The second part of this Central American journey felt much more relaxed, as I had finally taken a full week off. The weeks before had been a whirlwind — everything blending into one big flow, and at times I completely lost track of my sleep schedule and routine. Still, I managed. I was actually surprised by how much the body can handle when it has to.
But I was also so ready for a pause — a few days to just breathe and move at my own pace, without constantly thinking about work. I did a little bit here and there, but only when I truly felt like it. Mostly, I just let myself be.
Yaxhá
While most travelers rightfully flock to the majestic ruins of Tikal, Yaxhá remains one of those hidden gems still resting quietly in the jungle. Maybe it’s because you can only reach it by boat, or maybe because it simply doesn’t call for attention — it invites you in a quieter way.
I went with a guided tour, which meant we were a bit rushed, but I’m still glad I did. The experience of walking through the ruins, listening to the jungle sounds, and watching the sun slowly melt behind the trees was magical. You can actually camp there — alone, if you want. That thought still stirs something in me. There’s something humbling about standing in the middle of crumbling temples, where nature is slowly reclaiming everything.
The tour ended by dropping me off in a tiny lakeside town called Remate, which saved me a trip back to Flores. I was dropped off a bit far from my hostel, but sometimes these moments lead to unexpected encounters. On my walk, I stumbled across a bar and met the owners of Alice Guesthouse — a French couple who welcomed me in like an old friend.
Renate felt like a hub of floating souls — a mix of digital nomads, French-speaking wanderers, a lot of weed, wine, long evenings by the fire. Prices were surprisingly high, but the community vibe was comforting. One night, sitting by the fire with the owners and a few travelers, I found myself thinking about how intense some connections feel in the moment. How saying goodbye can feel almost painful. And yet, a few weeks later, we barely remember their names. Strange how memory works — and how fleeting yet beautiful these human collisions can be.
Exploring Remate
In Remate, I had a rather intense experience with local psilocybin mushrooms. I took quite a strong dose and ended up getting lost in the jungle. At one point, darkness fell, and I started panicking — afraid of snakes, wild animals, of not finding my way back. It wasn’t the best idea in retrospect. Or maybe it was, but perhaps the jungle is best met with a clear mind and open senses.
Still, I remember how deeply I connected to the trees and the plants. Their textures, their shapes — they were alive in a way I had never fully noticed before.
Flores
Flores is a charming little island town and a perfect base for exploring Tikal.
My second part of the journey began exactly here. I arrived after an overnight bus ride. The bus was freezing cold — the air conditioning was blasting all night, and I couldn’t sleep much. I was also a bit anxious about my belongings, keeping one eye open the whole time.
By morning, I was dropped off into thick humidity, light rain, and surprisingly intense heat. I wandered around the town aimlessly, still half-asleep, and eventually found myself at a hostel called Amigos. It wasn’t where I was staying, but I snuck into their yoga area and practiced a bit, just to ground myself. Only later did I make it to my actual hostel. It rained heavily that day, and my mood wasn’t the best.
But the next day turned things around. I rented a canoe and spent hours floating across the water — no destination, no plan. Just being. I watched the jungle slide by, let myself breathe, and once again felt that quiet joy that comes from simply being.
While swimming, I overheard two women talking about sharks in the lake. I didn’t really believe it — until I met Adam later that day, and he showed me a picture of one. After that, I suddenly became much more cautious about going into the water.
Tikal
This ancient Mayan city is something I believe everyone should see when visiting Guatemala — especially if you’re even remotely interested in history, mystery, or the power of time.
Walking through Tikal feels surreal. The temples rise like giants out of the jungle, surrounded by the deep hum of insects and distant howler monkeys. Some of the buildings feel almost too grand to be real — it’s hard to grasp how they were built, why they were abandoned, and how they’ve managed to survive centuries wrapped in vines and silence.
I visited Tikal early in the morning, and right at the entrance I met Adam — a kind soul from San Diego — and we ended up spending the whole day exploring together. I was grateful for the company. It somehow made the experience even richer, to walk those ancient paths while sharing stories, laughter, and small moments of awe.
There was one moment when we climbed to the top of one of the temples and just sat there in silence, watching the jungle stretch endlessly in every direction. The mist slowly lifted, revealing the peaks of other temples rising like islands.
Tikal wasn’t just a historical site — it felt alive. Sacred, in a quiet way. You don’t just see it, you feel it.
And maybe that’s what makes it unforgettable.
El Cráter Azul
The day after our Tikal visit, Adam invited me to join him on a trip to El Cráter Azul — a magical turquoise spring hidden deep in the jungle. He had hired a private driver, and I kind of tagged along. There was something amusing about suddenly having a “private chauffeur” in rural Guatemala — I felt a bit like a VIP by accident.
We swam in the clear water, watched his drone fly over the river, took silly photos. It was simple and perfect. I loved listening to Adam talk about being a firefighter, about life in California.
Sometimes the best moments are the ones you never planned.
Livingston
Before arriving, I was warned: “Livingston is boring and ugly.” But I knew I had to see it — a coastal town unlike any other in Guatemala, home to the Garifuna community.
Tourists often complain that locals aren’t smiling or welcoming — but honestly, why should they be? They owe us nothing. Visitors come, take pictures, take space, and leave. It made me reflect on the expectations we place on places and people.
I did a short boat tour with a local guy who brought me to his house and garden. It wasn’t the most impressive trip, but I was glad to support him. I wouldn’t have felt safe walking there alone anyway.
I stayed at Casa Rosada, where I met a lovely family from Argentina. A little boy spinning poi, his sister and mother giggling beside him — they had such a vibrant, playful bond. Mornings on the hostel terrace were my favorite: yoga, coffee, lake breeze.
Los Siete Altares
I explored this place on my own, just before it closed. The long walk along the beach felt a little unsettling — part of me was sure that if anything happened, there would be no one around to help. I was half walking, half running, trying not to let my thoughts spiral into what ifs.
But once I arrived, I was completely alone — just me and the water. And in that solitude, I found a strange kind of peace. The presence of the ocean calmed something in me. For a while, I could simply be, immersed in the rhythm of the waves.
Río Dulce
From Livingston, I traveled up the river to Río Dulce, where I stayed in a guesthouse owned by a Swiss man. Everything was perfectly organized — too perfect, maybe. The place lacked warmth, though the surroundings were beautiful.
El Estor
One day I went to El Estor to see the canyon and ended up at a hidden hot waterfall, known mostly to locals. A young man guided me there, showing me a secret cave behind the falls — just a small crevice, really, but it felt like a sacred pocket of the Earth.
We climbed to the source of the thermal water, sat in the warmth, shared guacamole, and just… existed. It was peaceful in the kind of way that makes you feel like the world has slowed down just for you.
And as the journey was coming to an end, something unexpected happened. After months – of silence, my father wrote me on WhatsApp.. Just his voice, over the phone, in the quiet of the night. We had a short conversation. It warmed me — and it hurt. I could feel how much he was struggling, how far he had drifted from himself.
That call turned out to be one of our last. He left this world not long after. A part of me still hopes he found the peace he couldn’t quite hold onto in this life.
Some goodbyes are never really spoken out loud. They live in the pauses, in the ache, in the gratitude.
I will forever be walking, wandering, wondering — and thinking of you, Miro.
<3