101
On my list of things to visit was Semuc Champey, a series of stepped, turquoise pools that promised a day of serene beauty. Listening to my inner 29-year-old, I had opted against visiting them via tourist experiences on an airconditioned bus that included tours of coffee plantations and dinner at a three-star restaurant in the jungle canopy. But I’d discovered the pools were difficult to get to via public transportation, the flyer hanging in my hotel lobby hanging on the bulletin between an advertisement for mopeds for sale and a list of comedores (low-priced diners) near the hotel, caught my eye. I glanced past the bit about a “caving adventure” and focused on the stop at Semuc Champey. I made my reservation without asking why I needed a bathing suit.
When I boarded the blue school bus that were to take us to the cave and Semuc Champey, I felt like a chaperone on a high school field trip. The bus was filled with laughter and shouts. While I wore long pants and a t-shirt, the rest of the 30 or so tourists were in bikinis and swim trunks. The “Caving Adventure” was our first stop. We entered the cave in ankle deep water and were given candles to light the way. We were directed to hold the rope anchored to the cave wall. Water sloshed at my ankles, then my calves, then my thighs. In just a few minutes, the water was at my waist. Soon the water was deep enough that I had to swim. Holding onto the candle with one hand, and the rope with the other, I propelled myself forward with a combination of frog and scissor kicks. The Italian couple in front of me started muttering to each other and then to me, “This is a disaster.” Our companions all whooped and hollered in the growing darkness, as if it were a ride at Six Flags. But the anticipation I felt in my gut wasn’t for an upcoming thrill, but the dread of impending doom. We came to a waterfall which had a metal ladder running up, under and through it. I clenched the slick rungs and braced myself against the force of the cascading water to climb up the ladder.