La Cueva

One afternoon last weekend, we had welcome relief from the adjustment to the oppressive heat and climate. A friend of our host family took us to property owned by relatives several miles distant from Bella Vista, toward the mountains and the rocky cliffs covered in thick jungle in view to the west. We were to visit a cave. Una cueva.

Scott and I piled into a little pickup with four others, all men. As dark clouds gathered over the mountains, one man decided to wait for another day and hopped out. There is not a paved road where we live, except for the Southern Highway, which slices through the outer edge of town and separates the bulk of the town from the banana farms. We took this highway west at surprising speed, the wind in our faces and a storm ahead.

Large drops fell during most of our drive along a heavily rutted dirt road, but hesitated long enough for us to walk among towering cornstalks at the roadside to pick a few cobs to roast over the fire at the farm hut. A young woman lives at the hut with her husband, who is a kind of caretaker. She cooks and paints. She is from Guatemala, and she has no legs. I am not sure if she was born this way, or if she had a terrible accident. Either way, she has one of the brightest dispositions I have seen and is more optimistic than I ever could imagine being in her position. When we met her, she proudly showed us a stack of paintings of different scenes on cardboard, each one featuring a smiling woman with beautiful legs.

It was pleasant in the thatch-roofed hut, with an open fire over which to cook (the woman was pressing tortillas to bake over the fire when we arrived). It was in the middle of an open meadow, surrounded by lush vegetation, a stream on one side, neat gardens, many chickens, and a pheasant or two. They grow tomatoes, chile dulce, green beans, beans, squash, pumpkins, okra, and cucumbers.

The nearest rocky mound was roughly a half-mile away, and our friends led us up to the entrance to the cave, cutting vines and undergrowth with their machetes on the path. The holds on the rock face were awesome. Very nice pockets. Scott kept saying, “Sweet,” and gesturing to the others about climbing. They just smiled, crazy Americans.

Ducking into the cave’s mouth at waist level, dozens of bats whizzed past my head. I could feel the wind of their passing on my ears, their tiny wings seeming to brush my forehead. Scott took many pictures, one of a huge beetle the length of his finger and twice as thick. The following pictures scarcely capture the vast interior of the cave or the intricacy of its features. Some of them were like gigantic curtains and enormous chandeliers in an underground castle. Our friends had walked for more than an hour and a half straight into it on a previous occasion. The rooms varied little in depth, and the air was dank with the smell of bats and was exceedingly humid. We also saw an example of broken pottery from a Mayan vessel for carrying water.