On my last day in Tikal, I woke before dawn and joined a group of fellow tourists in the lobby of the Jungle Lodge. About twenty of us had signed up for a guided hike into the ruins to climb Temple IV and view the sunrise from the tallest of Tikal’s pyramids. I recognised most of the group from communal meals in the restaurant: about half came from a German tour group, another handful were American teachers and the rest were teenagers from a Baptist church in Arizona. A diminutive, machete-bearing man named Jorge was responsible for leading us along the dark jungle paths.

It was still pitch black when we passed beneath the temples of the Great Plaza – the Temple of the Giant Jaguar and the Temple of the Masks – and made out their imposing dark outlines against the night sky. Already, birds were warbling and chirping, their loud chorus anticipating daylight. The wet air was heavy with the pungent aroma of the ramón trees, a smell reminiscent of cooked beans. We plunged into forest again, marching to the steady knocking of a woodpecker. The causeway took us around Temple III, then along the Bat Palace and past two small mounds – once temples, now stone heaps.
Finally we came to the base of Temple IV, the Temple of the Two-headed Serpent. Unlike the renowned temples on the Great Plaza, the pyramid’s stairway was too ruined for climbing, and ladders now led up through the trees and the snake-like roots that entangled the temple’s terraces. Jorge scrambled over and around the roots to climb alongside the ladders, stabilising some of the shakier tourists as we made the ascent.

The last ladder brought us to the top platform, above the tree line, where a good-sized crowd had assembled to celebrate the sunrise. A long-haired young man sat cross-legged, playing an out-of-tune guitar, while a group of people circled around him chanted in a language I couldn’t identify. Nearby, a man and a woman wearing chic adventure gear had assumed meditative positions; they sucked in deep breaths, then loudly exhaled the malevolent air in their systems. Their breathing exercises continued unabated even when the ramón-pungent smell of Tikal was periodically replaced by clouds of repellent as one or another of the tourists doused themselves with DEET. The whine of the mosquito horde challenged the chanting of the guitar-player’s entourage and the Pentecostal murmuring of the Baptist youth group holding hands in prayer. To one side, Jorge and a park guard stood watching it all, sharing a cigarette.

An enchanting green light filtered through the dripping canopy, and the loud songs of the birds and tree frogs silenced my thoughts. Just then, a branch above us cracked; we heard the rustle of leaves, some crashing, and suddenly a thud right in our midst. Someone stifled a scream. We turned, startled, then hurriedly scrambled back: a snake had fallen from the branches overhead. Before we could move, the guide dashed forward, waving his machete, and brought down the blade onto the stunned reptile, cutting its body in two.

For several seconds, everyone stood motionless, too stunned to react. Then, slowly, we came back to life – nervous giggles, cautious approaches, exclamations of amazement. The guide was congratulated, photos were taken – each tourist wanted a picture of themselves crouching over the dead snake and another of the guide poking it with the machete. It was, everyone agreed, an incredible occurrence, the highlight of the day. Back at the lodge the snake was the talk of breakfast, and excited descriptions and pantomimes were provided for those unlucky not to have witnessed it. No one mentioned, if anyone even knew, that the snake was a tree boa – quite harmless to humans.

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