The rain started slowly tonight. At first it was a drop on my neck -- something dripping overhead perhaps. A light Friday night crowd on la Novena; some well-dressed folks on their way to one of the various evangelical churches, scattered teenagers with red backpacks coming home late from school, men and women with sooty hands and downward-cast eyes, a few older folks leaning in their doorways. Few people will be out on the street, a commercial street like this, after the sun goes down. A tuk-tuk rumbles by blasting reggaeton. I realize, as if coming out of a daze, that the ground is freckled with dark spots and at the same time the rain seems to start. The pirated-movie stand on the pasarela corner is closing up, all the movies shuffled into piles, plastic tarps shoved roughly into bags. We all expect the rain to crescendo, to really start coming down, making drowned rats out of the lot of us, but it doesn't. Not yet, at least.
I was not sure if I should continue writing this travel blog. I am still in Guatemala. Am I still traveling? It doesn't feel like it, a year into my time here, each week buzzing between the highs and lows of working in a non-profit, as routine -- if not more so -- than past years in the States. I just finished reading over the older entries here, reaching back to my first days in Peru, the accented blandness of solo travel, first arrival in Guatemala and the blind-dartsman decision-making that followed. I am certain that my decision(s) to extend my stay here mark a definite break with those experiences. At the same time I have made a clear decision to limit my time in Guatemala to the middle of next year, and to enroll myself in graduate studies in the fall of next year. So this is not home. But it is not travel either.
I suppose that, despite any ambiguousness, I am writing another entry and therefore owe some sort of update. Let's do the highlights:
As may be gleaned from the newest mini-slideshow to your left, I took a bit of a vacation during Semana Santa (=Holy Week=Easter). The vacation was most assuredly not blessed. The week previous I got the flu hard and spent a lot of time in bed, clunking around the house, and wondering whether I should go the doctor. Felt better and decided to follow through on plans to travel to the Ixil region in the northwest Quiche department. First night in the central town of Nebaj was struck with some dastardly dehydrating diarrhea and became intimately acquainted with the toilet stall door on the second floor of the Hotel Nebajense. This persisted for a while, but felt well enough on the next day to follow through on my plan to take a one-night, two-day hiking trip to one of the surrounding aldeas before my housemates arrived mid-week. The hike began with an exhausting climb under a hot sun, followed by a rocky descent, a stroll through the somewhat famous town of Acul -- formerly a model village set up by the army in the 1980s to keep control of the population suspected of helping/being guerrillas. This, of course, was one of the more humane responses given by an army that massacred hundreds of indigenous villagers in other parts of the Ixil region, and thousands throughout the country. I was greeted by stares. My hike continued for another 8km west, sloping up into a long valley to the village of Xoxocom (sh'sh-cum). There, as in almost all the local villages, there is a family who has built a shack to host backpackers. This family, for unknown reasons, was temporarily without any adult figures (the father, as I learned just before leaving, is a local politician with a right-wing party). The teenage son, for similarly unknown reasons, gave me a scare with stories about suspicious local activity and increasing robberies by "outsiders". As a result of these stories, plus the fact that someone had come into the shack while I was out and took my cell phone out of my backpack before discarding it under the bed AND the door had absolutely no locking mechanism, I decided that security measures were necessary. I barricaded the door with all the furniture and heavy objects in the shack, including my bed. Slept about 1 hour total between constant dog barking and creepy human whispering, thanked the sun for coming up again, and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Long walk back to Nebaj, but it was nice to be back in civilization. Met my housemates the next day, meandered around town, and then hopped a crowded minivan towards Lake Atitlan. Passed a few basically uneventful days there (oh, but please do not let me forget to mention the night-time Easter parade in Santiago Atitlan which included a Jesus casket wrapped in Christmas lights and actually carried through the streets by rotating teams of teenagers trailing an electrical generator behind it). A sweaty bus ride back to the city before starting work again on Monday.
My mom visited in June, and we managed to enjoy ourselves with some family reconnection time and World Cup action despite my short illness and hectic work schedule. More reconnection time on the way!
My two-day trip to Mexico and back, purely for the required visa stamp, should also be mentioned. A ridiculous amount of time spent on buses, an official fleecing by the Mexican authorities, an encounter with a van full of packages wrapped in black bags, a lucky mistake by Guatemala authorities, a lot of illegal migrants, and an underwear purchase. There.
Work has gone mostly well in the intervening months, I will spare you (and me) the details. I feel I have spent my time well, but also have no desire to stay past the middle of next year. I will be taking the GRE in a few days and will be back in the States over December break. There is a movement to life that keeps me going. For better or worse the next 10 months will probably be the best months I have here in Guatemala -- not necessarily because better things will happen, but because of improvements in my attitude and comfort brought on by the knowledge that my time here is limited. Screwy, maybe, but...well, yeah, screwy.
It was still pouring when I started writing tonight, but now everything is quiet outside.
Still...
July 30, 2010
March 6, 2010
A walk on the Wild side?
Tuesday.
Or Friday. Wednesday?
After a breakfast of sweet crusty pan dulce and cubiletes, I pack my jeans pockets with the basic neccesities and head for the front door. The sun is bright today, stronger than usual, the air dry and cautious. The front door swings closed and catches, ringing metal smash. I go through the side gate, sliding my magnetic card into the black box with yellow tape to the right of the gate. A few early-90s model cars and a gas delivery truck with a teenager sitting in the back shoot down 23rd Ave. towards San Juan Boulevard. I turn the other way, briefly shaded from the sun by a massive leafy tree.
The sidewalk here is flat. In between the sidewalk and the road there are rectangular patches of grass with some eccentric saplings and flowers planted in them. Passing by flattened town-houses, all fronted with tall metal gates or brightly painted concrete walls topped with barbed wire. There are no exceptions to this design feature. A Catholic church where on the weekends a lady opens up her churro stand -- just as God intended, I imagine. A pair of little tiendas, a low-quality panaderia, and a trash-blown park in between two high concrete walls with two cracked basketball/soccer courts -- the back one about 2/3 the size of the front one, a smattering of trees making up the difference. These courts are popular in Guatemala and Latin America -- painted and sized the same as a regulation basketball court but with white metal tubes arranged in a rectangular fashion underneath each basket serving as goals. One of the high concrete walls bordering this park belongs to an enormous corner house that apparently houses missionaries of some Christian order. Just to be sure, I try to look as menacing (read: Guatemalan) when I see them on the street. They haven't tried to convert and/or befriend me yet. Other than my house mates, these are the only gringos in the neighborhood.
At the butt-end of 23rd Ave. is Kaminal Juyu park, an oblong tree-lined intrusion into an otherwise nondescript residential neighborhood on the north-western edge of Guatemala City. Kaminal Juyu, in a non-coincidence, was the name of a large Mayan city located on this land, land now swallowed up by heavily-guarded houses for ladinos, smog exiting from passing city buses and trucks, and the smell of auto repair shops. Except for Kaminal Juyu park. I have yet to get inside the park, but according to guide books there are ruins partially hidden under mounds. On many days, especially weekends, you can see groups of people gathering around small bonfires in what appear to be indigenous ceremonies. Rigoberta Menchu, the not-always-beloved Guatemalan Nobel Peace Prize winner, held her post-Nobel celebration here in this park. Eighteen years later, give or take, I walk by on the opposite sidewalk and pass by a companion Mayan site sheltered behind a wire fence and underneath a slightly-tilted tin roof. There are several stone statues sitting in a dug-out section of dirt, a worn plaque in front, concrete wall and barbed wire fronted houses painted in pastel colors on both sides.
I turn away from the edge of the park on 9th Street, a busy two-way heading towards the chaotic, notorious Trebol Junction. The upper part of 9th is dominated by auto repair shops, most of which operate without a garage and do all their work on the street in front of the shop, wheeling out tires, red hoses and dull metal tools littering the sidewalk. On this part of the street there is an island of trees between the north-bound and south-bound sides. I pass by an Esso gas station which looks as if it was plucked from the New Jersey Turnpike in the early 90s, complete with a cafe-store called "On the Run". In English. On the island across from the gas station is a little area with benches, frequented by pass-out drunks (also known as bolos) and make-out couples.
A note of warning: If you have physical limitations which make climbing steps difficult, do not come to this part of town. Whereas on grassy 23rd Ave. the sidewalk is friendly flat, here it becomes a ridiculous collection of steps, dips, and cracks that resemble an environment from a GameBoy video game where the button most often pressed is "Jump". The doors of the various shops and stores are inexplicably at very different levels, and there are steps -- some big, some small -- leading up and down. Even when the sidewalk is relatively flat for a stretch, there are cracks everywhere. Not little slivery, concrete-over-time cracks. Big, gaping, erosion and earthquake and truck-crash cracks. The sewer openings at some corners are no more than inexact trash deposits. There are, of course, no trash bins on the street. Anywhere.
Near the pedestrian bridge over 9th there are a bunch of bakeries and barbershops and a table set up to sell newspapers with headlines like "National Police Director in jail" and "Ex-President finally caught". Here the island ends. On the next block there are a few more auto repair shops, and a pair of massive Evangelical churches, quiet and locked on a weekday morning but bustling on most nights or weekends. The street also widens out here, allowing the bus/truck repair shops to operate on the side of the road. There is a key shop where a little toddler is always playing outside in his sit-in toy truck under the less-than-watchful eye of a woman -- his mother? Doubtful. A female relative? More likely. Possibly just a lady who is paid to watch the kid while the mom spends all day working in some crappy, repetitive job. Which is the only kind available, if you were wondering.
A few dull red city buses grumble and puff past, repainted American school buses operating on the piloto-ayudante system, charging 1 Quetzal (12 cents US) during the day and 2 or 3 in the evenings. Another evangelical church painted blue and covered with a cell phone company advertisement, another lazy gas station, a small computer high school. The middle-of-the-street island makes a brief appearance as 9th takes a hard right towards Trebol. Here we part ways, I take a left into the neighborhood where I work. This junction is right at the high end of a barranca which leads down towards the municipal garbage dump, the economic heart of the community where most of the families we serve live. The road branching off from 9th slopes downwards, downwards, past brick houses, partially-brick houses, plastic-sided shacks. I stay along the edge of the barranca, past the choco-banana store (there are others, but this is the "the"), left onto 6th Ave.
6th Ave. is the market street for this neighborhood, and accordingly the sidewalks are packed with stands. Hanging sausages and sides of beef, a glass-sided cart stuffed with fried chicken and fries, a blanket laid out with an assortion of Chinese-made plastic items, hanging long plastic sleeves with bootleg movies, a woman seating amidst baskets of overripe avocados, fly-buzzed tomatoes, and a few lonely pineapples. Shoppers and passerby are forced to walk in the street, constantly checking behind them for cars and massive yellow-with-inexplicable green check mark garbage trucks. On a cultural note, vehicles here have a much higher tolerance for proximity to pedestrians. Read: If you don't move, you will get hit.
I throw out a Buenos Dias to the shuffling old man who sells candy from a box, the gel-haired guy at the corner store, and the lady with her little lunch stand, wood grill, tupperwares of meat and vegetables, tall plastic packets of tostadas. I rarely eat with her, as we get a free lunch (it does exist!) in the cafeteria, but I will stop around the corner to visit a lady who studies in the Literacy class in the afternoon, sells choco-bananas out of her freezer, and baby-sits Jackelin. Jackelin is one of my favorite little toddlers who frequent Literacy with their mothers, a possesive chubby-cheeked two-year-old who speaks in one and two word sentences and giggles histerically at...at most anything.
Jackelin's mother leaves her with the choco-banana lady because she works from 7am to 7pm (30 minutes for lunch) at the maquila behind the Literacy building stitching T-shirts and shorts for less than 4 Quetzales (50 cents US) an hour. She is not allowed to take any breaks. Every day there is a production quota to meet, and if she does not meet it, she is not paid for that day. If she is sick and brings a note from the hospital, she will only be docked a week's pay. If she does not bring a note she will either be docked a month's pay or be fired outright. At 12 noon, the doors open for lunch and she runs RUNS with her 200 or so coworkers to get food and get back before 12:30pm. This maquila, as with most in the city, is run by Koreans. Koreans are not well-liked among Guatemalans. But people come from around the city to work here because, as one lady put it, "at least they pay". As in, there are other maquilas where payment is far from assured. Jackelin's mother is lucky. At least she has a steady paycheck. And she doesn't have to go down into the dangerous bowels of the municipal dump to pick and sell trash -- even though on average she would make about the same amount of money a day. And every night at 7pm, when I am finishing up with my Men's Literacy class, she can grasp Jackelin's hand in her own aching, half-arthiritic hand, and lead her, stumbling slightly, speaking in two word sentences, back down Sexta Avenida and home.
Or Friday. Wednesday?
After a breakfast of sweet crusty pan dulce and cubiletes, I pack my jeans pockets with the basic neccesities and head for the front door. The sun is bright today, stronger than usual, the air dry and cautious. The front door swings closed and catches, ringing metal smash. I go through the side gate, sliding my magnetic card into the black box with yellow tape to the right of the gate. A few early-90s model cars and a gas delivery truck with a teenager sitting in the back shoot down 23rd Ave. towards San Juan Boulevard. I turn the other way, briefly shaded from the sun by a massive leafy tree.
The sidewalk here is flat. In between the sidewalk and the road there are rectangular patches of grass with some eccentric saplings and flowers planted in them. Passing by flattened town-houses, all fronted with tall metal gates or brightly painted concrete walls topped with barbed wire. There are no exceptions to this design feature. A Catholic church where on the weekends a lady opens up her churro stand -- just as God intended, I imagine. A pair of little tiendas, a low-quality panaderia, and a trash-blown park in between two high concrete walls with two cracked basketball/soccer courts -- the back one about 2/3 the size of the front one, a smattering of trees making up the difference. These courts are popular in Guatemala and Latin America -- painted and sized the same as a regulation basketball court but with white metal tubes arranged in a rectangular fashion underneath each basket serving as goals. One of the high concrete walls bordering this park belongs to an enormous corner house that apparently houses missionaries of some Christian order. Just to be sure, I try to look as menacing (read: Guatemalan) when I see them on the street. They haven't tried to convert and/or befriend me yet. Other than my house mates, these are the only gringos in the neighborhood.
At the butt-end of 23rd Ave. is Kaminal Juyu park, an oblong tree-lined intrusion into an otherwise nondescript residential neighborhood on the north-western edge of Guatemala City. Kaminal Juyu, in a non-coincidence, was the name of a large Mayan city located on this land, land now swallowed up by heavily-guarded houses for ladinos, smog exiting from passing city buses and trucks, and the smell of auto repair shops. Except for Kaminal Juyu park. I have yet to get inside the park, but according to guide books there are ruins partially hidden under mounds. On many days, especially weekends, you can see groups of people gathering around small bonfires in what appear to be indigenous ceremonies. Rigoberta Menchu, the not-always-beloved Guatemalan Nobel Peace Prize winner, held her post-Nobel celebration here in this park. Eighteen years later, give or take, I walk by on the opposite sidewalk and pass by a companion Mayan site sheltered behind a wire fence and underneath a slightly-tilted tin roof. There are several stone statues sitting in a dug-out section of dirt, a worn plaque in front, concrete wall and barbed wire fronted houses painted in pastel colors on both sides.
I turn away from the edge of the park on 9th Street, a busy two-way heading towards the chaotic, notorious Trebol Junction. The upper part of 9th is dominated by auto repair shops, most of which operate without a garage and do all their work on the street in front of the shop, wheeling out tires, red hoses and dull metal tools littering the sidewalk. On this part of the street there is an island of trees between the north-bound and south-bound sides. I pass by an Esso gas station which looks as if it was plucked from the New Jersey Turnpike in the early 90s, complete with a cafe-store called "On the Run". In English. On the island across from the gas station is a little area with benches, frequented by pass-out drunks (also known as bolos) and make-out couples.
