first, Marco gave me the grand tour of the Hotel Santo Domingo, which is built around the ruins of an old monastery. Seriously swanky place, probably the best (and definitely the “ouch, my wallet” at $300 a night) hotel in Antigua.
After the parade of saints and solemnity rolled by, we slowly made our way to the central plaza, where we met up with Leslie, Andrés, and the extended family crew. And then came the highlight: I got to try on the actual monk robes that Andrés wore while carrying the massive float of Christ with the cross. Naturally, a hilarious photo of me and Esteban ensued. Proof that even amidst holy celebrations, there’s always room for a goofy tourist moment.
Day 33 Antigua
March 17, 2025
So, late in the tarde, Andrés drove Leslie and me over to Antigua, and the first thing we did was hit up that big yellow convento, Iglesia Merced. We went up to the techo and checked out the views of the city. Pretty cool.
After that, we went to this fancy restaurante called Aqua Antigua, and first we went up these stone stairs to the open-air bar on the techo. Leslie and I ordered postre and smoothies. After a bit, Andrés joined us and ordered a shot of tequila, and then, ¡qué sorpresa!, Jessica, our Mayan Kaqchikel teacher, showed up. We had a really nice conversación and decided to meet up on Zoom Thursday noche after I’ll be back in Colorado.
Later, back at the casa, we celebrated the two cumpleaños of me and Marco, who both turn seventy next month. I got some cool regalos, including a Team Antigua soccer shirt. The birthday pastel was an apple kucha. ¡Muy rico!
Day 34, Antigua, Día de los Bloqueados
March 18th, 2025
After my bike was all snug as a bug in its cardboard condo and sealed tighter than a drum, we settled in to watch the early stages of what looked like a full-on Guatemala City traffic apocalypse unfolding on the TV. Apparently, someone forgot to send the memo that “blockade” wasn’t a fun new party game. The city’s moto drivers had decided they didn’t want to obey el Presidente’s edict that they would have to insure their vehicles, so they were blocking all entradas to the city.
So, with a healthy dose of “oh boy, here we go,” we bravely set off for the airport around seven in the evening – plenty of cushion for my oh-so-convenient 12:45 AM flight, in a world where traffic flows and unicorns roam free. Cut to about ten miles shy of the airport, and BAM! We hit a wall of stationary vehicles. It was like the world decided to have a parking lot party, and everyone was invited except, you know, me and my rapidly approaching flight time.
As the minutes ticked by with the grace of a broken clock, I hopped on the American Airlines chat. Turns out, to get even a smidge of credit for this phantom flight, I had to cancel at least two hours before takeoff. So, around ten PM, with a sigh that could deflate a small bouncy castle, I pulled the plug on my airborne adventure. Surprisingly, around eleven PM, the traffic gods decided to show mercy, and things started moving. But let’s be real, I probably still wouldn’t have made it in time to awkwardly cram my oversized bike box onto the plane. So, with a collective “nope,” we executed a U-turn worthy of a Hollywood action movie (okay, maybe just a slightly panicked three-point turn).
This morning, I’m seeing some flight options for Friday, which is good news for my dreams of escaping Guatemala via air. I’m just waiting to nail down the best time with Leslie, who is currently wrangling a bunch of Spanish speakers on Zoom. Wouldn’t want to interrupt her linguistic wizardry with my urgent “when can I flee this traffic jam?” questions. Priorities, people, priorities.
Day 35-37, Guatemala and return to Colorado
March 19–21
Wednesday afternoon, the news came out that the government had caved and given in to the demands of the motorcycles, withdrawing the requirement for mandatory insurance. I had already booked a flight for Friday, shelling out an extra three hundred bucks on top of the credit I got for the flight I had to cancel. Ugh.
March 20th, I had two Zoom sessions in Spanish—one of which (Hola Spanish) Leslie was actually teaching. Pretty cool to see her in action.
Later that afternoon, Leslie walked with me to the cemetery and showed me her family’s mausoleum, including a memorial for her daughter Valentin, who passed away on the first day of her life. That was just heartbreaking.
Afterward, we walked over to the church and the central plaza of Ciudad Vieja. I really appreciated the chance to see it and get a better sense of this little town right next to Antigua, which is actually the first Spanish settlement in the country. We grabbed some grub at a Chinese restaurant and then had coffee and these sweet fried rolls. They were surprisingly good.
Today, Marco and Andrés drove me to the airport bright and early. We got there before ten AM for my one-fifty PM flight. Andrés helped me lug the bike box inside, and then I had to get it wrapped in plastic wrap, which set me back forty-eight dollars. Seriously? When they weighed the box, it was seventy-seven pounds, and since the max is seventy, I had to take off my rear bike pack to get it down to the limit. I checked the bike bag along with the bike box, so hopefully, it all makes it home. I sailed through customs, surprisingly, they didn’t even open the bike box. And the first-class flights all the way home? Definitely not complaining about that.
