I Visited Flores to Fulfill Dad’s Last Wish — Seeing the Place of Our Ancestors
A journey through the lens of heritage, ethnicity, and colonization
My family had warned me against traveling here. I spared them the detail that I’d come alone. My paternal relatives could only ever recall their brutal upbringing in the capital’s most impoverished zones. It’s a reality that persists for residents today. It pushed my family to migrate to the U.S. during the 1970s. My mother’s narrative, on the other hand, was simplistic and cultivated by evening cable news: Violence is pervasive here because of gangs and drugs.
Yet, I felt an immense gratitude akin to winning the lottery as I ventured from the capital to other towns. That day, I was resting on the ledge of the island dock and about an hour from Tikal National Park.
It was a pleasant 85 degrees, and my face was damp from sweat and T-zone oil. My curls swelled up from the humidity. I dabbled my feet in the tepid water and indulged in a constant steamy breeze. Fish slithered under the sheer surface below and my eyes followed them as they darted into the horizon. I gazed at the tropical foliage lining the bank of the mainland north. Nestled between, colonial homes in blue, yellow, and white stood in contrast against an overcast sky. Inhaling Mother Nature’s breath, I shut my eyes and listened to her heartbeat in the rustling leaves and mewing seagulls above.
This was Flores. It’s an historical battleground, and the greatest distance northeast one can go from the cosmopolitan capital, Guatemala City, while remaining in the country.
My trip had been in honor of my father’s last wish, one written in our final text message exchange: To visit the place of our ancestors. It was the one year anniversary of his death. I was my dad’s only child and there wouldn’t be a relative in my family that would encourage me to learn about our cultural roots besides him.
I loved how the aromas of moist fronds and petals in Flores were reminiscent of my childhood summers in Chicago. It was like a sign from dad. He and I would spend our weekends in Humboldt Park, where the fragrance of a man-made paradise for children could overpower most urban scents. I loved the awe that struck when I traveled to countries in Europe and Asia, but Guatemala was different. I’d become enamored with its towns, culture, people, and history. Flores was the fifth Guatemalan town I’d visited.
Flowers. That’s what the Spanish word flores means in English. Settled in Petén, one of the 22 departments of Guatemala, the island formerly known as Nojpeten is coddled by the luminous Lake Peten Itza. Given its distance from the capital, I would call it that far, faraway magical place in children’s books if only its storied past was childproof. In all its beauty hid the darkness of colonization that started 500 years ago. It was during the 1520s that the Maya first encountered the Spanish in what is Guatemala today, but it would be close to 1700 when the last Maya group, the Itzá, would make the final stand against the Spanish from Flores. The 22 recorded Maya groups in Guatemala today, which comprise half of the country’s population, remain in an ongoing battle against displacement and extermination as they continue to advocate for their land- and environmental rights. These mobilization efforts remain hidden from tourist spots like Flores.
Hearing the roaring of a motorboat approaching, I opened my eyes. The boatman docked the boat, turned off the engine, and hopped off. A man in his 30s, he wore blue jeans and a washed-out black tee. His smile conveyed good nature, or perhaps the beginning of a sales tactic for tourists. He approached me.
My eyelids were heavy as I looked up at him. It was just past three as the sky grew thicker and more grey. Perhaps another coffee would serve me well. Guatemala is known for some of the best coffee in the world, with little acknowledgement of how its production enabled a second colonization of the Maya people. In the late 1800s, Indigenous Maya groups were exploited for work on coffee plantations. They endured harsh labor conditions, in many cases, having their compensation withheld by barbaric Ladino and Spanish self-proclaimed landowners. Children working in these fields together with their parents would succumb to starvation among many other detrimental elements.
For me, there was something grim about walking by the Starbucks in Boston and seeing imported packages of coffee beans labeled “Guatemala.” Meanwhile, the only salute to the Central American country lied on the wall: A world map absent of state lines, showcasing “The Coffee Belt.”
“Buenos días,” the boatman said amicably.
“Buenas! ¿Como estas?” I responded.
He asked where I was from. I said the U.S. and he continued staring at me in silence and intrigue. I think he really wanted to know my ethnicity, and I didn’t mind. I told him my father was Guatemalan, though I spoke in a Puerto Rican accent thanks to my mother, and may have only brought up more questions in his mind.
I saw Guatemalan men steering their purple, wooden vessels around the island, touring white U.S. American and European visitors for 20 Quetzals, or three U.S. dollars. It’s a bargain for tourists from the Global North, and just enough for residents in Flores to sustain a living. The boatman offered me a private tour of the lake on his boat. It was only a matter of time before rainfall and my mind went to the worse case scenarios. Flooding. Capsizing. Now I was being dramatic. It’s a lake, not an ocean and I’m perfectly capable of swimming. I contemplated.
I heard the acceleration of a dozen mopeds from up the road as their engines buzzed by, bobbing up the cobblestone lane. Perhaps the afternoon shift had ended. Residents rushed across the causeway, and I wondered what the community was like off the island. The architecture across Flores contrasted the sights to the south as one taxied in from Mundo Maya International Airport. Drab concrete walls and shabby corrugated rooftops told that poverty here is simply passed through as it is passed over. The towns in the Western Highlands that lay on the opposite side of the country were notoriously impoverished, objectively so as the region has become known as the gateway for migrants. In Flores, I had no insight into the sentiment of residents, or whether they perceived their reality any particular way.
A serene sun shower started. Slivers of sunlight cut through the clouds, stroking the landscape with shades of gold. Following the change in weather, I confirmed the cost of the tour with the boatman. He tells me 20 Quetzals so I nod and hop onboard, handing him 200 Quetzals. I didn’t need the bargain. Though we were far from Guatemala City, I couldn’t stop thinking the hustling boatman could’ve been my dad. Or me.
As we rode across the lake, I thought about my own racial and ethnic identity. A Guatemalan-Puerto Rican, or more plainly, a Hispanic American. I was mixed with Indigenous and Iberian ancestry. I wasn’t sure what that meant to me right then, but I’d explore it going forward. Regardless, I thought who am I but a visitor in my father’s country.