A note of warning: If you have physical limitations which make climbing steps difficult, do not come to this part of town. Whereas on grassy 23rd Ave. the sidewalk is friendly flat, here it becomes a ridiculous collection of steps, dips, and cracks that resemble an environment from a GameBoy video game where the button most often pressed is "Jump". The doors of the various shops and stores are inexplicably at very different levels, and there are steps -- some big, some small -- leading up and down. Even when the sidewalk is relatively flat for a stretch, there are cracks everywhere. Not little slivery, concrete-over-time cracks. Big, gaping, erosion and earthquake and truck-crash cracks. The sewer openings at some corners are no more than inexact trash deposits. There are, of course, no trash bins on the street. Anywhere.
Near the pedestrian bridge over 9th there are a bunch of bakeries and barbershops and a table set up to sell newspapers with headlines like "National Police Director in jail" and "Ex-President finally caught". Here the island ends. On the next block there are a few more auto repair shops, and a pair of massive Evangelical churches, quiet and locked on a weekday morning but bustling on most nights or weekends. The street also widens out here, allowing the bus/truck repair shops to operate on the side of the road. There is a key shop where a little toddler is always playing outside in his sit-in toy truck under the less-than-watchful eye of a woman -- his mother? Doubtful. A female relative? More likely. Possibly just a lady who is paid to watch the kid while the mom spends all day working in some crappy, repetitive job. Which is the only kind available, if you were wondering.
A few dull red city buses grumble and puff past, repainted American school buses operating on the piloto-ayudante system, charging 1 Quetzal (12 cents US) during the day and 2 or 3 in the evenings. Another evangelical church painted blue and covered with a cell phone company advertisement, another lazy gas station, a small computer high school. The middle-of-the-street island makes a brief appearance as 9th takes a hard right towards Trebol. Here we part ways, I take a left into the neighborhood where I work. This junction is right at the high end of a barranca which leads down towards the municipal garbage dump, the economic heart of the community where most of the families we serve live. The road branching off from 9th slopes downwards, downwards, past brick houses, partially-brick houses, plastic-sided shacks. I stay along the edge of the barranca, past the choco-banana store (there are others, but this is the "the"), left onto 6th Ave.
6th Ave. is the market street for this neighborhood, and accordingly the sidewalks are packed with stands. Hanging sausages and sides of beef, a glass-sided cart stuffed with fried chicken and fries, a blanket laid out with an assortion of Chinese-made plastic items, hanging long plastic sleeves with bootleg movies, a woman seating amidst baskets of overripe avocados, fly-buzzed tomatoes, and a few lonely pineapples. Shoppers and passerby are forced to walk in the street, constantly checking behind them for cars and massive yellow-with-inexplicable green check mark garbage trucks. On a cultural note, vehicles here have a much higher tolerance for proximity to pedestrians. Read: If you don't move, you will get hit.
I throw out a Buenos Dias to the shuffling old man who sells candy from a box, the gel-haired guy at the corner store, and the lady with her little lunch stand, wood grill, tupperwares of meat and vegetables, tall plastic packets of tostadas. I rarely eat with her, as we get a free lunch (it does exist!) in the cafeteria, but I will stop around the corner to visit a lady who studies in the Literacy class in the afternoon, sells choco-bananas out of her freezer, and baby-sits Jackelin. Jackelin is one of my favorite little toddlers who frequent Literacy with their mothers, a possesive chubby-cheeked two-year-old who speaks in one and two word sentences and giggles histerically at...at most anything.
Jackelin's mother leaves her with the choco-banana lady because she works from 7am to 7pm (30 minutes for lunch) at the maquila behind the Literacy building stitching T-shirts and shorts for less than 4 Quetzales (50 cents US) an hour. She is not allowed to take any breaks. Every day there is a production quota to meet, and if she does not meet it, she is not paid for that day. If she is sick and brings a note from the hospital, she will only be docked a week's pay. If she does not bring a note she will either be docked a month's pay or be fired outright. At 12 noon, the doors open for lunch and she runs RUNS with her 200 or so coworkers to get food and get back before 12:30pm. This maquila, as with most in the city, is run by Koreans. Koreans are not well-liked among Guatemalans. But people come from around the city to work here because, as one lady put it, "at least they pay". As in, there are other maquilas where payment is far from assured. Jackelin's mother is lucky. At least she has a steady paycheck. And she doesn't have to go down into the dangerous bowels of the municipal dump to pick and sell trash -- even though on average she would make about the same amount of money a day. And every night at 7pm, when I am finishing up with my Men's Literacy class, she can grasp Jackelin's hand in her own aching, half-arthiritic hand, and lead her, stumbling slightly, speaking in two word sentences, back down Sexta Avenida and home.
February 6, 2010
Anyone for a sandwich?
Can you imagine what it must feel like to be stuck in a small, tight, airless, dark space for hours into days -- in a deep well, under earthquake rubble, a collapsed mine, a secret prison -- and just when hope has finally vanished for good, leaving a sucking black hole leading towards death's oncoming headlights, just when that tap-tap-tap dripping sound starts again driving a screw into your mind, and all of a sudden light and human voices! break through some wall in your consciousness, and arms reach under your armpits and drag, scraping you along some rough surface, and the voices are all so loud and incomprehensible, and the light -- the sun! is so damn bright even squinting does nothing, glare blasting your face like an atomic explosion, and you think just for a second that maybe you'd like to go back into the dark stuckness to rest your eyes and maybe people would just leave you alone? That is, as long as you could take a nice sandwich with you. Nothing fancy. Roast beef, with some lettuce and tomatoes and mustard. Not even cheese. Although it would be nice, the cheese. And you think, yeah, I probably deserve some cheese, what I've just been through. Resolved: roast beef sandwich WITH CHEESE is the first thing on the list. As soon as all these people stop clapping and rustling my hair and smiling like idiots and let me go on my way. My legs too, they would have to start working. Might that take a while? And anyways, did I miss anything important while I was down there? Probably only a day or two, couldn't have been much. I should call people just to make sure, just in case, make it look like I care so much, despite all of that dark stuckness. Sandwich first, though.
I recall strongly my first day back in Guatemala, over a month ago now. It was hot. I was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt on the plane, a layer down from New York in Winter, the same blue hooded sweatshirt I've worn on chilly fall mornings in Montreal, blustery cloudy warm days in California, and now on a sweaty January afternoon in Guatemala. Managed past customs and immigration with somewhat troubling ease and stumbled towards a taxi under the weight of my two enormous bags. I got in the back, and then apologized by explaining that I had been in the States for a month and there, everyone rides in the back of taxis. He laughed, I laughed, for no particular reason except for a beautiful day in the middle of winter. I took off my sweatshirt, rolled down the window, and caught a whiff of Returning Home, the smell of which followed me all the way back to the house and through the rest of the day, an unexpected welcome.
The intervening time has been chaotic, effective, and all sorts of other adjectives that can be applied to work or the workplace. Good, though, overall. My men's literacy classes are finally up and running, our first week just completed and a planned soccer game today. It's not perfect, but it's more or less what I had expected and planned for, and seems to be going in a solid positive direction. Still lots of work left to do, but it's pro-active and not whatever the opposite of that is: anti-active? If you ain't gettin in, you just ain't.
Is there some theme, deep or wide or otherwise, that I'm missing here? Should I -- let alone Can I -- be musing about getting older at 24? Should I be debating the merits of my decisions, the ones that landed me here like a sentient tail pinned on a donkey? Should I be digging into my psyche to uncover hidden patterns or predilections, hinting at some outline of Self, brief flash of self-awareness like a shooting star overhead? Should I be delving into romantic or otherwise personal relationships, scratching through the archives, hauling crates of memories down from the attic? Should I be in the future lab, cooking up schemes, plans, contingencies, sub-contingencies?
Tentatively, for the time being, and until futher notice, I think not. I've got a soccer game today, and I could go for a sandwich.
I recall strongly my first day back in Guatemala, over a month ago now. It was hot. I was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt on the plane, a layer down from New York in Winter, the same blue hooded sweatshirt I've worn on chilly fall mornings in Montreal, blustery cloudy warm days in California, and now on a sweaty January afternoon in Guatemala. Managed past customs and immigration with somewhat troubling ease and stumbled towards a taxi under the weight of my two enormous bags. I got in the back, and then apologized by explaining that I had been in the States for a month and there, everyone rides in the back of taxis. He laughed, I laughed, for no particular reason except for a beautiful day in the middle of winter. I took off my sweatshirt, rolled down the window, and caught a whiff of Returning Home, the smell of which followed me all the way back to the house and through the rest of the day, an unexpected welcome.
The intervening time has been chaotic, effective, and all sorts of other adjectives that can be applied to work or the workplace. Good, though, overall. My men's literacy classes are finally up and running, our first week just completed and a planned soccer game today. It's not perfect, but it's more or less what I had expected and planned for, and seems to be going in a solid positive direction. Still lots of work left to do, but it's pro-active and not whatever the opposite of that is: anti-active? If you ain't gettin in, you just ain't.
Is there some theme, deep or wide or otherwise, that I'm missing here? Should I -- let alone Can I -- be musing about getting older at 24? Should I be debating the merits of my decisions, the ones that landed me here like a sentient tail pinned on a donkey? Should I be digging into my psyche to uncover hidden patterns or predilections, hinting at some outline of Self, brief flash of self-awareness like a shooting star overhead? Should I be delving into romantic or otherwise personal relationships, scratching through the archives, hauling crates of memories down from the attic? Should I be in the future lab, cooking up schemes, plans, contingencies, sub-contingencies?
Tentatively, for the time being, and until futher notice, I think not. I've got a soccer game today, and I could go for a sandwich.
December 18, 2009
Luna closes her eyes
I had been sitting in the same chair reading the same book for nearly an hour when I heard a woman scream from across the street. Usually hearing a woman scream sparks a mad cognitive dash, alerting our senses, scanning for danger, digging through rational thought piles for some reason why she might be screaming. On this night, a warm winter night in Northern California, there was no mad cognitive dash in my brain. Before even thinking about it, I knew why she was screaming.
I should apologize for any confusion. Yes, I am living in Guatemala. My home base remains there, my work, and my choco-bananas, and so on. I have come back the United States for our month-long Christmas break, spending a little over a week visiting friends in California, and will now spend a few weeks here in the New York/New Jersey area with family and friends. A fairly short and fairly busy trip, meaningful to me because it is a Visit. And therefore not a Return. It was a Return that I had been planning since the Departure (although its form was always unclear). If I needed any reminder of the choices I have made over the past year, good choices and bad choices, this Visit is it. Closing the circle, I twice stood in San Francisco International Airport with my beat blue backpack on a Sunday, almost exactly seven months apart, once departing and once arriving. Little moments.
I had my two overstuffed bags packed with clothes and other items to bring back from California sitting on the wooden floor, and I was waiting for my friend to come pick me up. I fumbled around the house a little, ate some stale tortilla chips off the kitchen table, and sat down to read my old roommate's abnormal psychology textbook. I sat with my back to the window, its curtain drawn. A loud yelp of a dog in pain, screeching of tires. The dog yelped three more times, diminuendo. I hesitated for a moment, then put the textbook face-down on the table and walked out the front door. I reached the monstrous green bushes at the edge of the property and saw the dark outline of the dog lying in the middle of the road, illuminated on one side by car headlights. There were already two people standing over the dog, and a lady was walking towards the scene from her red sports car parked up the street, the apparent culprit. I thought about going back inside, but decided -- out of morbid curiosity or altruism or both -- to walk over.
The dog, a grey female pit bull with a white belly and yellow eyes, was lying on her side facing down the street. She had a large gash on the side of her chest where it appeared the car had struck her, and there was some dark, unidentifiable material lying a feet feet behind her. When I got there her neck started to spasm as if she was trying to breathe, but failing. She spasmed a few times and then stopped moving all together, yellow eyes wide open, staring blankly at the cars as we waved them around her. There was a peripheral discussion about calling 911, or the sheriff, or animal control, and people walked around on their cell phones. The lady who had hit the dog, stood far up the driveway, frozen with her hand over her mouth. I tried to ask her about what had happened, but she remembered little, and I suggested that she go and sit in her car until the sheriff or whoever arrived. And I told her that it wasn't her fault, although it certainly could have been. She could have been talking or texting on her cell phone, playing with her iPod or car stereo, driving too fast for night time on that small two-lane road.
People filtered off after it became clear that the dog had died. I grabbed a wide piece of wood and a shovel from the basement of my old house and we moved the dog over on to the side of the road and covered it with an old nasty Christmas sweater. There was one other guy who stayed to help along with the sports-car woman. There was nothing more to do, all the authorities had been notified, and so we all left. I went back inside, and both of them drove off.
I went back outside when I heard the scream, this time with no hesitation. There was a car parked in front of the dog, and three people gathered around it. One was a middle-aged Hispanic woman, screaming, kneeling next to the body. Her brother, or boyfriend, was standing next to her, rubbing her shoulder and saying some of those consoling phrases, but mostly staring at the dog. After a few minutes he started smiling and telling her that it was enough, that they would leave the dog there and come bring her to a cremation place in the morning. I told them that their dog -- Luna -- had been brave and she had died fast, no suffering. This seemed true, but more than that, it seemed like the thing to say. As the woman's crying diminished, and she stood up, her companion knelt over and touched his head to Luna's head. He got up and smiled, and then started crying silently. He hung his head and tears dripped off his nose. "She was such a good dog," he said, "Why did she have to go running out like that?" He cried and walked away, and she talked to the sheriff, who had just arrived. The sheriff wasn't much help, but he was nice, and told them how sorry he was.
As they loaded Luna's body into the back of the pickup, I saw that her eyes were now closed, as if she had just been waiting for her family to arrive. The guy told me how he had gotten when she was still a tiny puppy. He said that if he talked about her, he would just cry more, but he talked about her anyway, because that was all there was for him, there. I tried to tell him that it was okay, because she had lived a good life with a good family, and that's all anyone could ever hope for. And he thanked me, and she thanked me, I don't know for what, and they drove away, wiping tears on their sleeves, the body of their dead dog Luna in the back of the truck, covered in a dirty blanket and a Christmas sweater, sliding along the metal floor of the truck along with pine needles and a long piece of rope, her yellow eyes closed to the world.
These writings were, or are, supposed to be broadly representative of my life and my travels. Sometimes they are, and sometimes I tell stories that simply reflect individual experiences, tiny pieces of a life lived along many lines. Do not read this post as some reflection of a dark or depressing time for me, because it is not. But we have to live life knowing that the next day may be entirely different from the day before, that any day we may lose a loved one or gain a loved one, as Luna was lost to that family that night. Somewhere else, a happy, smiling family was welcoming a tiny puppy into their life. Somewhere in the world someone was leaving home, and somewhere else, some one was returning home. It's nice to believe in Heaven or reincarnation, even if they aren't real, because then dying is just going home, and if dying is going home, then everything is going home -- in one way or another. And then we are always home.
I should apologize for any confusion. Yes, I am living in Guatemala. My home base remains there, my work, and my choco-bananas, and so on. I have come back the United States for our month-long Christmas break, spending a little over a week visiting friends in California, and will now spend a few weeks here in the New York/New Jersey area with family and friends. A fairly short and fairly busy trip, meaningful to me because it is a Visit. And therefore not a Return. It was a Return that I had been planning since the Departure (although its form was always unclear). If I needed any reminder of the choices I have made over the past year, good choices and bad choices, this Visit is it. Closing the circle, I twice stood in San Francisco International Airport with my beat blue backpack on a Sunday, almost exactly seven months apart, once departing and once arriving. Little moments.
I had my two overstuffed bags packed with clothes and other items to bring back from California sitting on the wooden floor, and I was waiting for my friend to come pick me up. I fumbled around the house a little, ate some stale tortilla chips off the kitchen table, and sat down to read my old roommate's abnormal psychology textbook. I sat with my back to the window, its curtain drawn. A loud yelp of a dog in pain, screeching of tires. The dog yelped three more times, diminuendo. I hesitated for a moment, then put the textbook face-down on the table and walked out the front door. I reached the monstrous green bushes at the edge of the property and saw the dark outline of the dog lying in the middle of the road, illuminated on one side by car headlights. There were already two people standing over the dog, and a lady was walking towards the scene from her red sports car parked up the street, the apparent culprit. I thought about going back inside, but decided -- out of morbid curiosity or altruism or both -- to walk over.
