Travel Photography > Isthmus > Peten, Guatemala

The Guatemalan landscape is ripe with agriculture; valleys of green, cattle and goats, roadside shanties, bordered always by taller swaths of jungle. We passed the monstrous Lago Peten Itza, a lake infused with sulphur so thick that the lake gives off the aquamarine of a shallow ocean. At the southern reaches of the Peten jungle, the farms recede and the jungle road becomes shrouded by tangle and dampness, noise and life, beating, moving - turkeys cruising, troops of Coati browsing.

This was the way to Tikal, where we hired fast-talking Miguel Asturias to guide us through the ruins. Miguel, measuring up at about five feet, was ferociously wiry, like a long-distance athlete. At forty-something with a crooked nose and worn skin, he appears as in shape as a mountain-climber.

Our walk began on a slight incline, into the Peten rainforest. My first impression - the world of the Mayans could quite possibly be the strangest environment of any of the ancient advanced civilizations. Was there anywhere in human history where man slashed and built in a place so dense, hot, humid, and filled with such oddly-colored things? The fact that crocodiles frequented the old water catch-basins here made it even more odd.

"It has to be impossible for the crocodile to get here," I told Miguel, "They are marine animals."
"No, not at all. A crocodile can smell a lake seventeen miles away. They can scour through the jungle. As one lake dries up, they push through to the next lake. The crocodile can move all over Mesoamerica."

I asked Miguel about the scar on his chest. "I was walking with four of my friends down the street. And we come around this corner and see that the police are executing these gang youths. We weren't supposed to see that. So the police decided to get rid of the evidence."

"So how did you escape?"

"They killed three of us. Only two of us made it alive. That was me and my cousin. They shot me in the chest, and I ran some ways and fell into the river. They thought I was dead, but they had to wait until day to retrieve my body."

"How come didn't they detect you?"

"I swam for a ways under water, and made it to out of their view. I had to remove the bullet. You know, I've only been to the doctor once. I learned to take care of myself. I went into the jungle, and then I moved my family into the mountains. I then crossed into Belize by the jungle because they were looking for me."
"How long did you stay there?"

"Until it was safe. I counted the days until I could see my wife. I did not see her for two-hundred and thirty two days. From Belize I contacted a refugee lawyer in Los Angeles. We were able to convict five of the seven police."

"And the other two?"

"I keep a close watch on them. They have been moved to another district. As long as they are there, my family is safe."

Miguel' story is not uncommon in Guatemala, where 36 years of civil war ended with a death-toll of 200,000. Most were Mayan Indians, like Miguel. I asked why.

"The Spanish-bloods have all the control. The Indians have no land, no education."

"So what about 1996?" I asked.

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