Walking the Americas Read online

  But most remarkable was that the population were all white-skinned Europeans, and what’s more, they were dressed like something out of a period drama.

  ‘Mennonites,’ scowled Alberto. ‘They’re all over the place in Central America. We have a few of them in Mérida. I never knew there were so many here, though.’

  This community at Spanish Lookout, it seems, were pretty well established. ‘They came from Germany originally. That’s why they dress like sixteenth-century farmers.’

  I looked at the women in their long dresses and bonnets as they strolled along carrying wicker baskets, and the men in their overalls and straw hats. Whole families trotted by in horse-drawn carriages, in perhaps the most surreal scene I could have imagined.

  ‘They sell melons and make cheese,’ said Alberto.

  The Mennonites – an ultra-conservative Christian denomination – left Germany in the 1600s, having become a persecuted minority. They went to Russia, where they could enjoy religious freedom. But in the early twentieth century, when the communists came to power, they fled in their thousands to the Americas. Many went to Canada, and groups like the Amish went to the USA. Yet more went to Mexico and from there found themselves in British Honduras, where land was plentiful and they could enjoy their freedom under a tolerant British administration. Nowadays, despite living in isolation up here in the highlands, they effectively kept Belize afloat.

  ‘They make millions with their massive farms,’ said Alberto, ‘but they still dress like hobos and never wash. I don’t get it.’

  A horse cart came past, and its ginger-bearded rider doffed his wide-brimmed straw hat as he passed.

  ‘They speak in German, too. But not modern German that we can understand, it’s some weird old language.’

  ‘There’s another one,’ Alberto whispered. ‘They all look the same, because they’re so inbred.’

  He was right. An almost identical-looking man was walking along the roadside carrying a huge watermelon under each arm.

  We waved and smiled to the Mennonites and at best they touched their caps, not a one would speak to us or even smile. We thought it best to carry on towards the town of San Ignacio. The shortest way, according to the map, was along a little farm track towards the Belize River.

  ‘Fancy a short cut?’ I asked Alberto.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied with his usual enthusiasm. ‘We can put our jungle skills to the test.’ I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  So we left the main road and followed what seemed to be a little trail through some fields. The grass was long and the meadow hadn’t been grazed in a while. It was very beautiful and the landscape reminded me a little of England on a summer’s day. Wildflowers grew up and the occasional gnarled tree stood testament to man’s selfishness. Even a hardy farmer needs shade from the sun. To the west, not far away at all now, I could see the rolling hills and mountains of Guatemala. I was excited by the journey ahead and even though the jungle had been hard work, I felt prepared and happy that Alberto had got through it.

  We had left the Mennonites behind, but we were still in the vast farmland areas, although the closer to the border we got, the rougher it became. It was deathly quiet and we hadn’t seen a soul for hours by the time we reached the banks of the river. There were a few farms dotted around and soon we found ourselves on private land.

  ‘We’re going to have to climb this fence,’ I told Alberto, ‘to get down to the river.’

  He shook his head. ‘I knew I’d have to do some illegal fence-climbing at some point. You just want to see the Mexican in action, don’t you? But because I’m Mexican doesn’t mean I should have to climb fences, you know!’ he said, with joking disdain. ‘Still, one day I may need to use these skills to get over Donald Trump’s wall if he gets elected.’

  Alberto hauled himself over the eight-foot fence, trying to avoid the barbed wire at the top, where he very nearly snagged his crown jewels.

  ‘Ouch!’ he wailed.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I told him. ‘We might get seen, and I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of a German’s shotgun.’

  We made our way down to the river. It had looked narrow on the map, but up close was a different matter. It was brown, dirty, and at least thirty metres wide.

  ‘And full of crocodiles,’ said Alberto. ‘What are we going to do now?’ he asked.

  ‘Swim across,’ I told him.

  ‘I thought you might say that.’