The dog, a grey female pit bull with a white belly and yellow eyes, was lying on her side facing down the street. She had a large gash on the side of her chest where it appeared the car had struck her, and there was some dark, unidentifiable material lying a feet feet behind her. When I got there her neck started to spasm as if she was trying to breathe, but failing. She spasmed a few times and then stopped moving all together, yellow eyes wide open, staring blankly at the cars as we waved them around her. There was a peripheral discussion about calling 911, or the sheriff, or animal control, and people walked around on their cell phones. The lady who had hit the dog, stood far up the driveway, frozen with her hand over her mouth. I tried to ask her about what had happened, but she remembered little, and I suggested that she go and sit in her car until the sheriff or whoever arrived. And I told her that it wasn't her fault, although it certainly could have been. She could have been talking or texting on her cell phone, playing with her iPod or car stereo, driving too fast for night time on that small two-lane road.
People filtered off after it became clear that the dog had died. I grabbed a wide piece of wood and a shovel from the basement of my old house and we moved the dog over on to the side of the road and covered it with an old nasty Christmas sweater. There was one other guy who stayed to help along with the sports-car woman. There was nothing more to do, all the authorities had been notified, and so we all left. I went back inside, and both of them drove off.
I went back outside when I heard the scream, this time with no hesitation. There was a car parked in front of the dog, and three people gathered around it. One was a middle-aged Hispanic woman, screaming, kneeling next to the body. Her brother, or boyfriend, was standing next to her, rubbing her shoulder and saying some of those consoling phrases, but mostly staring at the dog. After a few minutes he started smiling and telling her that it was enough, that they would leave the dog there and come bring her to a cremation place in the morning. I told them that their dog -- Luna -- had been brave and she had died fast, no suffering. This seemed true, but more than that, it seemed like the thing to say. As the woman's crying diminished, and she stood up, her companion knelt over and touched his head to Luna's head. He got up and smiled, and then started crying silently. He hung his head and tears dripped off his nose. "She was such a good dog," he said, "Why did she have to go running out like that?" He cried and walked away, and she talked to the sheriff, who had just arrived. The sheriff wasn't much help, but he was nice, and told them how sorry he was.
As they loaded Luna's body into the back of the pickup, I saw that her eyes were now closed, as if she had just been waiting for her family to arrive. The guy told me how he had gotten when she was still a tiny puppy. He said that if he talked about her, he would just cry more, but he talked about her anyway, because that was all there was for him, there. I tried to tell him that it was okay, because she had lived a good life with a good family, and that's all anyone could ever hope for. And he thanked me, and she thanked me, I don't know for what, and they drove away, wiping tears on their sleeves, the body of their dead dog Luna in the back of the truck, covered in a dirty blanket and a Christmas sweater, sliding along the metal floor of the truck along with pine needles and a long piece of rope, her yellow eyes closed to the world.
These writings were, or are, supposed to be broadly representative of my life and my travels. Sometimes they are, and sometimes I tell stories that simply reflect individual experiences, tiny pieces of a life lived along many lines. Do not read this post as some reflection of a dark or depressing time for me, because it is not. But we have to live life knowing that the next day may be entirely different from the day before, that any day we may lose a loved one or gain a loved one, as Luna was lost to that family that night. Somewhere else, a happy, smiling family was welcoming a tiny puppy into their life. Somewhere in the world someone was leaving home, and somewhere else, some one was returning home. It's nice to believe in Heaven or reincarnation, even if they aren't real, because then dying is just going home, and if dying is going home, then everything is going home -- in one way or another. And then we are always home.
November 24, 2009
Wind, Radiation, Pestilence, and a merry month
November is known as a windy month here in Guatemala, gusts blowing down from the mountains, up from the ocean and the valleys. This might explain how the month flew by so quickly. Seems like just yesterday I was waking up from my birthday, trying to figure out what needed to get done in this month before winter vacation and my trip back to the States. Now I've got just a little over a week left before departure. Busy, busy month, lots of goings-on in my head. A sea overflowing with emptiness.
That last bit there may have sounded sad, and I did not mean it to. I have been on a rush these past weeks, still excited about my work, still loving my situation and satisfied with large majority of my choices over the last few months. Nice to think that I am taking a trip with a return flight -- first one of those in a good while. Not to mention how fucking excited I am about the trip itself, getting to see family and good friends that have been out of sight far too long. It is an underrated pleasure, having more than one "home" -- "home" in the familiar sense, a place to relax, feel comfortable, surrounded by loved/really liked ones. Therefore, I am a lucky man.
Speaking of lucky, I went with some of my housemates and a few other friends to the beach last weekend. We arrived very late Saturday night and then left late on Sunday afternoon. Incredible. Pulling up to a little beach house-shack at 2 in the morning, stumbling out of the crowded van and realizing all at once that those smooth sounds in the distance are the sounds of night waves crashing down on the beach, and that they aren't so distant, and that taking a few steps towards those sounds leads your footfalls over rough black sand -- and everything is black at night, everything except for the 10,000 stars beaming and twinkling overhead, overwhelming your sense, craning your neck back until you can't help but lie down on the night-time sand. The shooting stars, comets, flashing through the illuminated darkness with an excited frequency. And it isn't even cold or hot, no goosebumps, enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes busy. Just a sliver of a moon paints the sky, and we fall deep asleep. Tomorrow will be a day of hot sun (yes, mom, suntan lotion too), playing childishly in the waves, beachside smoothies and a delicious lunch, running barefoot across the black sand -- now burning coals under tropical radiation. Some days there is just never enough tomorrow.
One thing I do know about tomorrow: I will be hungry. I am afflicted by pestilential hunger, latin name: hambres muchos. It is a terribly delicious disease. Day in and day out, practically non-stop desire for food, unabated by even the most filling of dishes. A never-ending presence in my mind, this Hunger. Speaking of which...
That last bit there may have sounded sad, and I did not mean it to. I have been on a rush these past weeks, still excited about my work, still loving my situation and satisfied with large majority of my choices over the last few months. Nice to think that I am taking a trip with a return flight -- first one of those in a good while. Not to mention how fucking excited I am about the trip itself, getting to see family and good friends that have been out of sight far too long. It is an underrated pleasure, having more than one "home" -- "home" in the familiar sense, a place to relax, feel comfortable, surrounded by loved/really liked ones. Therefore, I am a lucky man.
Speaking of lucky, I went with some of my housemates and a few other friends to the beach last weekend. We arrived very late Saturday night and then left late on Sunday afternoon. Incredible. Pulling up to a little beach house-shack at 2 in the morning, stumbling out of the crowded van and realizing all at once that those smooth sounds in the distance are the sounds of night waves crashing down on the beach, and that they aren't so distant, and that taking a few steps towards those sounds leads your footfalls over rough black sand -- and everything is black at night, everything except for the 10,000 stars beaming and twinkling overhead, overwhelming your sense, craning your neck back until you can't help but lie down on the night-time sand. The shooting stars, comets, flashing through the illuminated darkness with an excited frequency. And it isn't even cold or hot, no goosebumps, enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes busy. Just a sliver of a moon paints the sky, and we fall deep asleep. Tomorrow will be a day of hot sun (yes, mom, suntan lotion too), playing childishly in the waves, beachside smoothies and a delicious lunch, running barefoot across the black sand -- now burning coals under tropical radiation. Some days there is just never enough tomorrow.
One thing I do know about tomorrow: I will be hungry. I am afflicted by pestilential hunger, latin name: hambres muchos. It is a terribly delicious disease. Day in and day out, practically non-stop desire for food, unabated by even the most filling of dishes. A never-ending presence in my mind, this Hunger. Speaking of which...
November 2, 2009
In which there are celebrations, dreams, kites, and filth
I had a birthday recently, an occasion which occasions this post. A full twenty-four years have I lived, not yet a number to be proud of, or a number to fear, but still something to think about? I thought back a year to 23. I was working on the Obama campaign in Colorado Springs, less than a week from election day, and I don't remember much of a celebration or an occasion for introspection, reflection, etc. Probably some drinks with co-workers and a nice dinner with my Colorado host family (something like that). Crazy to think of how my life has changed in the intervening 12 months -- no way I could have imagined where I would be today. I had an inkling that things needed to change, that I could not just go back to California and my old job after Election Day, and some kind of international flavor was floating through my mental nostrils. But that was just a faint faraway premonition. Can I build some kind of logical equation to predict/decide my future?
Where I thought I would be : Where I am
Where I think I will be : Where I will be
This morning -- a Monday -- I boarded a bus bound for Guatemala City with the rest of the volunteers in Antigua. I was feeling the effects of the weekend. It was a full feeling, vague and circumspect satisfaction, hungover exhaustion, a shiny red apple with an unseen worm gnawing its way through. Please assign no blame to my communication skills; if those feelings seem illogical or ill-fitting, it's only because they are.
Saturday, the anniversary of my emergence from the womb, began with a great pancake breakfast prepared by my awesome housemates. A big pile of pancakes with three pink lit candles stuck on top, fruit, honey, and warm strawberry syrup on the side. If only every day could start that way (but I will settle for this twenty-fifth year starting off on the good foot). We went to the used clothes market to find some Halloween costumes. Convenience factor: This market also boasts a superb pupusa stand -- 4 Quetzales, less than 50 cents, each. Without embarrassment I will inform you kind readers that the five of us dressed as the Spice Girls for that night's Halloween party, with yours truly as Scary Spice. Somewhere out there in Internet-World there are pictures (too many). I won't attempt a description of our costumes; either find the pictures or use your damn imagination.
Sunday brought me to Santiago Sacatepequez for the annual Dia de los Muertos kite festival. The town was overcrowded with tourists and delicious looking street food. The local cementary is the locus for the kite festival, which includes everything from little children's kites to massive 100-foot kites which could only be flown under gale-force conditions. According to a source, the kites serve as some sort of communicative conduit between the dead underfoot and heaven high above. Unclear where this idea comes from, but the festival (and accompanying grilled pork treats) was clearly worth the trip.
Sunday night took my back to the house of my host family in Antigua, where we sang Happy Birthday and drank rum. I mixed mine with hot water, which proved a suitable mixture. More drinking at a bar while rain poured down in defiance of the supposed "dry" season, then on to an expensive dinner, a few hours of sleep, and an early morning rise to catch the aforementioned bus. I may be the only one who can truly read between the lines here, but that is my divine right as author.
I enjoy thinking, wondering about where I may be one year from now. I enjoy thinking that I may still be here, because I know that if that is the case, I will have stayed because I truly wanted to, and because I was accomplishing a great deal at work and enjoying my living situations. I also enjoy thinking that I may be somewhere else entirely, because there are so many options, so many greener pastures, each a different shade and with its own peculiar odor. A year is a long enough time for my imagination to fade the effects of any current anxieties or troubles -- by then I will certainly have resolved them. Surely there are trials and tribulations along every path, thorns in every rose bush, and things could conceivably be much worse for me in one year's time (or less!). Pandora closed her box just in time to save Hope, free to project our aspirations, our fantastical iterations onto the white wall of the future.
I step forward, urged onwards by hunger and not desperation or fear. My feet may occassionally land in mud, but without a little filth what meaning hath cleanliness?
Where I thought I would be : Where I am
Where I think I will be : Where I will be
This morning -- a Monday -- I boarded a bus bound for Guatemala City with the rest of the volunteers in Antigua. I was feeling the effects of the weekend. It was a full feeling, vague and circumspect satisfaction, hungover exhaustion, a shiny red apple with an unseen worm gnawing its way through. Please assign no blame to my communication skills; if those feelings seem illogical or ill-fitting, it's only because they are.
Saturday, the anniversary of my emergence from the womb, began with a great pancake breakfast prepared by my awesome housemates. A big pile of pancakes with three pink lit candles stuck on top, fruit, honey, and warm strawberry syrup on the side. If only every day could start that way (but I will settle for this twenty-fifth year starting off on the good foot). We went to the used clothes market to find some Halloween costumes. Convenience factor: This market also boasts a superb pupusa stand -- 4 Quetzales, less than 50 cents, each. Without embarrassment I will inform you kind readers that the five of us dressed as the Spice Girls for that night's Halloween party, with yours truly as Scary Spice. Somewhere out there in Internet-World there are pictures (too many). I won't attempt a description of our costumes; either find the pictures or use your damn imagination.
Sunday brought me to Santiago Sacatepequez for the annual Dia de los Muertos kite festival. The town was overcrowded with tourists and delicious looking street food. The local cementary is the locus for the kite festival, which includes everything from little children's kites to massive 100-foot kites which could only be flown under gale-force conditions. According to a source, the kites serve as some sort of communicative conduit between the dead underfoot and heaven high above. Unclear where this idea comes from, but the festival (and accompanying grilled pork treats) was clearly worth the trip.
Sunday night took my back to the house of my host family in Antigua, where we sang Happy Birthday and drank rum. I mixed mine with hot water, which proved a suitable mixture. More drinking at a bar while rain poured down in defiance of the supposed "dry" season, then on to an expensive dinner, a few hours of sleep, and an early morning rise to catch the aforementioned bus. I may be the only one who can truly read between the lines here, but that is my divine right as author.
I enjoy thinking, wondering about where I may be one year from now. I enjoy thinking that I may still be here, because I know that if that is the case, I will have stayed because I truly wanted to, and because I was accomplishing a great deal at work and enjoying my living situations. I also enjoy thinking that I may be somewhere else entirely, because there are so many options, so many greener pastures, each a different shade and with its own peculiar odor. A year is a long enough time for my imagination to fade the effects of any current anxieties or troubles -- by then I will certainly have resolved them. Surely there are trials and tribulations along every path, thorns in every rose bush, and things could conceivably be much worse for me in one year's time (or less!). Pandora closed her box just in time to save Hope, free to project our aspirations, our fantastical iterations onto the white wall of the future.
I step forward, urged onwards by hunger and not desperation or fear. My feet may occassionally land in mud, but without a little filth what meaning hath cleanliness?
October 12, 2009
In which not much happens; but go ahead and read on anyway
Having things set for a while gives me time to reflect. By reflect, I mean to say that I look back over what I have done in recent times, over the gap that exists between where I thought I would be now and where I am. To say reflect in that sense is to mean "think about the past", a definition distinct from the type of reflection which involves light or other waves bouncing off surfaces. However in order to remember what I had thought, felt, experienced, I must use those surfaces to reflect the light of my current thought and my current situation. The present is constantly emitting these waves of memory back to the past, the reflection of which forms the basis for my reflection of thought.
As I was saying before the interlude of philosophical gibberish, things are set for a while. I am staying here in Guatemala, working at Camino Seguro, assisting in the Volunteer Office and building/teaching the Men's Literacy Program. I am living in a house here in Guatemala City, a house with cool folks and a sweet roof and I have no plan on moving any time soon. I will be coming back to the States over our December Break, and I am certainly looking forward to that. I am confident in staying, as here I have found a nice living-being situation, and fulfilling work which is challenging, largely self-directed, and vaguely follows my vague career lines.
After a solid month or so of intense future-plan attempts, the past few weeks have been a nice interlude of oblivion. At some point I'll get back to analyzing options and that kind of shit, but for now I am sailing smoothconfidenteasily. My housemates and I spent last weekend at Lake Atitlan, did some relaxing, drinking, kayaking, and got caught in one of the last outbursts of our rainy season. Met up with my friend Louise for a second, and got a little bit sunburned but not the least bit hungover.
