On the 'sweet river' guatemala
By Solange Hando. Solange is a professional travel journalist and photographer, editor, public speaker and facilitator. She has contributed to National Geographic and Reader's Digest travel books and published features in 96 titles worldwide. She travels widely but her specialist subjects are Bhutan, where she attended the coronation, Nepal and France. She is a member of the British Guild of Travel Writers, Travel Writers UK and the International Travel Writers Alliance. Her latest book, 'Be a Travel Writer, Live your Dreams, Sell your Features' has been endorsed by Hilary Bradt (founder of the Bradt travel guides) and best selling author Simon Whaley. Search for Solange Hando at http://www.amazon.co.uk
Nymfa III, Nymfa V, what happened to Nymfa IV, I wonder, checking out the boats along the quay.
'Don't know, madame, you get in this one.'
It doesn't seem such an auspicious start but I ease myself into place, bags and all, as gracefully as I can, just as the heavens open. We had been warned: the Rio Dulce is one of the wettest places in Guatemala and you'd be lucky indeed to escape. 'Never mind, must be welcome rain,' I think as I pull a corner of the thick plastic sheeting right up to my nose.
The engine roars and we set off at full speed, bumping on the waves in stinging rain and blinding spray, not quite what I expected on the Sweet River but short of jumping in, there's no turning back. I guess the Rio Dulce has to make the most of it with just 27 miles from its source in Izabal, the largest lake in Guatemala, to the Caribbean Sea.
But right now, the so-called Dulce river feels like an ocean in gale force wind. I can barely see the mountains drifting through the mist and the odd fisherman's skiff soon vanishes out of sight.
'Don't know, madame, you get in this one.'
It doesn't seem such an auspicious start but I ease myself into place, bags and all, as gracefully as I can, just as the heavens open. We had been warned: the Rio Dulce is one of the wettest places in Guatemala and you'd be lucky indeed to escape. 'Never mind, must be welcome rain,' I think as I pull a corner of the thick plastic sheeting right up to my nose.
The engine roars and we set off at full speed, bumping on the waves in stinging rain and blinding spray, not quite what I expected on the Sweet River but short of jumping in, there's no turning back. I guess the Rio Dulce has to make the most of it with just 27 miles from its source in Izabal, the largest lake in Guatemala, to the Caribbean Sea.
But right now, the so-called Dulce river feels like an ocean in gale force wind. I can barely see the mountains drifting through the mist and the odd fisherman's skiff soon vanishes out of sight.
But what's that?
The engine slows down almost to a standstill. We turn into a narrow channel where water lilies nod on emerald waters and egrets drape the trees like giant snowflakes. A jacana tiptoes on lily leaves, a turtle heads into the mangrove and two girls in a canoe hijack the boat to barter beads and bangles for hard cash. We escape for a dip in the steaming hot spring along the shore, hoping this might be the end of the journey but not so.
The engine slows down almost to a standstill. We turn into a narrow channel where water lilies nod on emerald waters and egrets drape the trees like giant snowflakes. A jacana tiptoes on lily leaves, a turtle heads into the mangrove and two girls in a canoe hijack the boat to barter beads and bangles for hard cash. We escape for a dip in the steaming hot spring along the shore, hoping this might be the end of the journey but not so.
'Back on board, bad weather, life jackets please…'
I guess better late than never so I follow suite, struggling with it all, hood, poncho, plastic sheet which I promptly lose and red jacket, bulging out in every direction like some sort of oversized monster.
The rain returns with a vengeance until we reach the Livingston canyon where cliffs tower high above and the river meanders like a lost soul on its way to the sea. Bump, bump and more bumps, a life jacket flies overboard, promptly disappearing in our wake. Luckily there's no one inside. The cormorants drying their wings take no notice at all, it probably happens every day.
Then the shipwrecks appear, rusty broken up things half in half out of the water where ghostly pelicans perch on the prow. Sends a shiver down my spine.
'What's the little birds on the water?' I ask, to take my mind off things.
'Not birds, madame, plastic bottles so fishermen can find their nets, recycling's good…'
I guess better late than never so I follow suite, struggling with it all, hood, poncho, plastic sheet which I promptly lose and red jacket, bulging out in every direction like some sort of oversized monster.
The rain returns with a vengeance until we reach the Livingston canyon where cliffs tower high above and the river meanders like a lost soul on its way to the sea. Bump, bump and more bumps, a life jacket flies overboard, promptly disappearing in our wake. Luckily there's no one inside. The cormorants drying their wings take no notice at all, it probably happens every day.
Then the shipwrecks appear, rusty broken up things half in half out of the water where ghostly pelicans perch on the prow. Sends a shiver down my spine.
'What's the little birds on the water?' I ask, to take my mind off things.
'Not birds, madame, plastic bottles so fishermen can find their nets, recycling's good…'
The fishermen of course have plenty of competition, frigate, green heron, ibis, greater egret and more. A man holds up a freshly caught crab and a pair of scales just in case we want lunch then the first ramshackle huts of Livingston splash colour along the banks while the mighty breakers of the Caribbean Sea beckon on the horizon. But not for us. Come rain or shine, we have to return to our starting point, rolling along on the not so sweet Rio Dulce…
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