  The alternative was a six-mile detour to the nearest bridge at Santa Elena and neither of us fancied that. And anyway, the jungle had prepared us. We put our valuables in waterproof bags and swam with the current through the murky waters as fast as we could, in case there were indeed any crocodiles.

  Luckily, we made it in one piece, wet and covered in weeds, but in good humour.

  ‘Look at me!’ said Alberto. ‘It’s complete. Now I look like all the other wetbacks – that’s what the gringos call the illegals who swim across the border to get to the States.’

  We trudged up the far bank. There were more fences to scale, it seemed. And hedges, and walls. It wasn’t long before we realised we were inside someone’s private estate. We ambled like a pair of sodden tramps through an orange orchard and then, at last, out onto a perfectly manicured garden.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said, noticing that up ahead, in between us and the outskirts of the town, was a rather large, twelve-foot brick wall, covered in razor wire. It was topped off with broken glass and I saw at least three CCTV cameras. ‘Get back in the bushes,’ I whispered to Alberto. So we both retreated to the safety of a large rhododendron bush, where I reviewed the situation.

  ‘There’s a gate over there,’ said Alberto.

  ‘Yes, but it’ll probably be locked.’

  ‘What about the house?’ He pointed to a large white building surrounded by trees and yet more razor wire.

  ‘It looks like it belongs to a drug lord, never mind a Mennonite,’ I said.

  ‘It probably does. This region is the way all the drugs come on their way from Colombia.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘Shall we just run for it across the garden?’ Alberto asked.

  ‘No, there’s only one thing for it. Let’s just stroll over towards the gate and see what happens.’

  So we did. In situations like this, I’d found it best to be bold. If we sneaked around or ran looking suspicious, then we’d likely be arrested or shot, whereas at least if we strolled about we could play the ‘lost tourist’ card.

  We walked along the path towards the fence in the hope that we’d either find it unlocked and simply walk out and leave, or else get spotted by the owner of the white house, who could let us out. Halfway across the lawn, I noticed something over by the house on the far side of a fence: three large and very vicious-looking Doberman guard dogs.

  ‘Maybe they won’t notice us,’ whispered Alberto, his pace picking up slightly. It was too late.

  Suddenly there was an almighty noise as the three beasts started barking, they were clawing away at the fence, and then they started to run. They bolted around the right-hand side of the fence, where there must have been a hole, and they were now bounding across the lawn towards us.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Alberto.

  ‘Just stand still,’ I said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t run.’

  The Dobermans were still racing towards us, as we froze, terrified; their white teeth bared and with terrible snarls erupting from their slobbering mouths. I remembered that I’d heard once from an Army dog handler that no matter how loud and nasty a dog is barking, so long as its tail is upright and wagging, it won’t attack. ‘Show no fear, pick up a stone or a stick to show you mean business, and it won’t bite,’ he said. Easy to say that when you’re covered in a padded suit, but when the hounds have been released and their teeth are inches from your bare ankles, it’s a different story.

  The animals came on, snarling and growling and snapping all around us, but they didn�
��t bite, thank God.

  There was suddenly a whistle emanating from the direction of the house a hundred metres away. I saw a man walking down the driveway. The dogs were still snarling, but I thought it best for us to be polite and introduce ourselves. I walked over with Alberto in tow. The man stood still at the edge of the lawn and waited for us to reach him, his dogs still snapping at our heels, clearly annoyed that their fun had been spoiled. The man was tall, white-skinned, and European looking. He might have been a Mennonite, or else one of the few hundred other European descendants that ran the large fruit farms. Thankfully, he didn’t look like a narco-trafficker, but he was rather large and did not look best pleased.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Terribly sorry, but we’re a bit lost.’ Remembering how Alberto had charmed the policeman in Mexico and blamed it all on me, it was payback time. ‘I’m with this Mexican guide and he’s got no idea where he’s going, and we ended up having to swim across that river down there and found ourselves in your garden. Would you mind letting us out?’

  He snarled like one of his dogs.