At some and various points in the coming years I will be able to look back on this time and remember it with nostalgia. I don't know where I'll be at those points, have only a vague idea of who I'll be, but I am sure of what I will feel. I talked with a man today who is interested in signing up for men's literacy class. We sat in my office. He is 56 years old and works collecting trash at the municipal dump. He wears a baseball cap over his long ruffled curly hair streaked with grey. He is a very thin man with a muscular chest and a leather back support tied around his waist. His face is haggard at best, but his coffee-colored eyes stand out under bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. He talks at length, and every topic seems to provoke his interest. He listens attently as well, and shifts his weight sitting on the sofa in the office. It is hard to follow some of what he says, a mixture of the esoteric nature of his commentary and my own lack of Spanish fluency. I strain my ears to catch every piece, to put together the puzzle. "If I told the story of my life, it might put you to sleep," he says, "When I think of my life, it makes me cry." There he pauses, perhaps for effect, perhaps fighting off a rush of memory.
I did not get to hear the story of his life, perhaps I did not want to. The pain of others can only be held at arms' length for so long. But why would the story put me to sleep and make him cry? Because the people that died were people he knew, he cared about, loved, and to me they are just names. Because when he remembers nights spent on cold street corners, he remembers how the biting wind and solitude stung him all over and ached in his bones. But this is not about how he lived his life in poverty and I did not. I am writing this now, and I can write about him because he came into my life, perhaps only briefly, but hopefully not. If I do not write about myself, I can only write fiction, and that is not what interests me here.
There is no neat summary here, at least not one I have the capability or disposition to think up. Even if I could understand the passage of time, the importance of memory, the meaning of living in a world of such extremes, even I had all the answers, nothing else would change. The apple falls from the tree, just the same whether it hits Newton's head or not. I, for one, do not even want to know the answers, let alone have them. Quasi-ignorance is semi-bliss.
As I was saying before the interlude of philosophical gibberish, things are set for a while. I am staying here in Guatemala, working at Camino Seguro, assisting in the Volunteer Office and building/teaching the Men's Literacy Program. I am living in a house here in Guatemala City, a house with cool folks and a sweet roof and I have no plan on moving any time soon. I will be coming back to the States over our December Break, and I am certainly looking forward to that. I am confident in staying, as here I have found a nice living-being situation, and fulfilling work which is challenging, largely self-directed, and vaguely follows my vague career lines.
After a solid month or so of intense future-plan attempts, the past few weeks have been a nice interlude of oblivion. At some point I'll get back to analyzing options and that kind of shit, but for now I am sailing smoothconfidenteasily. My housemates and I spent last weekend at Lake Atitlan, did some relaxing, drinking, kayaking, and got caught in one of the last outbursts of our rainy season. Met up with my friend Louise for a second, and got a little bit sunburned but not the least bit hungover.
At some and various points in the coming years I will be able to look back on this time and remember it with nostalgia. I don't know where I'll be at those points, have only a vague idea of who I'll be, but I am sure of what I will feel. I talked with a man today who is interested in signing up for men's literacy class. We sat in my office. He is 56 years old and works collecting trash at the municipal dump. He wears a baseball cap over his long ruffled curly hair streaked with grey. He is a very thin man with a muscular chest and a leather back support tied around his waist. His face is haggard at best, but his coffee-colored eyes stand out under bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. He talks at length, and every topic seems to provoke his interest. He listens attently as well, and shifts his weight sitting on the sofa in the office. It is hard to follow some of what he says, a mixture of the esoteric nature of his commentary and my own lack of Spanish fluency. I strain my ears to catch every piece, to put together the puzzle. "If I told the story of my life, it might put you to sleep," he says, "When I think of my life, it makes me cry." There he pauses, perhaps for effect, perhaps fighting off a rush of memory.
I did not get to hear the story of his life, perhaps I did not want to. The pain of others can only be held at arms' length for so long. But why would the story put me to sleep and make him cry? Because the people that died were people he knew, he cared about, loved, and to me they are just names. Because when he remembers nights spent on cold street corners, he remembers how the biting wind and solitude stung him all over and ached in his bones. But this is not about how he lived his life in poverty and I did not. I am writing this now, and I can write about him because he came into my life, perhaps only briefly, but hopefully not. If I do not write about myself, I can only write fiction, and that is not what interests me here.
There is no neat summary here, at least not one I have the capability or disposition to think up. Even if I could understand the passage of time, the importance of memory, the meaning of living in a world of such extremes, even I had all the answers, nothing else would change. The apple falls from the tree, just the same whether it hits Newton's head or not. I, for one, do not even want to know the answers, let alone have them. Quasi-ignorance is semi-bliss.
September 22, 2009
In which I get a hair-cut and take a vacation
It has been a good long while since my last entry. As expected, things are different and things are the same. I let certain things drift away, and pulled other things closer. I got my hair cut and took my first Guatemalan vacation. I ate and drank, and sometimes made my stomach unhappy. Sure: I tried to think some Big Thoughts, but found that the future can be a wet bar of soap in the hands of rationality and logic. Which explains why I've had some shower-free days recently. Doesn't it?
Work continues unabated, and this month promises to happily fill up my schedule. We've got our 10th Anniversary celebration mid-October, and there's plenty of things to organize and plenty of crazy stressed-out rants to listen to. I might even get my own rant! I've got some other time-intensive projects as well, and I should be starting to help out with our Men's Literacy class next week. Should be a well-needed challenge, hopefully.
Next week I will also be moving out of the home I have been staying in since arriving in Antigua two months ago, and moving into a house in Guatemala City. The other residents are 4 girls who I know through work, and 2 guys who I don't know. I am looking forward to this: A chance to cook. A chance to live in a new place. A chance to hang out with cool people. All this of which I am a fan. I am, however, not a fan of sad goodbyes, which is what I will have when I leave Amparo and Lili, my host family in Antigua. I will be letting them know about my plans tonight. I am not ready for tears, at all. No.
In a crying-free segment, I took a trip last week over our Guatemalan Independence Day long weekend to visit my friend Louise at Lago Atitlan. This was an excellent trip:
I arrived at Lago "Lake" Atitlan early Saturday morning in a collective van -- that is so say, collectively, I was the only passenger. The van took me to Panajachel, the only major town on the lake. From there I boarded a lancha to ferry me over to Santiago Atitlan, a smaller town on the opposite side of the lake. Lady Luck provided me with a bright, clear morning, and we zipped across the calm waters, staring out at the volcanoes which ring the lake, the fluffy dancing clouds streaked across the blue sky. The color of the water is nothing short of magical. It is a dark blue which seems almost alive, as if there is some primordial light-energy held captive under the waves, waiting to burst through and let us know that everything, everything is going to be OK. And yet we are content to just know that it is down there, below the reeds, the shimmying fish, the murky monsters of the imagination, way down -- but still there.
I spent three nights with Louise and her doctors friends at Chez Medicos (Fact Check: I just made that name up), a ridiculously nice house with property stretching down to the lake. They are an international group of doctors and med students volunteering at the local Hospitalito Atitlan, a 5 minute walk down the dirt path towards town. These were all also excellent people, and I felt very much at home during my time there. We cooked dinners, lounged around during the heavy afternoon rains, watched movies on laptops, and played with their dog and cat. The two animals did not get along, but the humans did with only minimal assistance from beer. We also pulled off some rightful trespassing in order to jump off a dock into the lake. I decapitated a scorpion with my shoe. Louise and I took a short sojourn to nearby San Pedro for ice cream and booze. In fact: that was not the original purpose of the trip. But plans change. We met some of San Pedro's more upstanding citizens, had some nice lounging and chatting time overlooking the lake, and one of us learned about staphilococcus and listeria (I learned the easy way, Louise was forced to remember the hard way). I decided to stay a little longer back at Chez Medicos, and so took the super-early bus back to Guatemala City on Wednesday morning. In summation: an awesome long weekend. And I decapitated a scorpion with my shoe. In case you missed that first mention of my coolness.
I wonder if many of you readers have had the experience of another person trimming your moustache. Not to be missed. I could barely control my laughter while "Willy" took his trimmers to my upper lip. I tried to use the old "think of something horrible" trick. But it's hard to concentrate on anything when someone is trimming your moustache. This is the sort of information we need to be passing on to our children.
If it wasn't clear from earlier comments, I am moving towards spending more time down here in Guatemala -- almost certainly until the end of the year. I will start receiving a stipend, which should cover most of my monthly expenses. Assuming, of course, that I continue with my diet of fried rat tacos and moldy-green refried beans. With vulture blood and cilantro salsa. Mmmmmm...
Just kidding about the food. But I will be staying here longer. I don't know that my life is any less up in the air than it was before. Still all questions and no answers. But is getting older finding answers, or just becoming more accustomed to not having them?
On that note...
day 127
Work continues unabated, and this month promises to happily fill up my schedule. We've got our 10th Anniversary celebration mid-October, and there's plenty of things to organize and plenty of crazy stressed-out rants to listen to. I might even get my own rant! I've got some other time-intensive projects as well, and I should be starting to help out with our Men's Literacy class next week. Should be a well-needed challenge, hopefully.
Next week I will also be moving out of the home I have been staying in since arriving in Antigua two months ago, and moving into a house in Guatemala City. The other residents are 4 girls who I know through work, and 2 guys who I don't know. I am looking forward to this: A chance to cook. A chance to live in a new place. A chance to hang out with cool people. All this of which I am a fan. I am, however, not a fan of sad goodbyes, which is what I will have when I leave Amparo and Lili, my host family in Antigua. I will be letting them know about my plans tonight. I am not ready for tears, at all. No.
In a crying-free segment, I took a trip last week over our Guatemalan Independence Day long weekend to visit my friend Louise at Lago Atitlan. This was an excellent trip:
I arrived at Lago "Lake" Atitlan early Saturday morning in a collective van -- that is so say, collectively, I was the only passenger. The van took me to Panajachel, the only major town on the lake. From there I boarded a lancha to ferry me over to Santiago Atitlan, a smaller town on the opposite side of the lake. Lady Luck provided me with a bright, clear morning, and we zipped across the calm waters, staring out at the volcanoes which ring the lake, the fluffy dancing clouds streaked across the blue sky. The color of the water is nothing short of magical. It is a dark blue which seems almost alive, as if there is some primordial light-energy held captive under the waves, waiting to burst through and let us know that everything, everything is going to be OK. And yet we are content to just know that it is down there, below the reeds, the shimmying fish, the murky monsters of the imagination, way down -- but still there.
I spent three nights with Louise and her doctors friends at Chez Medicos (Fact Check: I just made that name up), a ridiculously nice house with property stretching down to the lake. They are an international group of doctors and med students volunteering at the local Hospitalito Atitlan, a 5 minute walk down the dirt path towards town. These were all also excellent people, and I felt very much at home during my time there. We cooked dinners, lounged around during the heavy afternoon rains, watched movies on laptops, and played with their dog and cat. The two animals did not get along, but the humans did with only minimal assistance from beer. We also pulled off some rightful trespassing in order to jump off a dock into the lake. I decapitated a scorpion with my shoe. Louise and I took a short sojourn to nearby San Pedro for ice cream and booze. In fact: that was not the original purpose of the trip. But plans change. We met some of San Pedro's more upstanding citizens, had some nice lounging and chatting time overlooking the lake, and one of us learned about staphilococcus and listeria (I learned the easy way, Louise was forced to remember the hard way). I decided to stay a little longer back at Chez Medicos, and so took the super-early bus back to Guatemala City on Wednesday morning. In summation: an awesome long weekend. And I decapitated a scorpion with my shoe. In case you missed that first mention of my coolness.
I wonder if many of you readers have had the experience of another person trimming your moustache. Not to be missed. I could barely control my laughter while "Willy" took his trimmers to my upper lip. I tried to use the old "think of something horrible" trick. But it's hard to concentrate on anything when someone is trimming your moustache. This is the sort of information we need to be passing on to our children.
If it wasn't clear from earlier comments, I am moving towards spending more time down here in Guatemala -- almost certainly until the end of the year. I will start receiving a stipend, which should cover most of my monthly expenses. Assuming, of course, that I continue with my diet of fried rat tacos and moldy-green refried beans. With vulture blood and cilantro salsa. Mmmmmm...
Just kidding about the food. But I will be staying here longer. I don't know that my life is any less up in the air than it was before. Still all questions and no answers. But is getting older finding answers, or just becoming more accustomed to not having them?
On that note...
day 127
August 29, 2009
Day 103: Untitled, Fifth Week in Antigua
It's pouring here. The rain is coming down in sheets, an unwavering torrent, God's unending rain stick. But don't stop your imagination there. Thunder echoes across the whole valley, seeming to be right overhead no matter where you stand, coming down like an acoustic load of bricks. And lightning, flashing through the green and white plastic roof, sending digital hiccups through the computer screen. The rain grows quiet, almost fading into the background, subsumed under the light Guatemalan guitar music coming from the front of the cafe. Then BOOMSSH and the rain begins its crescendo, rising, pouding on the roof, splashing full in the cobblestone streets. Experience over the last week tells me it will be over within the hour, becoming intermittent over the afternoon into evening, allowing us mortals to rally and group together for a Saturday night. Blessed rain gods know how to put on a show.
For reasons I am still just grasping at, it has been a low key week. Things seem to be settling, even though nothing is settled. Listless, bound for a port whose name and location has been smudged into oblivion. This is the kind of situation I hate: not knowing where to go next, confronted with endless mediocre options, separated from the people closest to me, faced with the fact that no matter how little I do today tomorrow will still arrive just as quick. Apollo does not wait on me. And yet...the other shoe has not dropped. Would it be too much of a metaphor-stretch to say that "it is still tied tightly onto my foot"? I would leave it out, but there's no accounting for taste. I will let my Venerable Readers choose for themselves. Go on, choose.
I thoroughly enjoyed teaching English this week. I can't say I was the most organized teacher, as most of my "lesson plans" were devised on the two-minute walk from my office to the classroom. Regardless, I think I restored some enthusiasm to English classes -- when I began the week the students all groaned "No English!" when they learned my purpose in the class, but by the end of the week they had removed the "No" and turned their groans into simple statements of fact. Success is relative. We did a bunch of vocabulary exercises, and then I played boys vs. girls games with the older kids (around 13-15) and did drawings with the younger kids (around 7-9). Office work was good too, although not quite as invigorating as the previous week. I am in the process of creating some new projects to re-infuse myself with enthusiasm. On that note: Is it actually possible to "re-infuse" something or someone? I don't see why not, but I have not actually ever heard that conjunction before. Just a thought.
Another sad goodbye this week, this time to my English doctor friend, she is off to work at a hospital a few hours away. The other guy who moved into our house will be leaving on Monday, and with only a few days next week with my young Canadian friend, I may be left alone. A recipe for disaster? O una receta para exito? Only Time will tell...
This morning, when it was still brightsunnyhot, I went for a nice, long walk. Walked to the end of a road in a small town a few miles outside Antigua. Some kids were playing soccer with a plastic red ball. A few men were putting together the foundations of a concrete house. A woman sat out on the step with her small child, both squinting at me as I walked by. The road ended there, and so I walked back from whence I had come, and ran into some bolos -- Guatemalan for drunks. After a short discussion with them, I continued on to a park of ruins near the Antigua bus "station" (actually just a big dusty lot which smells of burnt oil and cancer). The park, on the other hand, was beautiful. Once upon a time there was a huge monastery there, a monastery which collapsed during one or several earthquakes many centuries ago. Enormous chunks of brick and stone had fallen during the earthquake(s), and there they remain, littering the main courtyard and scattered around the park. I strolled quietly through the empty, ceiling-less rooms, the ground covered with hard moss and the walls scratched with grafitti. For a while there was no one else, and then I ran into a family playing soccer in one of the spaces in the back. And then there were two teenagers making out in the main courtyard, pressed against a fifty-ton fallen chunk. I regret not bringing my camera, I will go back and get some pictures before I leave.
Which will be......
For reasons I am still just grasping at, it has been a low key week. Things seem to be settling, even though nothing is settled. Listless, bound for a port whose name and location has been smudged into oblivion. This is the kind of situation I hate: not knowing where to go next, confronted with endless mediocre options, separated from the people closest to me, faced with the fact that no matter how little I do today tomorrow will still arrive just as quick. Apollo does not wait on me. And yet...the other shoe has not dropped. Would it be too much of a metaphor-stretch to say that "it is still tied tightly onto my foot"? I would leave it out, but there's no accounting for taste. I will let my Venerable Readers choose for themselves. Go on, choose.
