The Long Way North – Guatemala City to Mexico

Looks easy on a map, doesn’t it? About 1,500 kilometers, give or take. A nice straight line pointing north.

In reality? It’s a slog through dirt roads that’ll rattle your teeth loose, heat that makes you question every life choice that brought you here, and bus rides so long you start wondering if the driver’s just making laps for fun.

Welcome to Central America, where distance and time have a relationship that can only be described as “complicated.”

Broke and Heading North

So here I am in Guatemala City, freshly robbed and finally done dealing with bureaucratic nightmares. I’ve got my flight booked – Mérida to Puerto Rico – and I’ve picked up the $400 my mother wired through the embassy. Four hundred bucks that the embassy official handed over like I was some deadbeat asking for a handout instead of a citizen who got his shit stolen.

Thanks, Mom. No thanks to Swiss diplomatic hospitality.

I’m supposed to meet my Spanish girlfriend in Puerto Rico in a month. One month. Time I’ve got. Money? Not so much. Four hundred dollars to get from Guatemala City to Mexico’s Yucatán coast.

Travel writers would call this “authentic” or “off the beaten path.” I call it traveling broke and hoping nothing else goes wrong.

The plan is simple enough: head northeast through Guatemala, cut through Belize, follow the Mexican coast up to Cancún where Lora a Mexican friend lives with her two boys and then make my way to Mérida for the flight.

Simple. On paper.

Poptun – Paradise with Pigs

First stop: Poptun, about 380 kilometers northeast. The road is technically paved, though whoever paved it apparently learned the trade from someone who’d only heard paving described over a bad phone connection.

Ten hours on a bus. Ten goddamn hours for 380 kilometers.

Do the math. That’s barely 40 kilometers an hour. You could probably bicycle faster if you were in decent shape.

But Poptun’s supposed to be worth it. My guidebook talks it up, and every backpacker I’ve met has that dreamy look when they mention it. “Oh man, Poptun. That finca. So cool, dude.”

In backpacker-speak, this could mean anything from “legitimate paradise” to “they had a working toilet.”

Turns out, it actually lives up to the hype.

The finca sits right at the edge of the jungle, run by this American couple who look about forty and have that whole “we dropped out of civilization and found ourselves” thing going on. The guy’s got this laid-back California energy, and his wife has this vibe like she could slaughter a pig, cure the meat, and still have time to bake you organic bread before dinner.

The accommodations are what you’d call rustic if you’re being generous, or “glorified camping” if you’re being honest. It’s basically a hut with walls made of lashed-together branches – you can see right through them, feel every breeze, hear every sound. Privacy is a theoretical concept here. The roof’s made of palm fronds, which at least keeps the rain off. Mostly.

Inside there’s a wooden table, some chairs, and a big open space for hammocks. You bring your own or rent one. I’ve got mine – a backpacker without a hammock is like a Swiss person without a pocket knife, simply unthinkable

The hut’s round, so when you’re lying in your hammock, which is suspended along the wall, you are about a foot away from the wall. Perfect for sleeping, less perfect when something with claws starts scratching around outside at 3 AM and you remember those walls are basically decorative.

I settle in and check out the place. They’ve got the full farm setup – donkeys, cows, pigs, chickens running around like they own the place. You can help out with chores if you want. I opt for the “thanks but no thanks” approach, which nobody seems to mind.

Evenings are communal – everyone cooks and eats together. You get to know your fellow travelers pretty quick: there’s a German couple who won’t shut up about sustainability while drinking beer from plastic bottles; an Australian guy who’s apparently memorized every page of the Lonely Planet and likes to prove it; a French woman with tarot cards who reads your future whether you ask for it or not.

I hang around for three days. Do a cave tour, mostly just lounge around and shoot the shit with people. Honestly? It’s great. One of those places where you could see yourself staying longer if you had the time and money.

Which I don’t.

The Dark Side of Paradise

Side note, and this one’s grim: a years later, I’m back in Guatemala City, crashing at the same old pension I always stay. Some guy there tells me he tried to visit the finca in Poptun. Tried being the operative word.

It doesn’t exist anymore.

The story he heard – and who knows if it’s true, but it’s the story making the rounds – is that the American owner got mixed up in local politics. Or pissed off the wrong people. Something. The details are fuzzy, but the ending isn’t: he was murdered. Beheaded, supposedly.

I don’t know if it actually happened that way. Guatemala’s the kind of place where rumors spread like wildfire and the truth gets lost in the smoke. But true or not, it shook me.

