We were back in a van on those treacherous mountain roads. We had found our way back onto death’s radar. But this time, we were a little more accustomed to the perils on either side of us and also behind the wheel of the shuttle van. This time, we were on our way back to Guatemala City. Another three hour drive through the highlands.

We had to go back to the capital to get on another plane. As I mentioned before, the biggest draw to Guatemala for me was its rich Mayan history. So I definitely wanted to see some of the old Mayan city states. The most popular (and easily accessible) site is Tikal, up north in the rainforest. But to get there, we had to fly to the town of Flores, about an hour’s drive from the ruins. So we hopped on this beast at the Guatemala City airport.

After an hour in the air the plane landed at the airstrip outside of Flores. Flores is an island on Lake Peten Itza, connected to the mainland by an elaborate causeway. It’s a beautiful place – although overrun by tourists. We barely saw any white peope on the streets in Santiago, but Flores was a different story. It definitely had that very hippy-like backpacker vibe. People were there from across Europe and North America, speaking primarily English and negotiating the best rates at hotels and hostels. And that foreign influx seemed to serve the locals well. We had a pretty good selection of hotels, restaurants, bars, and shops.

The sole purpose of the island seemed only to accommodate tourists. They outnumbered the locals, and there wasn’t a whole lot else to explore in Flores. But it’s a beautiful place, and by proxy it’s a significant conduit for the Mayan experience. This is where people stay when they want to see Tikal and learn what civilization was like 10,000 years ago. For me, it was brief indulgence before being absolutely overwhelmed by indigenous history.