I thoroughly enjoyed teaching English this week. I can't say I was the most organized teacher, as most of my "lesson plans" were devised on the two-minute walk from my office to the classroom. Regardless, I think I restored some enthusiasm to English classes -- when I began the week the students all groaned "No English!" when they learned my purpose in the class, but by the end of the week they had removed the "No" and turned their groans into simple statements of fact. Success is relative. We did a bunch of vocabulary exercises, and then I played boys vs. girls games with the older kids (around 13-15) and did drawings with the younger kids (around 7-9). Office work was good too, although not quite as invigorating as the previous week. I am in the process of creating some new projects to re-infuse myself with enthusiasm. On that note: Is it actually possible to "re-infuse" something or someone? I don't see why not, but I have not actually ever heard that conjunction before. Just a thought.
Another sad goodbye this week, this time to my English doctor friend, she is off to work at a hospital a few hours away. The other guy who moved into our house will be leaving on Monday, and with only a few days next week with my young Canadian friend, I may be left alone. A recipe for disaster? O una receta para exito? Only Time will tell...
This morning, when it was still brightsunnyhot, I went for a nice, long walk. Walked to the end of a road in a small town a few miles outside Antigua. Some kids were playing soccer with a plastic red ball. A few men were putting together the foundations of a concrete house. A woman sat out on the step with her small child, both squinting at me as I walked by. The road ended there, and so I walked back from whence I had come, and ran into some bolos -- Guatemalan for drunks. After a short discussion with them, I continued on to a park of ruins near the Antigua bus "station" (actually just a big dusty lot which smells of burnt oil and cancer). The park, on the other hand, was beautiful. Once upon a time there was a huge monastery there, a monastery which collapsed during one or several earthquakes many centuries ago. Enormous chunks of brick and stone had fallen during the earthquake(s), and there they remain, littering the main courtyard and scattered around the park. I strolled quietly through the empty, ceiling-less rooms, the ground covered with hard moss and the walls scratched with grafitti. For a while there was no one else, and then I ran into a family playing soccer in one of the spaces in the back. And then there were two teenagers making out in the main courtyard, pressed against a fifty-ton fallen chunk. I regret not bringing my camera, I will go back and get some pictures before I leave.
Which will be......
August 23, 2009
Day 98: The Beginning of the Middle. Or, Fourth Week in Antigua
It is Sunday now, a nice heavy day of rest. Feels necessary after this past week, not one of the better ones. I began to question my plans, so recently set in stone -- and now seeming shaky and precarious. Indulge my metaphor: Once the Golden Gate bridge, now a twisting rope bridge (the kind that always breaks in the movies). I did not get a job that I wanted, encountered the swift end of a personal relationship, and wondered once again why I had left solid American ground in the first place. Having rained a good deal last week I spent the nights in bed swatting mosquitoes and self-doubt away from my head. A bridge too far on that one?
To be honest -- a presumption to which, Oh Faithful Reader, I know you have already jumped -- it hasn't been so bad as might be gleaned from that first paragraph. I've had a fairly good time, challenging myself to satisfaction at work, spending quality laughing/drinking time with my housemates and host family, and overall I've been able to avoid most of those "dwell on shit" traps that tend to accompany periods of transition and bad news like the one that currently sits on me. Disclaimer: As far as I am concerned, one does not need to drink to laugh, and one can certainly drink without being spurred to laughter. I associated these two verbs earlier in this paragraph simply to save space.
Now for some filler.
Despite spending most of my time at work in the office, I was called in to a classroom on Friday morning to "teach" a group of teenagers -- their teacher was absent. Me, a substitute teacher! What a Hoot! It was surprisingly easy -- no fights to break up, my main task was finding something for the kids to do because there was nobody in the library or computer room to give them supplies and resources for their homework. We played some hangman, talked some geometry, and discussed their future dream jobs. This coming week I will be teaching English as well as working in the office. I is gon teech dem chidrins reel gud, an dey is gon speek inglitch lak gosh durn americuns, jus lak we be speekin! Dey tells me edjumakashun is dey onliest tickut out da pahvurty dey is in hear!
As implied earlier, myself and my house mates have also done some partying, both at the house and at local bars and sidewalks. Unfortunately we don't have much time left together before the house empties out, leaving me to my own devices. Speaking of devices: my Ronaldiño sandals have passed on to Foot-ware Heaven after some particularly malicious behavior on the part of one of my housemates. We also celebrated our host sister's birthday with a late night flick and saw an extremely short woman at the supermarket. Today I hit up the All You Can Eat pancakes again, which continues to be an excellent choice in many respects. A little low on reading material again. Running out of filler here.
My best guess is that I will stay here, doing the same shit, for at least a few more weeks, during which time I will hopefully locate a job. My high preference would certainly be to return to the Bay Area as soon as possible, but that future is a little foggier than it has been for the past few months. There are other options...although I should warn you (read: myself) that every option is both uncertain and possible. This is not a recipe for easy sleeping. Writing the word "recipe", I realize that, unlike most posts, this one will not end with me splitting to munch some grub. My stomach is full and at least temporarily, content. My mind, unlike my stomach, has only a long-distance relationship with pancakes -- but "full" and "temporarily content" can just as well describe my mental state.
I wonder what's for lunch?
To be honest -- a presumption to which, Oh Faithful Reader, I know you have already jumped -- it hasn't been so bad as might be gleaned from that first paragraph. I've had a fairly good time, challenging myself to satisfaction at work, spending quality laughing/drinking time with my housemates and host family, and overall I've been able to avoid most of those "dwell on shit" traps that tend to accompany periods of transition and bad news like the one that currently sits on me. Disclaimer: As far as I am concerned, one does not need to drink to laugh, and one can certainly drink without being spurred to laughter. I associated these two verbs earlier in this paragraph simply to save space.
Now for some filler.
Despite spending most of my time at work in the office, I was called in to a classroom on Friday morning to "teach" a group of teenagers -- their teacher was absent. Me, a substitute teacher! What a Hoot! It was surprisingly easy -- no fights to break up, my main task was finding something for the kids to do because there was nobody in the library or computer room to give them supplies and resources for their homework. We played some hangman, talked some geometry, and discussed their future dream jobs. This coming week I will be teaching English as well as working in the office. I is gon teech dem chidrins reel gud, an dey is gon speek inglitch lak gosh durn americuns, jus lak we be speekin! Dey tells me edjumakashun is dey onliest tickut out da pahvurty dey is in hear!
As implied earlier, myself and my house mates have also done some partying, both at the house and at local bars and sidewalks. Unfortunately we don't have much time left together before the house empties out, leaving me to my own devices. Speaking of devices: my Ronaldiño sandals have passed on to Foot-ware Heaven after some particularly malicious behavior on the part of one of my housemates. We also celebrated our host sister's birthday with a late night flick and saw an extremely short woman at the supermarket. Today I hit up the All You Can Eat pancakes again, which continues to be an excellent choice in many respects. A little low on reading material again. Running out of filler here.
My best guess is that I will stay here, doing the same shit, for at least a few more weeks, during which time I will hopefully locate a job. My high preference would certainly be to return to the Bay Area as soon as possible, but that future is a little foggier than it has been for the past few months. There are other options...although I should warn you (read: myself) that every option is both uncertain and possible. This is not a recipe for easy sleeping. Writing the word "recipe", I realize that, unlike most posts, this one will not end with me splitting to munch some grub. My stomach is full and at least temporarily, content. My mind, unlike my stomach, has only a long-distance relationship with pancakes -- but "full" and "temporarily content" can just as well describe my mental state.
I wonder what's for lunch?
August 12, 2009
Day 88: Second Week in Antigua
Last Tuesday, on a day of no particular import, I decided to sneak into a jazz club. I had found a listing for a jazz trio playing somewhat nearby. Walking solo down the cobblestone streets of Antigua, battered but proud old houses shining in the moon light, a quick chill and a quick step. The club was fancy. I mean, shirt and tie and whiskey-glass fancy. The real deal. Covered in nothing but a ratty blue hooded sweatshirt, I stole through the front doors to take a look. There lay a small, greened patio area, off to the right the entrance to the music room. A group of three middle-aged women, beckoned by the maitre'd, shuffled off through the patio towards the music room. I followed, half-attempting to fit in with middle-aged women and half-attempting to retain a shadow of cool for myself. A little bit of confidence in my step, I pulled off the ladies and took a seat at the bar, turning the stool to face the players. A tall British sax-man, white silk jacket, but he could blow, subtle strong stuff. A bored looking bass player, twinkling his pudgy fingers around the massive instrument. A jovial, overweight pianist, shirt stretched against his body, thick glasses, making it look easy on the keys. I leaned myself against the bar and enjoyed it, sucked it in. After a few nice classic numbers, a pale white guy with a crew cut and a black bag went up and talked to the Brit sax-man, then pulled a misshapen trumpet out of his bag, and proceeded to join them for a few songs. Pale Face had some game. Some nice trading back and forth between him and sax-man. When they all took a break, I took mine, and sauntered back to my lodgings. Is "sauntered" too immodest? You get the picture. I looked up at the moon, and I thought about how that moon was the same moon I would see once I got back to the States, the same moon that hung above when I was born, same moon as I may hold my own kids under, same moon we'll all die under. Comforting, that thought, that night.
I'll spare you the drab details of my last week or so and just hit the highlights. All of the Camino Seguro volunteers did karoake on the bus. It'd be hard to imagine such a scene without experiencing it first-hand: A bus full of gringos zinging slowly through Guatemala City traffic, some gringas at the front, belting out "Build Me Up Buttercup" into a huge fake plastic microphone. No, it was something to be seen. Heard?
Also had a job interview on Monday, which went very well, and technology cooperated. Which is not its custom, in my experience. Spent today pretending to be a statistician, a real good time. Microsoft Excel never saw me comin'. In general, Work continues to be fun, three weeks in.
I am starting to feel the Return coming, growing bigger and nearer while I sleep. It is a comfort, but it brings up lots of questions about what my life will be when I am Back, and whether it, or for that matter, I, will be different than before. But I still Look Forward.
Note for the future: They have these choco-bananas here, which are basically frozen bananas dipped in chocolate, and then re-frozen. So simple and so incredibly pleasing to eat. Just some food for thought. Mmmm...
I'll spare you the drab details of my last week or so and just hit the highlights. All of the Camino Seguro volunteers did karoake on the bus. It'd be hard to imagine such a scene without experiencing it first-hand: A bus full of gringos zinging slowly through Guatemala City traffic, some gringas at the front, belting out "Build Me Up Buttercup" into a huge fake plastic microphone. No, it was something to be seen. Heard?
Also had a job interview on Monday, which went very well, and technology cooperated. Which is not its custom, in my experience. Spent today pretending to be a statistician, a real good time. Microsoft Excel never saw me comin'. In general, Work continues to be fun, three weeks in.
I am starting to feel the Return coming, growing bigger and nearer while I sleep. It is a comfort, but it brings up lots of questions about what my life will be when I am Back, and whether it, or for that matter, I, will be different than before. But I still Look Forward.
Note for the future: They have these choco-bananas here, which are basically frozen bananas dipped in chocolate, and then re-frozen. So simple and so incredibly pleasing to eat. Just some food for thought. Mmmm...
August 2, 2009
Day 78: First Week in Antigua
Many apologies for the delay. Okay, just a few apologies. Sincere, though. As I am now working, at least in an unpaid iteration, my desire to spend more time plugging away at a keyboard has decreased. And as I am no longer traveling, the number of crazy stories I have to share has also decreased. Have yet to be mugged here, yet to take a boat anywhere, yet to wake up on a beautiful beach or suffer from diahrrea. Nothing worth writing about...?
Life seems to go on, whether we like it or not. And so I began my volunteer stint at Camino Seguro last Monday and spent the week rising early and returning late, adjusting my gear settings from "Boisterous Adventurism" to "Routine". I will remind readers at this point that such a change in gear settings was my desire, my choice, to move myself for a purpose beyond survival and taking pictures. To dive into Work; grand projects, and workplace drama, and repetitive tasks, and all that Good stuff.
My time at Camino Seguro is split between assisting in the Volunteer office and working directly with the kids who attend their school. But let's back up a second.
Camino Seguro is a non-profit which operates educational programs in Guatemala City, in a very poor area near the city dump (where thousands of people work every day collecting other people's garbage to sell, and thereby make enough money to hopefully feed their families and not die in the mean time from the methane gas which hovers around the dump). Within Camino Seguro there are programs for every age group -- a nursery school for littl'uns, supplementary school programs for primary and secondary school kids, and literacy programs for adults. Compared to most any other educational programs in the country, Camino Seguro is a genius paradise. Not to say that their programs are perfect, but in country where most schools only function half a day (and never five days a week) in dilapidated buildings with unqualified teachers and bare-bones government support, the resources of Camino Seguro are nothing short of a blessing. The buildings are new and well maintained, the school functions Monday to Friday, all day, and the teachers (for the most part) are qualified and committed. There are usually a few dozen international volunteers at any point working in the programs, assisting teachers or other program staff.
Back to me. I got assigned to work in the afternoon with a particularly difficult class of teenagers, which makes my work a bit harder than those volunteers assigned to toddlers or jumpy elementary school kids, but also gives me the challenge I wanted. Working with teenagers is also helpful for my Spanish skills, including some great Guatemalan street slang. My work in the volunteer office is also fulfilling, given that it is that sort of work that more closely approximates my future jobs. Side note: I usually dislike it when writers use way more words than necessary to explain a thought, but when I do it, it's just fun -- my apologies. In the office I am helping my friend Yaelle organize stuff, improve the volunteer program and recruitment, and generally try and make her job easier. Mostly typing and mouse-clicking with some intermittent T-shirt folding (not my strong suit). Work life is...work life. The bus picks us up at 7:30am and drops us off after work around 5:30pm -- almost all the volunteers live in the safe zone of Antigua, about an hour's drive from the school in Guatemala City. Sarcasm: Commuting is fun!
This weekend I decided to lay low and soak up the first place I have stayed more than 5 nights in since I left California back in May. Did some Market-wandering, some pastry-eating, some laundry. Went out with a bunch of the other volunteers on Friday night, but it was a short night for me -- bars and clubs and expensive drinks with strangers: been there, done that more than enough. Call me a party-pooper. Go ahead. I don't mind.
Breakfast is beginning to call my name now, so this post is just about finished. Seems like my stomach needs often interrupt my blogging. Although to be fair, I didn't have much more to say. Antigua is filled with a lot of old churches which were partially destroyed by earthquakes but still completely beautiful. I am looking forward to a lot more fruit juices in the next few weeks. The closer I get to coming back home, the more I look forward to it. But trying make sure those sentiments don't lead me to miss out on more fun experiences here in Guatemala.
I don't have any more pictures and I won't apologize for it.
That's all, folks.
Life seems to go on, whether we like it or not. And so I began my volunteer stint at Camino Seguro last Monday and spent the week rising early and returning late, adjusting my gear settings from "Boisterous Adventurism" to "Routine". I will remind readers at this point that such a change in gear settings was my desire, my choice, to move myself for a purpose beyond survival and taking pictures. To dive into Work; grand projects, and workplace drama, and repetitive tasks, and all that Good stuff.
My time at Camino Seguro is split between assisting in the Volunteer office and working directly with the kids who attend their school. But let's back up a second.
Camino Seguro is a non-profit which operates educational programs in Guatemala City, in a very poor area near the city dump (where thousands of people work every day collecting other people's garbage to sell, and thereby make enough money to hopefully feed their families and not die in the mean time from the methane gas which hovers around the dump). Within Camino Seguro there are programs for every age group -- a nursery school for littl'uns, supplementary school programs for primary and secondary school kids, and literacy programs for adults. Compared to most any other educational programs in the country, Camino Seguro is a genius paradise. Not to say that their programs are perfect, but in country where most schools only function half a day (and never five days a week) in dilapidated buildings with unqualified teachers and bare-bones government support, the resources of Camino Seguro are nothing short of a blessing. The buildings are new and well maintained, the school functions Monday to Friday, all day, and the teachers (for the most part) are qualified and committed. There are usually a few dozen international volunteers at any point working in the programs, assisting teachers or other program staff.