You spend a few days in these little pockets of paradise and forget how fragile they are. How quickly things can go sideways when you’re a foreigner playing around in places you don’t fully understand.

Flores – Colonial Postcard on a Lake

From Poptun it’s another hundred kilometers north to Flores, perched on an island in Lake Petén Itzá. Hundred kilometers, five hours. At this point I’m not even surprised anymore.

I’m pretty sure you could crawl faster.

Flores is picture-perfect – cobblestone streets, pastel houses with wooden balconies, old churches that look like they’ve been slowly crumbling for the last three centuries. The whole place has that faded colonial charm that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a Gabriel García Márquez novel. Slightly magical, slightly run-down, very photogenic.

It’s starting to show up on the tourist radar, but so far it’s still mostly backpackers – the kind who wash their socks in sinks and think $5 a night is a splurge.

I find a little guesthouse run by this older woman who could teach a masterclass in hospitality. The building’s all wood with high ceilings and this big terrace overlooking the lake. Very colonial, very comfortable. Lake Petén Itzá stretches out below, flat and glittering like hammered silver in the afternoon sun.

The breakfast she cooks every morning is killer. Fresh fruit, eggs, handmade tortillas, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. The kind of meal that makes you think maybe you should just stay here forever and forget about the rest of your travel plans.

I stay three days. Not forever, but long enough to poke around.

The landscape’s interesting in a depressing sort of way – pretty much everything’s been clear-cut. You can see jungle way off in the distance like a green wall on the horizon, but around town it’s all secondary growth and scrub. Still green, still tropical, but you can tell this used to be something else. The lake itself is beautiful though – calm, clear, little fishing boats drifting around.

Small World Syndrome

One evening I’m walking down by the lake and spot two women, backpackers obviously, sitting in the Gras, looking out at the water. I wander over to chat – solo traveler instinct, always looking for conversation.

As I get closer, one of them jumps up and shouts my name.

I freeze. She’s running toward me.

It’s Sandra. Sandra from ninth grade. From Switzerland. From a school I went to literally half a world away.

I stand there looking like a complete moron, unable to form words. Finally I manage: “What the actual fuck are you doing here?”

She’s laughing. “I could ask you the same thing!”

I mean, what are the odds? Out of all the towns, in all the countries in the World, I walk up to a person in Flores, Guatemala, and run into someone I sat next to in math class in Bern when I was fourteen.

The universe has a weird sense of humor.

Sandra’s traveling around Guatemala with her friend Ursula for a few weeks. We grab dinner, hang out the next day, trade travel stories – the kind of conversation you can only have when you randomly bump into someone from your old life while you’re both pretending to be adventurous.

The world’s a lot smaller than you think.

Tikal – Indiana Jones Was Right

The main reason I’m taking this route is seventy kilometers north of Flores: Tikal. The Mayan ruins. World-famous, bucket-list stuff.

The road up there is brutal. Still unpaved, more potholes than actual road. Seventy kilometers that take forever. The bus bounces and lurches like it’s trying to shake itself apart. Every jolt goes straight up your spine. I’m sitting next to this old guy who somehow sleeps through the whole thing, head bobbing around like a dashboard ornament. I want whatever zen technique he’s using.

This is 1988, and the area’s still pretty undeveloped. I’m guessing by now there’s a proper highway, hotels, tour buses, the works. Back then it was just jungle and dust and the occasional village that looked like it had been there since the old Mayans were still around.

But then you get to Tikal, and suddenly none of it matters.

Holy shit, what a place.

The ruins sprawl across kilometers of rainforest. Most of it’s still unexcavated – you see these green hills everywhere, and you know there are ancient structures buried underneath, waiting. The whole place feels alive with secrets nobody’s dug up yet.

The temples themselves are staggering. Massive stone pyramids punching through the jungle canopy, some of them shockingly well-preserved considering they’ve been sitting here for over a thousand years. Back in ’88 you could still climb everything, including the tall temples. I’m sure that’s banned now – liability, preservation, all that modern killjoy stuff.

But in 1988? Hell yeah, I’m climbing up.

The steps are steep, narrow, worn smooth by centuries of feet. You have to grab the sides to haul yourself up, and more than once I think, “This is stupid. People definitely died doing this.” But then I reach the top and I’m standing above the rainforest canopy, looking out over this endless ocean of green. Other temple tops stick up like islands. Howler monkeys are screaming somewhere in the distance – they sound like dinosaurs, it’s unsettling. A toucan flies past, close enough that I can see every color on that ridiculous beak.

