Spelunking, part the first:

In 1998 a landowner outside of Cobán found a cave system on his property and quickly began marketing it. We understood that these "Caves of Rey Marco" stood just a bit outside of Cobán and, since the protest / demonstration / street theater has dissolved, we didn't have anywhere to go, so we booked a tour. The helpful driver from the hostel got us quickly out of town in an aging Toyota pickup. And then we kept going, and going. A painful squeal and jolt accompanied every bump and divot in the increasingly unimproved roads. Eventually we got to the entrance to the property. The whole thing sat nestled next to a hill. A small river that cascaded out of the hill carved the caves in rather short order, in the lifespan of rocks. An earnest man, who later turned out to be the son of the owner, briefed us on what to expect inside. He detailed the minute of silence and darkness we would observe at the end of the cave. He also related the strong energy found in the cave, and invited us to rub our hands together without quite touching them and then feel the energy between them. The he handed us our hard hats with head lamps and told us we should get our galoshes next door.

Absolutely no clue

The owner had planted tiny orange orchids lining the path on the way up.

This way up

Both George and I had visited Natural Bridge Caverns in Texas and thought this would be somewhat similar.
Thirty minutes later, in the musty darkness, hanging by one hand from a rope line over rushing water, we realized we were slightly incorrect in our expectations. We needed the headlamps, we needed the galoshes, and, both being nearly a foot taller than an average Guatemalan, appreciated the hard hats immediately. Thankfully, we went in with a family with two school age children and found solace knowing that they probably wouldn't place the kids of paying customers in mortal peril. After twenty minutes or so of clambering, head-bumping and the occasional terrified wail, we came to the main chamber where we met "The Leaning Tower" and "The World Cup." At the guide's instruction we clicked off our headlamps. It's eerie to think that everything in these caves normally exists in this state of complete darkness in which we found (or possibly lost) ourselves.

The leaning tower

Homeward bound

Going out seemed easier, but I kept thinking about the enormous liability the owner carried and we agreed nothing like this would ever fly in the US. The use of the cavern differed from those I had visited in the US as well. At Natural Bridge Caverns, the designers took measures to ensure the safety of guests (walkways, fixed lighting, ventilation, and the like), but also of the cavern itself, with frequent exhortations not to touch and of the rock, as the oils in our skin would stop the growth of the formations. Here we had no choice but to touch the rock. Mysterious source of energy or no, I felt like the whole project geared towards providing adventure and generating profit, and less on education or conservation. I found this focus somewhat surprising, given the booming eco-tourism industry in Guatemala, I thought preservation would have higher priority. On the other hand, rocks are rocks, and regardless of what we do, they'll be here long after we're gone.
This concept of "us" being "gone" changed from a somewhat trite conceit to an imminent possibility the next day when we met Kan Ba.

Outside Rey Marcos