Back to me. I got assigned to work in the afternoon with a particularly difficult class of teenagers, which makes my work a bit harder than those volunteers assigned to toddlers or jumpy elementary school kids, but also gives me the challenge I wanted. Working with teenagers is also helpful for my Spanish skills, including some great Guatemalan street slang. My work in the volunteer office is also fulfilling, given that it is that sort of work that more closely approximates my future jobs. Side note: I usually dislike it when writers use way more words than necessary to explain a thought, but when I do it, it's just fun -- my apologies. In the office I am helping my friend Yaelle organize stuff, improve the volunteer program and recruitment, and generally try and make her job easier. Mostly typing and mouse-clicking with some intermittent T-shirt folding (not my strong suit). Work life is...work life. The bus picks us up at 7:30am and drops us off after work around 5:30pm -- almost all the volunteers live in the safe zone of Antigua, about an hour's drive from the school in Guatemala City. Sarcasm: Commuting is fun!
This weekend I decided to lay low and soak up the first place I have stayed more than 5 nights in since I left California back in May. Did some Market-wandering, some pastry-eating, some laundry. Went out with a bunch of the other volunteers on Friday night, but it was a short night for me -- bars and clubs and expensive drinks with strangers: been there, done that more than enough. Call me a party-pooper. Go ahead. I don't mind.
Breakfast is beginning to call my name now, so this post is just about finished. Seems like my stomach needs often interrupt my blogging. Although to be fair, I didn't have much more to say. Antigua is filled with a lot of old churches which were partially destroyed by earthquakes but still completely beautiful. I am looking forward to a lot more fruit juices in the next few weeks. The closer I get to coming back home, the more I look forward to it. But trying make sure those sentiments don't lead me to miss out on more fun experiences here in Guatemala.
I don't have any more pictures and I won't apologize for it.
That's all, folks.
July 26, 2009
Day 71: Antigua
Odyssey complete, I have arrived in the last stop on my trip -- not quite home, but as close as I'll get on this side of the world. Today is a nice lounging-around Sunday, strolling through the streets of this calm touristy burb. Tomorrow I start "work" at the Camino Seguro school in Guatemala City. We start early, bus pick-up around 7:30am followed by a 45 minute ride to "work". I think we get home around 5pm, but I haven't checked my information recently. This will be my life, at least Monday to Friday, for the next __ weeks. Check back later for the number which goes in that blank space.
Let me give y'all a little run-down of the past few days.
Spent a full day in San Salvador -- which was the only time in the last week that I slept in the same place two nights in a row. The Hotel San Carlos! What. A. Place. I began the morning by learning how to wash my clothes by hand on the hotel roof -- a necessity at that point for several reasons. I bought a rounded brick of blue detergent with some minimal instructions. Luckily, the woman who washes the hotel sheets and knick-knacks appeared on the scene and taught me the correct way. I scrubbed, rubbed, sloshes, and hung 'em up, and managed to get a little sun at the same time. You can see some pictures I took from the hotel roof of some beautiful clouds and other such scenery.
In addition, I ate a lot of pupusas. I believe that I surpassed all known records for Pupusa-Body Mass ratios. Does the Guiness Book of World Records keep track of such data? As my great-great-grandmother used to say: "Well, if they don't, they should." She may be dead, and she may never had said such a thing (at least not in English), but you gotta admit that she makes a good point.
I took the 1pm bus from San Salvador to Guatemala City on Friday, at which point I found out that I am the smartest guy I know. Okay, third-smartest. To wit: On Thursday night the Honduran border was closed in all directions, which meant that if I had delayed any longer my journey from Nicaragua to El Salvador, I might not have gotten through (see map in previous post if geography is befuddling you). However, my feeling of self-confidence was slightly supplanted by a feeling of empathy -- there were several people sitting listlessly around the bus station whose journeys home to Honduras were cut off. I wish them the best, and hope that the politicians involved in that crisis won't let their egos get in the way of a peaceful solution. The world doesn't need any more countries plunged senselessly into violence and chaos.
What can follow that sobering thought? A joke? A prayer? Some run-of-the-mill travel observations? I met some interesting people on the bus ride -- a Dominican guy sitting behind me who kept getting harrassed by the immigration officer, and had been a pitcher in the Major Leagues (he showed me how it said "St. Louis Cardinals" printed at the bottom of his passport). There were two lost-looking Mexican guys with whom I chatted, and then we all decided to pitch in on a hotel room in Guatemala City -- they were taking the bus the next day to Mexico, and it was too late for me to feel comfortable taking the bus to Antigua. They got the double bed and I got the air bed.
The next morning I eventually figured out how to get to Antigua and then how to get to the house I am staying at. A nice older lady and her daughter, along with other guests at some point. They make me meals every day except for Sunday. I have a nice big room with a big bed with three (3) mattresses, a dresser, a table, a mirror, a swinging window, and a very small painting.
Like I said: not home, but much better than the last two months. I had a nice lunch-time conversation with my host mother, which ended with me boring her with some of my ramblings. But the important things is that I bored her with my ramblings in Spanish! Go me.
I got a chance to talk to my friend Yaelle yesterday -- I've known her since middle school, and she is the volunteer coordinator at Camino Seguro, which is how I got connected to this volunteer work. I'll see her tomorrow and find out exactly what it is that I will be doing during my time here. Exciting! Fun! Adjective!
It seems appropriate that at this point I launch into some philosophizing ramblings, something about my life or travels or the deep significance of my bowel movements, but it just isn't in me. Maybe tomorrow.
Let me give y'all a little run-down of the past few days.
Spent a full day in San Salvador -- which was the only time in the last week that I slept in the same place two nights in a row. The Hotel San Carlos! What. A. Place. I began the morning by learning how to wash my clothes by hand on the hotel roof -- a necessity at that point for several reasons. I bought a rounded brick of blue detergent with some minimal instructions. Luckily, the woman who washes the hotel sheets and knick-knacks appeared on the scene and taught me the correct way. I scrubbed, rubbed, sloshes, and hung 'em up, and managed to get a little sun at the same time. You can see some pictures I took from the hotel roof of some beautiful clouds and other such scenery.
In addition, I ate a lot of pupusas. I believe that I surpassed all known records for Pupusa-Body Mass ratios. Does the Guiness Book of World Records keep track of such data? As my great-great-grandmother used to say: "Well, if they don't, they should." She may be dead, and she may never had said such a thing (at least not in English), but you gotta admit that she makes a good point.
I took the 1pm bus from San Salvador to Guatemala City on Friday, at which point I found out that I am the smartest guy I know. Okay, third-smartest. To wit: On Thursday night the Honduran border was closed in all directions, which meant that if I had delayed any longer my journey from Nicaragua to El Salvador, I might not have gotten through (see map in previous post if geography is befuddling you). However, my feeling of self-confidence was slightly supplanted by a feeling of empathy -- there were several people sitting listlessly around the bus station whose journeys home to Honduras were cut off. I wish them the best, and hope that the politicians involved in that crisis won't let their egos get in the way of a peaceful solution. The world doesn't need any more countries plunged senselessly into violence and chaos.
What can follow that sobering thought? A joke? A prayer? Some run-of-the-mill travel observations? I met some interesting people on the bus ride -- a Dominican guy sitting behind me who kept getting harrassed by the immigration officer, and had been a pitcher in the Major Leagues (he showed me how it said "St. Louis Cardinals" printed at the bottom of his passport). There were two lost-looking Mexican guys with whom I chatted, and then we all decided to pitch in on a hotel room in Guatemala City -- they were taking the bus the next day to Mexico, and it was too late for me to feel comfortable taking the bus to Antigua. They got the double bed and I got the air bed.
The next morning I eventually figured out how to get to Antigua and then how to get to the house I am staying at. A nice older lady and her daughter, along with other guests at some point. They make me meals every day except for Sunday. I have a nice big room with a big bed with three (3) mattresses, a dresser, a table, a mirror, a swinging window, and a very small painting.
Like I said: not home, but much better than the last two months. I had a nice lunch-time conversation with my host mother, which ended with me boring her with some of my ramblings. But the important things is that I bored her with my ramblings in Spanish! Go me.
I got a chance to talk to my friend Yaelle yesterday -- I've known her since middle school, and she is the volunteer coordinator at Camino Seguro, which is how I got connected to this volunteer work. I'll see her tomorrow and find out exactly what it is that I will be doing during my time here. Exciting! Fun! Adjective!
It seems appropriate that at this point I launch into some philosophizing ramblings, something about my life or travels or the deep significance of my bowel movements, but it just isn't in me. Maybe tomorrow.
July 23, 2009
Day 68: San Salvador
Gabe again. Bored yet?
Of course you're not, Oh Faithful Reader!! How could one be bored reading about my incredible adventures, my swashbuckling tales, my fantastic forays into Latino America!! It would be more impossible than breaking the sound barrier on a tricycle, more ridiculous than a clown being served a seafood dinner by the Queen of England, more preposterous than a bunch of monkeys with spectacles painting the Sistine Chapel!!
And so, without further ado, we present yet another chapter in the life of... me.
I left my brother at the Juan Santamaria International Airport, watched as he walked down the long hallway home, wearing a silly yet stylish hat. What fool could have bought him such a hat? Must have a been a fairly foolish fool.
I exited the Juan Santamaria International Airport and hopped the bus back to San Jose, attempting to buy some books at the two downtown bookstores, only realizing later that it was Sunday and they were both quite closed. Already, it seemed, my brother's luck had worn off.
Why, you might ask, Oh Inquisitive Reader, would I make it a point to spell out the entire name of San Jose's international airport, not once, but twice? Would it not have been easier to just write "the airport"? But I did have a point, a reason for doing so. The only major international airport in the country, and who is it named after? Not a President. Not a General. Not a former rebel leader. No, Juan Santamaria is none of these things. He was simply a drummer boy in the army that fought American invader William Walker, and according to legend, sacrificed himself to set fire to a house during a battle which was key to Costa Rican victory. Similar to Molly Pitcher or Crispus Attucks in our historical legendry. Yet Juan Santamaria, illegitimate child and drummer boy of the nineteenth century, is the namesake for the country's most important airport. Costa Rica has always bucked the violent revolution and counter-revolution trend that seems to engulf Central America. And the Juan Santamaria International Airport is the key to understand why.
Speaking of violent revolution and counter-revolution, readers may be aware that there was a military coup in Honduras recently. This situation brought some vigor to my travels: I had to cross Honduras to get to Guatemala, and news reports were that nation-wide strikes, including highway shut-downs, were being called for Thursday (being today) and Friday. I made something of a choice to cross through the country before this strike and whatever violence generally accompanies nation-wide strikes under military dictatorships.
But I had some time. So after leaving my brother to his illustrious airborne travels and failing to purchase any books, I packed my stuff and left the Galileo Hostel, traveling by bus to Liberia. Insert joke here. No, not that Liberia.
Costa Rica's Liberia is a city in the north-west corner of the country. I spent the night there in a sprawling hotel near the bus station, and spent most of my time finishing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn while sitting at a stone table under a big tree. It was hot and humid, but there was a nice breeze, carrying sweet coolness as well as the sounds of a nearby Evangelical sermon with musical accompaniement. Hopped a bus to the Nicaraguan border. Very full and very hot. I had to stand for the full hour and a half. Border was not too difficult despite the heat and utter lack of logic or organization in the Nicaraguan set-up. And: I was walking behind a woman whose backpack bore a familiar logo -- and I realized that it was the logo of my alma mater McGill University (she didn't quite explain where she got it from and seemed not to understand my enthusiasm). Another bus from the border to Rivas -- one of the famous retrofitted yellow school buses, then a collective taxi to the docks in San Jorge, then a ferry to Isla de Ometepe.
Wait, you say! A ferry! A fucking boat now! Where is this fucking boat going in the middle of fucking Nicaragua?
First of all, Oh Potty-Mouthed Reader, I am dissapointed in your lack of imagination. Just imagine that Nicaragua has sprung an enormous lake right smack in the middle of the country, and that out of this lake has sprung an island of twin volcanoes, and that you are standing on a windy stone dock looking out at this imaginary creation. Except that it's real. Oh, and it's not you there, but me instead. Sorry.
Where was I? Oh yeah, on a fucking ferry. Left my bag inside and went out to the front of the ferry to stare across the lake, to feel the wind and occasional raindrops rip across my face, wiping my mind blank, just standing there, backp pressed against the rough metal cabin, eyes squinting towards the two dark shapes off in the distance.
Spent the day on the island, at a cozy and cheap guesthouse, mostly reading again. A book I highly recommend: The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint. Funny and sad in all the right ways. I was kept company by a chicken, who liked to wander into my room and would run off whenever I sat up or moved on the bed. The light outside got darker, so I went back down to the dock to catch the sunset. Alone, I sat on the concrete dock, watching the sun bleed through the clouds, orange red splashes receding slowly, sky above going yellow green, then dark grey as the brilliance faded completely. The wind blew patterns across the shimmering calm waters, ripples over the silver sheet, fading too, until I could no longer see the wind, only feel it, casually passing through.
Next morning took the ferry back, and then hopped a convenient bus to Managua, the capital city, where I looked to book bus passage to San Salvador. Did so, although unfortunately the only bus departs at 5am. Got a room a block from the bus station in a lady's house. The sign outside said something about a hotel, but inside it was just a house. But it was close, and she promised several times to wake me up at 4am.
I soon realized my dilemma. Do I trust her? And really: Do I trust humanity? She agreed to do the early wake-up so easily, without any thought or doubt, and my experience led me to believe that people who grant difficult requests so easily should not always be trusted to come through. And it would have been very bad if I had missed that bus, because I would have been stuck for the rest of the day, and if the Honduran strikes began on Thursday, it might be very difficult for me to get through to Guatemala. Refer to map below.
I wavered on the whole 'Trusting Humanity' thing. Bought an energy drink with the thought of staying up all night, but then never drank it. I woke up at some point in the night and crept through the house to find out it was 3:30am, so I got my stuff ready and waited. I wanted to hear her footsteps down the hallway to come get me up, her knock on my door and a shuffling of slippers. But it never came. I loaded up and prepared to leave, and as I walked into the living room I realized she was sleeping there -- she woke up and helped me open the doors and gate outside. Would she have gotten up anyway? Or was I right to doubt, and lucky to sleep light? It bothered me for a little while, but the bus ride was relaxing and easy. Even the borders were a breeze, and I didn't see any sign of unusual goings-on in Honduras. Business as usual.
But closer to San Salvador I was faced with another decision. Do I stay in El Salvador for a few days, or continue on to Guatemala ahead of schedule (I am scheduled to arrive there on Saturday, at the house of the lady in Antigua that I will be staying with for my time there). The decision really came down to a weighing of two elements:
MS-13 vs. Pupusas.
MS-13: vicious Salvadoran-American gang that makes the Bloods and the Crips look like the Cub Scouts and the Brownies.
Pupusas: thick corn pancakes filled with special cheese and topped with pickled cabbage and hot sauce.
Last night I lay on my bed, resting my Walkman on a stomach filled with five delicious pupusas, and listened to a George Clinton mini-marathon on Salvadoran radio. After that, there was a lot of 80's music on the radio. One song urged me to "Let it whip", which I am fairly certain I did not do. Another told me to "take the long way home". Which, it appears, is exactly what I am doing.
Of course you're not, Oh Faithful Reader!! How could one be bored reading about my incredible adventures, my swashbuckling tales, my fantastic forays into Latino America!! It would be more impossible than breaking the sound barrier on a tricycle, more ridiculous than a clown being served a seafood dinner by the Queen of England, more preposterous than a bunch of monkeys with spectacles painting the Sistine Chapel!!
And so, without further ado, we present yet another chapter in the life of... me.