There aren’t really words for it. “Impressive” is too weak. “Awesome” in the original sense, maybe, but even that doesn’t quite capture it. It’s just… big. Ancient. Powerful. Like standing in a place where you can feel the weight of time pressing down.

I spend the entire day there, wandering between temples, sitting on stone steps that were old when Columbus was still a kid, listening to the jungle breathe. It’s one of those places that gets under your skin, changes something in you even if you can’t articulate what.

Onward to Belize – Moving Fast

After Tikal it’s back on the bus heading for the Belize border at Melchor de Mencos.

The border crossing is refreshingly simple. No questions, just stamps. Exit Guatemala, enter Belize. Bored official who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. I get it, buddy.

On the Belize side I switch buses again and head for Belize City.

My plan is to blast through Belize as fast as possible. Two reasons: first, I’m running low on cash and can’t afford to play tourist. Second, Lora’s waiting in Cancún and I’ve been on the road long enough.

It’s not that Belize doesn’t look interesting – it does. World’s second-largest barrier reef, gorgeous islands, all that. But you can’t do everything, especially when you’re traveling on fumes and $400.

Maybe next time.

Belize City – One Night Stand (With a City)

First thing that hits you: the demographic shift. Right after the Guatemala border it’s still mostly Latino, but the closer you get to the coast, the more it changes. By Belize City, the population’s predominantly Black. And everyone’s speaking English – well, Creole, which is this melodic, musical version of English that takes my brain a second to process. It’s like English with Caribbean flavor.

Feels like I’ve suddenly jumped to a different part of the world entirely. Which, I guess I have.

I roll into Belize City after dark and head straight for a hotel my guidebook mentions. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and cheap, which is the entire criteria at this point.

I only stay one night. Would’ve liked to explore more – check out the coast, maybe hit some of those islands everyone raves about. But the budget says no, and Lora’s waiting.

Next morning, back to the bus station. North through Belize toward Chetumal on the Mexican border.

Belize City to Chetumal: 160 kilometers, five hours.

I’m not even going to comment anymore. This is just how things work down here.

Chetumal and the Home Stretch

Chetumal’s a border town – busy, chaotic, full of hustlers and buses and people trying to get somewhere else. I spend one day and night there, just enough to rest and count what’s left of my money.

Spoiler: not much.

Then it’s back on the road, hugging the coast north toward Cancún. 380 kilometers. Eight hours.

The Yucatán Peninsula is flat as hell. Sometimes there are gentle hills, but mostly it’s just endless. Not exactly scenic. Dry forest stretches in every direction – low, scrubby, thorny vegetation broken up by cenotes, those weird limestone sinkholes the Maya considered sacred. Further northwest it gets even more sparse, almost savanna-like. Open and harsh under the brutal sun.

The forest here is nothing like the Petén. Not lush, not towering. Just tough and scrappy, the kind of ecosystem that survives rather than thrives.

But it’s got a certain charm, in a stark, unforgiving sort of way.

Cancún – Finally, a Friendly Face

After a stop at Tulum I stumble into Cancún completely wiped out. My $400 is basically gone, but it doesn’t matter anymore because Lora’s here with her two boys and I can crash with them.

After days of sketchy buses, cheap hotels, and constantly calculating if I can afford to eat today, it’s good to just arrive somewhere and have someone waiting. That feeling of not being alone anymore, even if it’s temporary.

I stay with Lora until my flight to Puerto Rico.

A few days before I’m supposed to leave, we pile into her beat-up car and drive from Cancún through Valladolid to Mérida and then on to Progreso on the coast.

Cancún to Progreso: 345 kilometers, five hours in a car that sounds like it’s held together with duct tape and optimism. The drive cuts through flat country, endless dry forest and scrubland. Every so often a cenote flashes by between the trees – these bright blue pools that look almost artificial against all the brown and green.

Lora’s got this little house in Progreso where she used to live with her ex-husband, the father of her kids. The house sits right on the beach, and at night the only sound is waves hitting sand.

We spend a few days there doing absolutely nothing. Lying on the beach, swimming, not thinking about what comes next. After the last few weeks of constant motion, it’s exactly what I need.

End of the Road (For Now)

Then it’s time.

Flight to Puerto Rico. Next chapter of whatever this journey is.

But that’s a different story.