After a relaxing day at the beach, we return to our home away from home in Livingston to soak in the last bits of civilization before heading up river into the jungle.
There’s nothing quite like waking up to a Livingston sunrise from the pier at Casa Rosada. Lori and I aimed to get up for the sunrise but my parents always seemed to beat us somehow. I guess it helps that they generally go to bed much earlier than we do. It’s amazing, nonetheless, how much easier it is to get up early when you’re greeted with brilliant sunshine and a view like this at 5am.
Before sunrise, the harbor docks are virtually deserted. Come sun-up, however, the fishing boats begin to creep back into port from a long night out at sea, and by 8am, the waterfront is hopping again with fishermen throwing nets, mechanics clanking on engine parts and deckhands shouting back and forth.
But, for now, all that can wait.
(Above) the view looking back towards Casa Rosada. (Below) the hotel (and reflection) next-door.
Mom, taking her morning cup of coffee and checking in with the outside world.
The early morning streetscape outside of Casa Rosada — the beautiful sound of nothing but the breeze blowing and the tropical early birds excitedly chirping away.
The first morning we were in Livingston, we had breakfast at our guesthouse, Casa Rosada, given that CR whips up a tasty traveler’s breakfast and our day trip to Playa Blanca departed from the CR pier later that morning.
On the second morning, however, we stopped into a little local place down the street called Antojitos Gaby (above), which served up a mean Desayuno Chapin (beans, fried eggs, queso fresco, and cream with corn tortillas) (below).
After breakfast, we took a morning stroll into town, passing by these two men salting and setting out a sizable catch to dry in the hot Guatemala sun.
The main drag in town (Calle Principal/Calle Muelle) in early morning before the hustle and bustle.
The view from the top of the hill in central Livingston, looking out across the mouth of the Rio Dulce.
Shopping along Calle Principal. While my mom was looking at handbags a Garifuna man walks and warns in English: “Don’t buy those shells!” pointing to the turtle and conch shells below the tables, before hurriedly walking the other direction. I’d assume his reasons stemmed from conservation or cultural principals — or perhaps he had a vendetta against the shop owner — but he didn’t really say. Apparently the reason wasn’t important.