I left my brother at the Juan Santamaria International Airport, watched as he walked down the long hallway home, wearing a silly yet stylish hat. What fool could have bought him such a hat? Must have a been a fairly foolish fool.
I exited the Juan Santamaria International Airport and hopped the bus back to San Jose, attempting to buy some books at the two downtown bookstores, only realizing later that it was Sunday and they were both quite closed. Already, it seemed, my brother's luck had worn off.
Why, you might ask, Oh Inquisitive Reader, would I make it a point to spell out the entire name of San Jose's international airport, not once, but twice? Would it not have been easier to just write "the airport"? But I did have a point, a reason for doing so. The only major international airport in the country, and who is it named after? Not a President. Not a General. Not a former rebel leader. No, Juan Santamaria is none of these things. He was simply a drummer boy in the army that fought American invader William Walker, and according to legend, sacrificed himself to set fire to a house during a battle which was key to Costa Rican victory. Similar to Molly Pitcher or Crispus Attucks in our historical legendry. Yet Juan Santamaria, illegitimate child and drummer boy of the nineteenth century, is the namesake for the country's most important airport. Costa Rica has always bucked the violent revolution and counter-revolution trend that seems to engulf Central America. And the Juan Santamaria International Airport is the key to understand why.
Speaking of violent revolution and counter-revolution, readers may be aware that there was a military coup in Honduras recently. This situation brought some vigor to my travels: I had to cross Honduras to get to Guatemala, and news reports were that nation-wide strikes, including highway shut-downs, were being called for Thursday (being today) and Friday. I made something of a choice to cross through the country before this strike and whatever violence generally accompanies nation-wide strikes under military dictatorships.
But I had some time. So after leaving my brother to his illustrious airborne travels and failing to purchase any books, I packed my stuff and left the Galileo Hostel, traveling by bus to Liberia. Insert joke here. No, not that Liberia.
Costa Rica's Liberia is a city in the north-west corner of the country. I spent the night there in a sprawling hotel near the bus station, and spent most of my time finishing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn while sitting at a stone table under a big tree. It was hot and humid, but there was a nice breeze, carrying sweet coolness as well as the sounds of a nearby Evangelical sermon with musical accompaniement. Hopped a bus to the Nicaraguan border. Very full and very hot. I had to stand for the full hour and a half. Border was not too difficult despite the heat and utter lack of logic or organization in the Nicaraguan set-up. And: I was walking behind a woman whose backpack bore a familiar logo -- and I realized that it was the logo of my alma mater McGill University (she didn't quite explain where she got it from and seemed not to understand my enthusiasm). Another bus from the border to Rivas -- one of the famous retrofitted yellow school buses, then a collective taxi to the docks in San Jorge, then a ferry to Isla de Ometepe.
Wait, you say! A ferry! A fucking boat now! Where is this fucking boat going in the middle of fucking Nicaragua?
First of all, Oh Potty-Mouthed Reader, I am dissapointed in your lack of imagination. Just imagine that Nicaragua has sprung an enormous lake right smack in the middle of the country, and that out of this lake has sprung an island of twin volcanoes, and that you are standing on a windy stone dock looking out at this imaginary creation. Except that it's real. Oh, and it's not you there, but me instead. Sorry.
Where was I? Oh yeah, on a fucking ferry. Left my bag inside and went out to the front of the ferry to stare across the lake, to feel the wind and occasional raindrops rip across my face, wiping my mind blank, just standing there, backp pressed against the rough metal cabin, eyes squinting towards the two dark shapes off in the distance.
Spent the day on the island, at a cozy and cheap guesthouse, mostly reading again. A book I highly recommend: The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint. Funny and sad in all the right ways. I was kept company by a chicken, who liked to wander into my room and would run off whenever I sat up or moved on the bed. The light outside got darker, so I went back down to the dock to catch the sunset. Alone, I sat on the concrete dock, watching the sun bleed through the clouds, orange red splashes receding slowly, sky above going yellow green, then dark grey as the brilliance faded completely. The wind blew patterns across the shimmering calm waters, ripples over the silver sheet, fading too, until I could no longer see the wind, only feel it, casually passing through.
Next morning took the ferry back, and then hopped a convenient bus to Managua, the capital city, where I looked to book bus passage to San Salvador. Did so, although unfortunately the only bus departs at 5am. Got a room a block from the bus station in a lady's house. The sign outside said something about a hotel, but inside it was just a house. But it was close, and she promised several times to wake me up at 4am.
I soon realized my dilemma. Do I trust her? And really: Do I trust humanity? She agreed to do the early wake-up so easily, without any thought or doubt, and my experience led me to believe that people who grant difficult requests so easily should not always be trusted to come through. And it would have been very bad if I had missed that bus, because I would have been stuck for the rest of the day, and if the Honduran strikes began on Thursday, it might be very difficult for me to get through to Guatemala. Refer to map below.
I wavered on the whole 'Trusting Humanity' thing. Bought an energy drink with the thought of staying up all night, but then never drank it. I woke up at some point in the night and crept through the house to find out it was 3:30am, so I got my stuff ready and waited. I wanted to hear her footsteps down the hallway to come get me up, her knock on my door and a shuffling of slippers. But it never came. I loaded up and prepared to leave, and as I walked into the living room I realized she was sleeping there -- she woke up and helped me open the doors and gate outside. Would she have gotten up anyway? Or was I right to doubt, and lucky to sleep light? It bothered me for a little while, but the bus ride was relaxing and easy. Even the borders were a breeze, and I didn't see any sign of unusual goings-on in Honduras. Business as usual.
But closer to San Salvador I was faced with another decision. Do I stay in El Salvador for a few days, or continue on to Guatemala ahead of schedule (I am scheduled to arrive there on Saturday, at the house of the lady in Antigua that I will be staying with for my time there). The decision really came down to a weighing of two elements:
MS-13 vs. Pupusas.
MS-13: vicious Salvadoran-American gang that makes the Bloods and the Crips look like the Cub Scouts and the Brownies.
Pupusas: thick corn pancakes filled with special cheese and topped with pickled cabbage and hot sauce.
Last night I lay on my bed, resting my Walkman on a stomach filled with five delicious pupusas, and listened to a George Clinton mini-marathon on Salvadoran radio. After that, there was a lot of 80's music on the radio. One song urged me to "Let it whip", which I am fairly certain I did not do. Another told me to "take the long way home". Which, it appears, is exactly what I am doing.
July 18, 2009
Day 63: Sam's Guest Post
Bueños Tardés from lovely San José. This is Sam Tobias (no relation) writing a guest blog posting for LTD. Gabe has given me free reign over this posting so I can say whatever I want. What a dangerous thought. Anyway, today is our last day in San José. I will be flying back to my motherland in New Jersey and Gabe will be continuing on to Guatemala to volunteer, passing through a bunch o' countries on the way.
Our last day in San José was spent doing almost nothing. We woke up early, as always, around 7, ate some breakfast, lounged in the tv room, and met some new people--two Israeli girls who were stopping here for a while on their travels throughout the world. They taught us a new card game, Tacki, which is a whole lot like Uno but called Tacki. Gabe tried to convince them I spoke Hebrew but in reality I do not, aside from some random, useless words like grapes and dog (a favorite dish of the Koreans, no?). They told us about a good Israeli restaurant a few blocks away so Gabe and I headed out.
The Israeli food was delicious. The man there spoke Hebrew, English, and Spanish--I spoke to him in English and Gabe spoke to him in Spanish. Gabe ordered some sort of megamix of Israeli hits, hummus and vegetables and whatnot. I ordered the felafel, which was really good, and I do know felafel. Full bellied (a type of penguin, no?), we moved on to our day's adventure.
We walked to La Posada de Don Tobias, a hotel a few blocks away, to see if they had any t-shirts to buy. They did not, so we satified ourselves with taking pictures outside the building. The owner didn't have much to say about the history of the place , except that it was founded by some Danny Tobias. Don't know what that was about.
Getting into the heat of the day, we took the bus to Heredia and then another bus to some other place in order to hear some live music. Upon arrival we discovered the place was not in town but in fact in a different town. Too late to bother with it, we took the bus back to Heredia and tried to find an Internet café where Gabe could Skype his mama. We were not successful so we booked it back to San José to make it there before she signed off. We made it and now here I am typing. Gabe's in the booth next to me, Skyping it up. In some other booth, a man is singing michael Jackson hits quite loudly.
Going in reverse order of what we've done (which will probably seem to make no sense once I'm finished), we'll start with Sunday. I bumped into Gabe quite accidentally on the line for the men's bathroom at the airport. Oh hi, Gabe, how funny to run into you here. Well, you'd be surprised at the people you meet in the middle of Juan Santamaria Airport.
Gabe made the arrangements for us to stay at the Galileo Hostel, a nice yet still cheap place somewhere I'm not sure of in San José. That's the thing with my sense of direction. Because it doesn't exist, it's lucky to have Gabe, someone who isn't directionally handicapped leading me around. I would probably follow him off the edge of cliff. I feel kind of bad because it's not like I can make up for it in Spanish either--my most utilized words being gracias and jugo de naranja. Oh well. I suppose my contribution can be conversing, mainly about my deep knowledge of international politics and affairs...perhaps not.
I'd have to look at my own travel journal, but I think I can remember somewhat what has happened over the past couple days. Earlier in the week we hit the Jade museum and the National museum. Both showed the great cultural history of the Ticos, or the native peoples. Like most colombus-discovered lands, they went through a time of prosperity, met the Spaniards, were virtually wiped out, evenutally achieving independence. One of the best things about the country is that it disbanded the army in 1948. All their money goes into education and health care now rather than pouring it into the military, one of the main reasons why they're not as big a mess as the other countries in the area.
The capital c on the computer is not working so I have avoiding the name of this country but alas I must say it eventually. Here are some important things to remember about costa Rica (forgive me for the lowercase c).
1. The army was disbanded in 1948.
2. It's small but very happy--he people are very friendly
3. The currency is the colon. Be sure not to tell some one they look like a million colones, though it may be a compliment in America. Its insulting here, being that it's only 2000 dollars. Believe it or not they do have Who Wants To Be a millionaire here but I think you would find that its a disappointing amount of money.
4. costa Rica just recently was found to be the happiest country in the world, though I'm not sure by what means they measured that.
5. The national phrase is Pura vida! and you can say it to whoever you want, whenever you want. Not too much though. You don't want to look like a tourist.
I am running out of time on the computer so I will keep this short. We went to the town of Quepos, a beautiful beach town, staying at the Hotel Sanchez, which is a lot less shadier than it sounds. The beach was a paradise, and I have some sunburn to show for it, though Gabe, practically a black man these days, has none to show for it.
Honestly, much of our time here has been spent relaxing, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Its been a pleasure,
Sam Tobias
Our last day in San José was spent doing almost nothing. We woke up early, as always, around 7, ate some breakfast, lounged in the tv room, and met some new people--two Israeli girls who were stopping here for a while on their travels throughout the world. They taught us a new card game, Tacki, which is a whole lot like Uno but called Tacki. Gabe tried to convince them I spoke Hebrew but in reality I do not, aside from some random, useless words like grapes and dog (a favorite dish of the Koreans, no?). They told us about a good Israeli restaurant a few blocks away so Gabe and I headed out.
The Israeli food was delicious. The man there spoke Hebrew, English, and Spanish--I spoke to him in English and Gabe spoke to him in Spanish. Gabe ordered some sort of megamix of Israeli hits, hummus and vegetables and whatnot. I ordered the felafel, which was really good, and I do know felafel. Full bellied (a type of penguin, no?), we moved on to our day's adventure.
We walked to La Posada de Don Tobias, a hotel a few blocks away, to see if they had any t-shirts to buy. They did not, so we satified ourselves with taking pictures outside the building. The owner didn't have much to say about the history of the place , except that it was founded by some Danny Tobias. Don't know what that was about.
Getting into the heat of the day, we took the bus to Heredia and then another bus to some other place in order to hear some live music. Upon arrival we discovered the place was not in town but in fact in a different town. Too late to bother with it, we took the bus back to Heredia and tried to find an Internet café where Gabe could Skype his mama. We were not successful so we booked it back to San José to make it there before she signed off. We made it and now here I am typing. Gabe's in the booth next to me, Skyping it up. In some other booth, a man is singing michael Jackson hits quite loudly.
Going in reverse order of what we've done (which will probably seem to make no sense once I'm finished), we'll start with Sunday. I bumped into Gabe quite accidentally on the line for the men's bathroom at the airport. Oh hi, Gabe, how funny to run into you here. Well, you'd be surprised at the people you meet in the middle of Juan Santamaria Airport.
Gabe made the arrangements for us to stay at the Galileo Hostel, a nice yet still cheap place somewhere I'm not sure of in San José. That's the thing with my sense of direction. Because it doesn't exist, it's lucky to have Gabe, someone who isn't directionally handicapped leading me around. I would probably follow him off the edge of cliff. I feel kind of bad because it's not like I can make up for it in Spanish either--my most utilized words being gracias and jugo de naranja. Oh well. I suppose my contribution can be conversing, mainly about my deep knowledge of international politics and affairs...perhaps not.
I'd have to look at my own travel journal, but I think I can remember somewhat what has happened over the past couple days. Earlier in the week we hit the Jade museum and the National museum. Both showed the great cultural history of the Ticos, or the native peoples. Like most colombus-discovered lands, they went through a time of prosperity, met the Spaniards, were virtually wiped out, evenutally achieving independence. One of the best things about the country is that it disbanded the army in 1948. All their money goes into education and health care now rather than pouring it into the military, one of the main reasons why they're not as big a mess as the other countries in the area.
The capital c on the computer is not working so I have avoiding the name of this country but alas I must say it eventually. Here are some important things to remember about costa Rica (forgive me for the lowercase c).
1. The army was disbanded in 1948.
2. It's small but very happy--he people are very friendly
3. The currency is the colon. Be sure not to tell some one they look like a million colones, though it may be a compliment in America. Its insulting here, being that it's only 2000 dollars. Believe it or not they do have Who Wants To Be a millionaire here but I think you would find that its a disappointing amount of money.
4. costa Rica just recently was found to be the happiest country in the world, though I'm not sure by what means they measured that.
5. The national phrase is Pura vida! and you can say it to whoever you want, whenever you want. Not too much though. You don't want to look like a tourist.
I am running out of time on the computer so I will keep this short. We went to the town of Quepos, a beautiful beach town, staying at the Hotel Sanchez, which is a lot less shadier than it sounds. The beach was a paradise, and I have some sunburn to show for it, though Gabe, practically a black man these days, has none to show for it.
Honestly, much of our time here has been spent relaxing, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Its been a pleasure,
Sam Tobias
July 11, 2009
Day 56: San Jose
A few rough but successful days of traveling, and now back in the good ol' United States, with its Subway sandwiches, AM/PM stores, and pick-up basketball games. What's that you say? It's not the good ol' US of A? But in fact San Jose, Costa Rica? Wow, coulda fooled me.
Rewind. I was supposed to leave Cartagena early in the morning, and duly arrived at the airport at 5:30am...only to find out that there were issues with my transportation. According to Copa Airlines, my former airline of choice, I needed to be able to prove that I was not going to stay in Panama -- proof being a ticket out of the country, which I did not have. I haggled a bit with the airline counter ladies to no avail, but they did let me go into the office behind the counter to use their computer to try and buy a bus ticket online. Those behind-the-counter offices have that forbidden-fruit appeal that gives me excitement. Excitement was dulled, both by lack of sleep and the realization that the only company who sells tickets from Panama to Costa Rica online had their website "Under Construction". What timing! So I bought an airline ticket instead, closely reading the cancellation instructions to make sure I could get my money back as soon as I cross through Panamanian customs. Side note: the immigration lady in Panama couldn't have cared less about my travel plans. Damn those Copa folks.
Because of the delay caused by this issue I had to change my flight, and the flight that got to Panama quickest left at 5pm. So I had 10 hours to kill, and kill it I did. Some reading. Some internet communications. Some Walkman. Some grub-gobbling. What's that? The flight is delayed another two hours? Oh. Well.
