We rose in the dark hours of morning and cooked a breakfast of eggs, tortillas, and coffee. Packed our gear and stepped outside to wait for the bus. The black sky faded to purple, the bus pulled up, we tied our gear on the roof and boarded. There were two other passengers on board.
We passed through the wasteland of decimated forest; both hung our heads.
Neither of us said much on the bus. I dozed in and out of sleep, and the bumpy four hours went by fairly quickly.
When we arrived at Fernando's stop, we untied the gear and three days' worth of leftover provisions from the roof, and loaded it into a taxi. I wish I could say that some magical exchange took place when we parted, but it didn't. We shook hands, said good-bye. He got into the taxi and disappeared into the distance. Ganador.
I disembarked into the bowels of Santa Elena's mercado, made my way across the causeway of Lago Petén Itzá to the small island municipality of Flores, and checked into my three-dollar hotel room. The English voices of other gringos in the lobby hit hard. It was over.
I threw my pack into the room and headed for my favorite Flores restaurant for lunch, which I devoured. The waiter asked if I wanted dessert. I'd never been big on sugar, but I ordered a piece of chocolate cake. It was delicious.