  ‘Didn’t you see the sign?’ he said, in English with a thick Belizean accent. ‘It says no trespassing. I should have you arrested. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.’

  I nodded. Alberto gave me a look of malice.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the large man asked, his bushy eyebrows twitching as he leant forward to inspect his intruders.

  ‘England,’ I replied.

  Suddenly the man’s demeanour changed entirely. He stood up straight and smiled.

  ‘Oh well, that explains everything,’ he said, offering me his hand to shake. ‘You buggers are all mad, walking about everywhere in the middle of the day in the heat. The gate’s unlocked, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Don’t worry about the dogs, they won’t hurt you.’

  We thanked the man for not shooting us and hurried off through the gate in the direction of San Ignacio.

  The Guatemalan border lay a few miles to the west of the town, so we spent the night at a small hotel on the outskirts, eager to see what lay beyond the following day. For both of us, Guatemala would be a new country and a new experience. We were both much fitter physically than we’d been when we started and I think Alberto was slipping into expedition life very well, considering the fact that he’d never walked further than to the shops before. He was as strong-willed as any soldier and had the humour to match, and I wasn’t surprised when he told me that he’d much rather swim through crocodile-infested rivers than have to go through another failed marriage.

  ‘Give me a pack of bloodthirsty dogs over my ex-wife any day,’ he joked, as we stamped out of Belize and into our third country. We left the English-speaking world behind for the last time and entered a very different place. Gone were the friendly smiles of the good-humoured Caribbean nation. Here in Guatemala, there seemed to be an altogether tenser and more uptight atmosphere. The most noticeable difference was the prevalence of guns at every turn. Armed police and soldiers picketed the street corners in the grubby town of Melchor de Mencos, and there seemed to be private security guards outside every shop, all armed to the teeth with pistols and menacing pump-action shotguns. People didn’t say hello here, and it was the first place I’d noticed that drivers didn’t stop and offer us a lift.

  The landscape, too, changed dramatically. We had entered El Petén, a region once notorious as a great wilderness filled with dome-shaped hills and great valleys. It was described by John Stephens as a mosquito-filled hellish jungle:

  enclosed on all sides by a forest wall, but the river, although showing us no passage, still invited us onward. Could this be the portal to a land of volcanoes and earthquakes, torn and distracted by civil war? … The woods were of impenetrable thickness … and there was no view except that of the detestable path before us.

  Nowadays, the dangers come in different forms. El Petén, which means ‘the bush’, has been deforested throughout the last couple of decades and transformed into grazing and pasture land, the expensive timber being sold off and great herds of cattle taking the place of the trees. The vast mounds, once covered in teak, mahogany and ceiba, are now bare, giving the illusion of a limitless sea of green hills carved into lush meadows by the natural streams and man-made fences.

  Despite its environmental taming, the notoriety remains. Because of its location, far away from the capital, and next to the fluid borders of Belize and Mexico, the whole area has become synonymous with lawlessness, drug-running and human smuggling. Bandits operated freely here, and it was where the rich narcotic-traffickers came to evade capture and live in hidden ranches and villas among the knolls. The tracks and trails of El Petén were off-limits to all but the most corrupt policemen. The soldiers we’d seen in the town shook their heads with disdain when we told them where we were going, and wished us a solemn good luck.

  Five miles west of Melchor, we took a small dirt road south, directly into the heart of narco-land.

  11

  El Petén

  Every few miles we encountered small hamlets and farmsteads just off the side of the trail, but for the most part the road was empty. Sometimes we’d see herds grazing on the hillsides and occasionally horses munching away in the fields.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Alberto.

  There weren’t many people around, but the few old ladies we saw selling snacks from their front yards, gave us glaring glances. The first few days in El Petén passed without incident. We’d walk, stop to eat some plantain, walk some more, and then find a place to string our hammocks. We were in a comfortable routine and almost forgot that we also happened to be wandering through the drug lords’ backyard.

