Livingston, Guatemala

Last week, my husband Matt and I spent the day in a small Garifuna town on the coast of Guatemala. Livingston is not accessible by roads, so everyone and everything must be brought in by boat. We took a short boat ride past beachside homes, complete with thatch-roofed bungalows. When we pulled into the harbor, we were met by a lush green coast, small sailboats, several water taxis, and brightly colored buildings. Local men gathered around the water taxi stand, waiting for charges. Sure enough, one soon came trudging down the main street. A young American man, with a heavy khaki pack on his back and several weeks' facial hair, emerged from Livingston, ready for his return to Puerto Barrios and his next stop. I was instantly jealous and thought back to my days hauling a khaki army-navy pack from Munich to Athens and back again.

Before we headed up the hill that the backpacker had just descended, we wandered through a local park where three giant crocodiles were kept. We had to stare at these three animals for several minutes for a sign that they were real, for they appeared to be more like animatronic monsters on a Disney ride than living breathing manifestations of the underworld. Eventually, when I stared long enough into the desolate stone pit the crocs called home, I saw movement in the nostrils. Matt remained convinced the crocs were not real.

Definitely real, however, was a lonely dog sunning himself on the basketball court. Once he saw us, he stretched and followed us up Calle Principal. Soon enough, he was met by several other local dogs, and together they wandered the streets as though they owned them. The streets were lined with brightly painted shops stocked with soccer balls, fruit, and embroidered cloth. Bright fuchsia rhododendrons, posters for Gallo beer, and beach umbrellas adorned the main street. Matt and I happily stopped for both coco locos, a combo of rum and coconut juice served in a matcheted green coconut, and Gallo beer, Guatamala's beloved brew.

I didn't know of the Garifuna before visiting Central America. The Garifuna people here in Livingston are a unique culture in Central America. Living on the Caribbean coast, they are descended from Africans who escaped slavery and intermarried with the Carib Indians of the island of St. Vincent. The Garifuna were deported to Roatan, one of the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras, after they tried to rebel against the British on St. Vincent. Today's Garifuna are a people who represent a combined African, Carib, Mayan, and European ancestry and cultures. Walking through Livingston, this vibrant, complex culture was immediately apparent.

Once we walked to the top of Calle Principal, it was clear that Livingston was not a quiet or simple town. Indoor recess at a girls' school carried through the streets, and scooters sped past us. Police with automatic weapons slung across their back drove through town in a pick-up truck just as women carried baskets of fruit on the tops of their heads and elderly men wheeled bicycles with milk crates full of glass bottles. Two school boys caught my attention. Both wore Spiderman backpacks and neatly pressed school khakis. One boy walked with a stiff limp, and both boys' attention wandered from checking us out to checking out the noisy recess in the gym above their heads to checking out the pack of mutts following us through the town.

We stopped for mid-morning Gallo beers at a small pub with a traditional Garifuna band and dancers. The five men in the band traded instruments back and forth - maracas, drums, a turtle shell, and a conch shell - while two women and four young girls performed traditional dances. The girls danced to tell the story of the hard work of women while the older women wooed the pub crowd with fancy hip and foot work.

As we descended Calle Principal and returned to our boat to return to Puerto Barrios, I bought woven grass earrings and a roughly carved dugout canoe, and Matt collected quetzales and centavos. Much like the water taxis drivers at the dock, the policemen relaxed outside the station, no longer burdened with weapons. Instead, they traded police patches with another American couple. Two local teenage girls in flip-flops and sequined tanks began to climb the hill, and the not-so-lonely dog reappeared with his pack to lie back down in the heat of the afternoon.