August 2007 In an unfussy restaurant with a terrace facing east, I was slumped in a cheap, white, plastic chair taking in the view and reflecting on an exhausting and unexpected day. The town of Flores, Guatemala, is quite spectacularly located in the middle of a lake – Petén Itzá – which itself is encircled by a vast green expanse of rainforest. The town’s name means flower, and, from above, it must look like it has bloomed from the Petén Itzá’s depths, its terracotta rooftops forming delicate petals separated by the multitude of winding, cobbled streets. Yet, despite its undoubted charm, Flores is hardly a place you drop in on spontaneously –an eight-hour bus ride from the nation’s capital, most visitors plan their lengthy detour there because of its proximity to the stunning Mayan ruins of Tikal. I was the exception, then, as I watched the sunset cast speckles of pinks and purples across the water’s ripples. Beyond, above the rainforest’s canopy, a heavy blanket of storm-clouds was being drawn across the sky, dragging beneath it flashes of lightning and threatening growls of thunder. Hurricane Dean had made landfall. Twenty-four hours earlier I had 200km further east, sat in a bar on Caye Caulker, in Belize with no plans to visit Flores (or Guatemala, for that matter). Caye Caulker is famously relaxed: it has no cars (only golf-carts), a laid-back motto of “go slow” and hosts back-packers and scuba enthusiasts seeking the famous Blue Hole, one of the world’s most spectacular dive spots. That night, the locals lived up to their unworried reputation as we chatted about the hurricane that was tracking towards Belize. “It will smash through Haiti and ricochet up towards Florida – they always do,” the barman said calmly. “Poor Haiti,” someone added before the barman concluded, “there’s no need to worry.” Except that hurricanes don’t always ricochet away. In 1961, Caye Caulker was cleft in two by Hurricane Hattie, to form The Split, a narrow channel of water I had seen that afternoon. Nonetheless, I was reassured as I went to bed, expecting the morning to bring nothing but snorkelling. The evacuation siren sounded before dawn. The hurricane had not pinballed north, but had held its course and strengthened to a category five – the highest possible. It was time to flee. The water taxi took me to Belize City’s harbour, then a jog got me to the bus terminal, which was already starting to hum with panicked people looking to escape westward. An hour or so later I reached Belmopan, one of the smallest capital cities in the world, and one which is striking for all the wrong reasons: the city centre is dominated by a circle of stark concrete government buildings arranged like some Orwellian Stone Henge and it boasts just three hotels, a hasty tour of which informed me I was too late to find accommodation. And so, I was on the move again, heading for Guatemala. Guatemala was a daunting prospect: I had planned my week-long trip to Belize because I wanted a taste of Central America, but spoke no Spanish. So, as the throng of Guatemalan taxi drivers hollered unintelligibly at me, it felt like a horrible mistake to have left the linguistic safety of English-speaking Belize. To this day, I remain astounded by my good luck in that moment. Through the humdrum, I heard, “You speak English? You want to go to Flores? Come with me.” The gentleman calling to me lived in Flores and had been dropping a friend at the border. He was keen to practice his English and gave me a lift in exchange for some friendly conversation. Once in Flores, I found a comfortable and affordable little hotel, booked a tour of Tikal, and, realising I had barely eaten in the 18 hours I had been awake, I found some dinner in an unfussy restaurant with a terrace facing East. I have still never dived the Blue Hole, but I have seen the towers of Tikal emerge through the morning mist at sunrise. It is a majestic and awe-inspiring experience, and had it not been for that hurricane, it is one I may have missed.