  We walked deeper into the bush, following the course of the dirt road. The hills seemed to roll on forever. On the morning of the twentieth of August, after waking up in our hammocks, strung between some trees at the side of the road, we found ourselves in a tricky situation. As usual, it took some time to decamp. Having said that, Alberto had learnt a lot during our jungle boot camp and was a naturally quick learner. He took his hammock down in only a few minutes and was, for the first time on the expedition, ready to go before me.

  ‘Hurry up, muñeco,’ he said, tongue in cheek, as ever.

  It meant little doll.

  We had grown accustomed to calling each other by anything other than our actual names by now, but his Spanish repertoire of name-calling was far more prolific than mine.

  What took the most time was arranging breakfast. Sometimes we’d skip it entirely and plod on till we found a village for lunch. This day, however, lunch found us.

  We were walking past the small settlement of El Naranjo. As we crested the hill, we spotted a large mansion about half a mile away, sitting on a mound and surrounded by rows of razor wire. ‘It’s a Narco Finca,’ said Alberto in a whisper. ‘Look at all the land they own.’

  It would have looked like any other ranch we’d seen along the way, except for the security. At each corner of the property there were watchtowers and even some spotlights.

  We looked back along the road, but there was no one. It was spookily quiet.

  ‘Do they actually grow drugs here?’ I asked.

  ‘No, these are the Guatemalan middle-men from the cartels, the guys that make all the money arranging the drugs to get from Colombia to the US. This is where they come to hide their money and their families from the government.’

  The road had been quiet for the past two days apart from the occasional lorry, but all of a sudden we spotted five or six brand-new 4x4s with blacked-out windscreens speeding by in quick succession, without so much as slowing down.

  ‘Narcos,’ said Alberto, with a nervousness I hadn’t recognised in him before.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘For sure. Who else can afford these brand-new Land Cruisers and Mitsubishis? They’re this year’s model! You think this money came from growing beans and bananas?’

  Speaking of beans and bananas, it remind
ed me that it was late morning and we hadn’t eaten anything yet. So far we’d passed one village shop, but they had sold only bags of crisps and fake cola. Hardly the diet of professional walkers, I thought to myself.

  ‘I could eat a whole donkey,’ said Alberto, salivating at the thought.

  ‘A horse, you mean?’

  ‘No, a donkey, balls and all,’ he laughed out loud, as we passed a braying beast. Fat pigs, too, wallowed in the muddy ponds that lined the roadside on the far side of the barbed-wire fence, and skinny cockerels vied for pride of place with the feral dogs to perch on the piles of sand and bricks that signified work would get done one day.

  As we approached the junction of a lane, I heard the roar of an engine pull up behind us as we walked. Alberto was busy photographing a horse tied to a tree (presumably contemplating how it tasted), when the horn beeped and he turned around. I couldn’t see who was driving because, like the pick-ups we’d seen drive past twenty minutes earlier, the windscreen was blacked out. But as the car pulled to a halt, the driver’s window rolled down to reveal a chubby-faced Mayan man, with a shaved head and dark rings round his eyes.

  ‘Want a lift?’ he said in Spanish.

  ‘No, thanks, we’re walking,’ replied Alberto, walking up to the window.

  ‘Get in,’ the man said. He grinned with a flash of stained teeth.

  I walked back to the car to where Alberto was standing. Forcing my own best smile, I was desperately hungry and the temptation to risk it and jump in the car was overwhelming, but as I peered in and saw three rough-looking men sitting there, I thought better of it.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ asked the driver, clearly a mind-reader.

  Before I could answer, Alberto replied, ‘No.’

  ‘Get in,’ repeated the man. ‘You will eat with us.’ He motioned toward the lane. ‘There’s a village that way, not far. You can walk from there.’

  I looked at my map. He was right. The village was level to the road we were on and if we carried on walking from there, we weren’t actually skipping any distance from the route. I looked at Alberto. He looked at me. I could sense his reticence, but I also knew he was as hungry as I was.