Spelunking, part the second

George and I sought out a specific restaurant recommended by the guide for dinner after returning from Rey Marcos and receiving an impromptu tour of the city, which included cheating our way up to a famous church on a hill (the driver drove us up a back way and allowed us to wander down). On our way back from dinner we ran into a small procession (much more on processions later) of Christ carrying the cross, and then Mary following as a set of speakers blared the peculiar funereal score that accompanies these spectacles.
The next morning we lathered up with sunscreen and, along with several other tourists and a family of locals, headed off for Semuc Champey.
Even though Guatemala has about 15% the area of Texas, it takes quite a long time to get anywhere. So about 2 hours later we arrived at the remote park of Semuc Champey. George and I first hiked up to the Mirador before jumping in the famous pools. Practical as he is, George changed out of his jeans and into his swimsuit before making the kilometer-long hike that the trail sign marked as "Dificil."
As no changing rooms presented themselves, he did this in the middle of the trail, interrupted half way through by some inquisitive Germans.
I opted to stay in my pants and we began up the 580 steps to the lookout. We had a separate bag that had a change of clothes, our sandals, two liters of water, and around step 400 I swore there must also be some assorted lead weights in there.
The Mirador (after a concerning stop that offered no view whatsoever), as you can see, offered quite the view, but wasn't nearly as tasty as the one in San Antonio.

El Mirador

After walking down for a while (a guide we passed said it would take a Guatemalan 30 minutes to get down, but he kept his own counsel on how long it would take two struggling extranjeros). The hike made the pools all the more attractive. It reminded me a bit of the Gudelupe, except larger and situated in a beautiful gorge

At Semuc Champe

with jungle all around. We stayed there for an hour or so and had our box lunches (the Spanish word for which is: box lunch, apparently).
We gathered our party and ventured forth in the sturdy HiAce and shortly arrived at the Gratis de Kan Ba, a makeshift hut on the side of the gorge. After some discussion only George, myself, and two young Germans who spoke better English than either of us opted to enter the cave. Enrique, our guide, practically ran up the side of the gorge to the entrance.

Kan'Ba

While the orifice of Rey Marcos under whelmed us, about a meter square and closed with a locked gate, Kan Ba looked a proper cave, with Grues and everything. The water ran directly out of the mouth and we stripped to our swimsuits. My Chacos proved their worth over and over again -- the guide made the Germans abandon their flip-flops at the entrance and they navigated the whole thing in their bare feet.
We got about ten feet into the cave when the guide switched on his headlamp and handed out candles -- candles! A minute later I was side-stroking my way through dark, deep, cold water with my candle in front of me.
The inside of the cave struck me as completely alien. The stone, smoothed by the water which filled the entire cavern in the rainy season, was greyish-pink and cold. The candles barely illuminated the ceiling, which at times vanished in darkness, and other times reached down to make very narrow crawlways . Enrique showed us where to step and where to swim. When one of our candles would dip into the water we'd relight it quickly. We clambered up rickety ladders and clung to suspended pieces of rope. Several times we stopped to comment on how ridiculously dangerous the whole thing was. Enrique kindly carried my camera in a waterproof tub and we paused to tale the pictures you see, but given how disparate the environment of the cave was from normal experience, you can see that it's hard to tell if the formations stand a few centimeters or a few meters tall. The flash, and our candles failed to penetrate the fullest extent of the darkness, leaving me wondering if it went on forever.

Some atmosphere

Eventually, we came to an underground waterfall, probably 4 meters in height with a knotted rope hanging in the middle of the cascade. With a boost at the bottom from Enrique, we all clambered up. I think I made it in three big steps and the scrambled over the rigging that supported the rope. A few more squeezes and stumbles later we came to a large opening and the darkness beyond refused to yield any clues to our candles. Enrique said you could keep going for another four more hours or so, but that we hadn’t paid for the full tour and would need to turn back now. We'd been at it for over an hour and we thought about the rest of the group waiting outside. We turned back.
We used a ladder to get down the waterfall and thought we would have to retrace all of our steps when Enrique made a few different turns and we found ourselves crouched in a tiny tunnel. By now our candles had burned to barely a quarter of their original size. Enrique showed us a small opening in the floor of the cave into which a brisk rivulet rushed. He propped himself over the dark hole at the end of the tiny tunnel and indicated where we should put our hands and feet. After we acknowledged that we understood, he turned sideways and disappeared into the hole. We heard no splash, nor anything else over the noise made by the falling water. The four of us looked at each other and exchanged some multilingual profanity. I went down after one of the Germans and George. Eventually, Enrique's headlamp emerged and I saw we dropped all of a meter or so. He helped me get my arms and legs situated until I looked like a giant, pale daddy-long-legs and I slowly lowered myself down, until I caught the falling water full in my face, which sped my descent considerably.
This shortcut had taken us nearly back to the entrance of the cave. On the way out I heard tiny noises in the dark and realized that bats covered the ceiling. I kept my own counsel, not wanting to freak anyone out. Right at the entrance Enrique pointed a tiny furry critter out to us. "Murcialago."
"Like the car!" I told George, who looked at me like I said "Purple broccoli Sunday!"
We blinked our way back into the light and Enrique said we could float in innertubes down the river to rejoin our group. George and I grabbed tubes and happily plopped ourselves in the river. The Germans watched very skeptically from the bank and decided to walk back.

Tubing home

We met up with our group after a very relaxing 15 minute tube ride and rode back to Cobán, our Spanish insufficient to describe the caves.

That evening we met up with Deborah, and her mom, aunt, and 12-year-old sister at the one discothèque in Cobán. We met Deborah's 30-something boyfriend who danced with her while her mom got jiggy wid it a few watchful feet away.