Made it to Panama City, which I would describe as a mix between Queens and Miami, if you, Oh Imaginative Reader, can comprehend such an urban creature. Taxi was quite expensive, but the driver was helpful and I was able to safely collapse into a bed under a ceiling fan...a room with my own bathroom. But unfortunately, because of the flight delay I would not be able to visit the Panama Canal as I had planned.
Or would I! Yes, I would! Went early to the bus station in the morning (after the worst breakfast I have had in months, years, possibly ever, consisting of saucy hot dog pieces and an old empanada), dropped off my big backpack at a baggage-guarding place, and hopped a converted school bus to the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal. Nice little museum and viewing roof, got to watch two big boats go through the locks. Back to the bus station and on to David, a city on the Western/Costa Rican side of the country. I ended up staying in the over-priced hotel bus station there, as we arrived after midnight and I had no desire to explore. Ran to catch the 8:30am bus from David to San Jose, which went fairly well. Border wasn't too slow, and made some friends on the bus -- two teachers from Chicago -- and we attempted to solve American education problems en route. Successful? Only time will tell.
Stayed in a fancy hostel upon arrival to San Jose last night, then hiked over to the Hostel Galileo this morning -- dormitory for tonight, then double room tomorrow!
I could not check in for a few hours, so went to take a walk through Parque La Sabana, a big green expanse with lots of soccer, baseball, and basketball facilities. Joined a nice pick-up basketball game and played pretty well in the first game, not so much in the second. Picked up a nice scar on my elbow from a sweet highlight-roll defensive play. All about it, go big or go home.
Which is where I will be going now, home for the week, to check in and hopefully take a nice nap after lunch. The Saturday Afternoon Nap. I would say that life is nice, but that wouldn't quite capture the feeling.
Rewind. I was supposed to leave Cartagena early in the morning, and duly arrived at the airport at 5:30am...only to find out that there were issues with my transportation. According to Copa Airlines, my former airline of choice, I needed to be able to prove that I was not going to stay in Panama -- proof being a ticket out of the country, which I did not have. I haggled a bit with the airline counter ladies to no avail, but they did let me go into the office behind the counter to use their computer to try and buy a bus ticket online. Those behind-the-counter offices have that forbidden-fruit appeal that gives me excitement. Excitement was dulled, both by lack of sleep and the realization that the only company who sells tickets from Panama to Costa Rica online had their website "Under Construction". What timing! So I bought an airline ticket instead, closely reading the cancellation instructions to make sure I could get my money back as soon as I cross through Panamanian customs. Side note: the immigration lady in Panama couldn't have cared less about my travel plans. Damn those Copa folks.
Because of the delay caused by this issue I had to change my flight, and the flight that got to Panama quickest left at 5pm. So I had 10 hours to kill, and kill it I did. Some reading. Some internet communications. Some Walkman. Some grub-gobbling. What's that? The flight is delayed another two hours? Oh. Well.
Made it to Panama City, which I would describe as a mix between Queens and Miami, if you, Oh Imaginative Reader, can comprehend such an urban creature. Taxi was quite expensive, but the driver was helpful and I was able to safely collapse into a bed under a ceiling fan...a room with my own bathroom. But unfortunately, because of the flight delay I would not be able to visit the Panama Canal as I had planned.
Or would I! Yes, I would! Went early to the bus station in the morning (after the worst breakfast I have had in months, years, possibly ever, consisting of saucy hot dog pieces and an old empanada), dropped off my big backpack at a baggage-guarding place, and hopped a converted school bus to the Miraflores Locks on the Panama Canal. Nice little museum and viewing roof, got to watch two big boats go through the locks. Back to the bus station and on to David, a city on the Western/Costa Rican side of the country. I ended up staying in the over-priced hotel bus station there, as we arrived after midnight and I had no desire to explore. Ran to catch the 8:30am bus from David to San Jose, which went fairly well. Border wasn't too slow, and made some friends on the bus -- two teachers from Chicago -- and we attempted to solve American education problems en route. Successful? Only time will tell.
Stayed in a fancy hostel upon arrival to San Jose last night, then hiked over to the Hostel Galileo this morning -- dormitory for tonight, then double room tomorrow!
I could not check in for a few hours, so went to take a walk through Parque La Sabana, a big green expanse with lots of soccer, baseball, and basketball facilities. Joined a nice pick-up basketball game and played pretty well in the first game, not so much in the second. Picked up a nice scar on my elbow from a sweet highlight-roll defensive play. All about it, go big or go home.
Which is where I will be going now, home for the week, to check in and hopefully take a nice nap after lunch. The Saturday Afternoon Nap. I would say that life is nice, but that wouldn't quite capture the feeling.
July 7, 2009
Day 52: Cartagena
Tomorrow morning, just as the sun settles into its fiery guardpost over the city, as the fried plantain vendors start up their grease cookers, as the coffee men pour their first little white plastic cups of sweet tinto, I will be leaving South America for the first time. It marks the essential conclusion of the wandering period -- from here on I have partners, goals, structure. I am setting myself up here for some self-reflection, some "What does it all mean" crap, some "What did I learn about myself" bullshit. Okay, perhaps I am being too harsh on self-reflection. It is worthwhile to look back at these past weeks since I arrived in Lima. We are changing every day, every second, are we not? Growing further from the past. And so, what does a few thousand miles, a month and a half, what difference does that make, wouldn't I be changing anyway, wherever I might-have-been? Perhaps I can flounder through some sweet but shaky generalizations: I'm glad I made this trip, even though the timing wasn't right. I did learn some things about what moves my gears and what stops them. I got my chance to step back from my world and see what everything looks like from a distance, a lucky chance, a chance not everyone gets.
But it is artificial to say my flight tomorrow marks some serious life-boundary. And that distinction is not particularly useful, at least not to me. I am happy to be flying tomorrow, happy to get to spend some time with my brother, and happy that the experiences of my wanderings are now experiences, stories to be told, memories to be filed away. It is easy to be contemplative when sitting in an air-conditioned room in an otherwise terribly hot city. A sense of journey at its end, that, for the time being, there is no better place to be. So now, I will return to some vignettes.
> I spent my last two nights in Santa Marta with quite different partners. Second to last night, I wandered up to the roof and found a crying kitten. I made it a home in my lap and stayed for over an hour, petting it and digging some chicken bones out of the garbage for it to nibble on. Throughout my trip I have sought out animal companions; draw your own conclusions. My last night I spent having dinner and beers with an annoying Austrian guy and a quiet, tall German lady. They did not get along at all. The Austrian guy was one of those people who laugh nervously at everything in the hopes that what they don't understand will turn out to be a joke. I found it much easier to dislike him when I found out he was a big fan of the late Jorg Haider (major right-wing racists Austrian politician) and professed to have met him on many occasions. Awkward dinner. Beer did not, as the Man will have you think, make us all good friends.
> Went to buy some shorts in Santa Marta, some of which were sized in the US fashion and others of which in the European fashion. I chose wrong. 34 whatevers barely fits up to my waist and is miles (centimeters?) from buttoning up. Gave them to one of the cooks. I guess some mistakes are actually mistakes.
> Sunday morning in Cartagena went for an early walk, down by the water, and through Old Town where I came upon a fried plantain street vendor. (Ed. note: Almost every time I try to type the word "fried" it comes out as "friend". Why?) While waiting for the next batch I witnessed a fat lady chasing a skinny guy down the street and then a fist-fight, one-sided, between two guys outside a crappy hotel. People gathered and laughed. I joined, and devoured the fried yellow goodness. Then, walking along the old Spanish stone wall around the main part of the city, I saw two guys sitting on a bench.
"Hey," said one, "Come over here."
"What?"
"Come take a shot."
"Oh, I don't know," said I, walking on, "It's a little early for that."
(It was before 9am, again, on a Sunday)
"Come on, buddy. A shot."
"Okay, fine," said I, walking over, "But just don't tell my mami. She doesn't like me drinking this early."
They both got a good laugh out of that one. And I took a shot of rum, poured out of an almost empty bottle into a little white plastic coffee cup, thanked them, and walked on.
Today will be another Very-Chill day, just like the last two, with some shopping to spend the rest of my Colombian money. Tomorrow's flight leaves at 6:15am, so early rise and taxi to the nearby airport, first back to Bogota for an hour layover, then on to Panama City, where I plan to stay for one day to see the Panama Canal, and then onwards with two longish bus trips over the border to Costa Rica.
As a side note, last night I decided to get drunk on aguardiente (anise/licorice flavored alcohol) and cook myself a dinner of rice-ground beef and cucumber salad while listening to the radio on my Walkman. Which, despite appearances, was a great idea.
But it is artificial to say my flight tomorrow marks some serious life-boundary. And that distinction is not particularly useful, at least not to me. I am happy to be flying tomorrow, happy to get to spend some time with my brother, and happy that the experiences of my wanderings are now experiences, stories to be told, memories to be filed away. It is easy to be contemplative when sitting in an air-conditioned room in an otherwise terribly hot city. A sense of journey at its end, that, for the time being, there is no better place to be. So now, I will return to some vignettes.
> I spent my last two nights in Santa Marta with quite different partners. Second to last night, I wandered up to the roof and found a crying kitten. I made it a home in my lap and stayed for over an hour, petting it and digging some chicken bones out of the garbage for it to nibble on. Throughout my trip I have sought out animal companions; draw your own conclusions. My last night I spent having dinner and beers with an annoying Austrian guy and a quiet, tall German lady. They did not get along at all. The Austrian guy was one of those people who laugh nervously at everything in the hopes that what they don't understand will turn out to be a joke. I found it much easier to dislike him when I found out he was a big fan of the late Jorg Haider (major right-wing racists Austrian politician) and professed to have met him on many occasions. Awkward dinner. Beer did not, as the Man will have you think, make us all good friends.
> Went to buy some shorts in Santa Marta, some of which were sized in the US fashion and others of which in the European fashion. I chose wrong. 34 whatevers barely fits up to my waist and is miles (centimeters?) from buttoning up. Gave them to one of the cooks. I guess some mistakes are actually mistakes.
> Sunday morning in Cartagena went for an early walk, down by the water, and through Old Town where I came upon a fried plantain street vendor. (Ed. note: Almost every time I try to type the word "fried" it comes out as "friend". Why?) While waiting for the next batch I witnessed a fat lady chasing a skinny guy down the street and then a fist-fight, one-sided, between two guys outside a crappy hotel. People gathered and laughed. I joined, and devoured the fried yellow goodness. Then, walking along the old Spanish stone wall around the main part of the city, I saw two guys sitting on a bench.
"Hey," said one, "Come over here."
"What?"
"Come take a shot."
"Oh, I don't know," said I, walking on, "It's a little early for that."
(It was before 9am, again, on a Sunday)
"Come on, buddy. A shot."
"Okay, fine," said I, walking over, "But just don't tell my mami. She doesn't like me drinking this early."
They both got a good laugh out of that one. And I took a shot of rum, poured out of an almost empty bottle into a little white plastic coffee cup, thanked them, and walked on.
Today will be another Very-Chill day, just like the last two, with some shopping to spend the rest of my Colombian money. Tomorrow's flight leaves at 6:15am, so early rise and taxi to the nearby airport, first back to Bogota for an hour layover, then on to Panama City, where I plan to stay for one day to see the Panama Canal, and then onwards with two longish bus trips over the border to Costa Rica.
As a side note, last night I decided to get drunk on aguardiente (anise/licorice flavored alcohol) and cook myself a dinner of rice-ground beef and cucumber salad while listening to the radio on my Walkman. Which, despite appearances, was a great idea.
July 4, 2009
Day 49: Santa Marta and Parque Tayrona
Leaving in a few hours for Cartagena, my last stop in South America. I find myself in the same internet cafe as in which I composed my last post, a cafe in the lobby of a hotel a block away from my hostel. The fan which brought me such great pleasure last time is still here -- but stuck facing one direction instead of the always-welcome revolving action. Such is life in the tropics; the fan doesn't always blow your way.
It has been a pleasant stay here in Santa Marta. It is hot and humid year-round here, and this time of year brings mornings of burning sun and afternoons and evenings of cloudy humidity, broken only by the occasional ocean breeze. My first night here had no such windy charm, and my plan to camp out in a hammock on the second floor lasted only a few hours. I managed to doze off for a few hours after the sun went down, but woke up with a tremendous sweat and was not able to go back to sleep. So, I went downstairs and asked to be moved to a dormitory: four thin cots, a big wooden window, and a blessed ceiling fan. I managed to score a cot directly under the ceiling fan, and went off to dreamland with only the slightest of sweats.
First day: Let's hit the beach! Tubular, dude! Awesome! Grabbed my bathing suit and Ronaldiño sandals and strolled over to the thin beach. The beach stretches a ways to the west, but near my hostel is where it meets the port of Santa Marta. A bit strange, relaxing on the beach or playing around in the warm water while container ships mozy on by. Is that how 'mozy' is spelled? Seems like a word better said than written. But none of this was on my mind as I soaked in the warm, calm Caribbean waters. Walked further down the beach and out onto a rock jetty, at the end of which I found a nice flat rock and lay out, soaking in tropical heat.
The rest of the day wasn't much to report -- more walking on beach (including an unnoticed invasion of a private resort), more seeking of cool juices, some talking of important matters with local hostel folks. A nice, relaxing day in all. Some sunburn though, but not much. I sorted out my plans for the few days here -- Parque Tayrona was in, beach town of Taganga was out, as was city of Riohacha (which I realized only held interest for me because it was mentioned in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and not because there was anything interesting there).
Parque Tayrona is a huge and wonderful park that takes up much of the coast and neighboring jungle hills to the east of Santa Marta. My second day in Santa Marta I located the micro which drives by the park entrance and made my way, dragging my small backpack -- water, towel, hammock, other necessities. The entrance to the park is separated from the main tourist area by a 4.5 km paved road, which I decided to walk instead of paying an overpriced taxi or motorcycle. After the paved road there is a stretch of camping areas along the coast, only reachable by a dirt/mud/rock path a bit inland from the beach. I went along this path to the Arrecifes Beach, which had cheaper rates for camping but unfortunately swimming was not allowed at the beach. Further down there were a few swimming beaches, which I took aquatic advantage of. Another 30 minutes on a dirt path took me to Cabo San Juan, more expensive camping but located right at two swimming beaches and a great little rocky point. Here is where I decamped for the night, and made a great decision to move my hammock from a little palm grove inland from the main camp area (which was very full) to a little coconut grove right on the water. I'm talking 3 meters from the waves. Note about Parque Tayrona: By far the most replies to my greetings anywhere on my journeys. Something about national parks makes people friendly, I guess. And mostly, the people who did not respond were English-speaking folks. Vat a silly language, anyvay.
Now we will take a break for a short one-question mini-quiz, whose purpose will soon become abundantly clear.
What feature of Parque Tayrona is most dangerous to its visitors?
a) Man-eating jaguars
b) Man-eating sharks
c) Man-eating riptides
d) Coconuts
I would give a hint, but I doubt that you, Oh Intuitive Reader, will need one.
Explanations: Jaguars do live in the park, but they hunt at night and are generally afraid of people. Scary to think about, but not really dangerous. Sharks do inhabit the waters off the coast, but pose little threat to swimmers because all of the beaches where swimming is allowed are ringed by large rock formations which prevent most animals from getting in. This is also the reason riptides do not pose much of a threat -- beaches where this is a problem are well-marked with 'No Swimming' signs.
Which leaves us with coconuts.
I was lying in my hammock under the coconut trees after sunset when a few people walked by, and one girl with a possibly-German accent told me that I should be careful because the coconuts can fall and that her friend almost got hit. I thanked her and went back to my thoughts. Not more than a minute later a big thump hit the ground a few feet behind me. A strong wind was shaking the trees, which were at least 25-30 meters tall, and dropping huge, heavy coconuts all around me. After another fell a little off to my right, I decided to change positions and set myself up on the sand at the base of a coconut tree which leaned far towards the water, thus protecting me from falling death-fruits. I woke up a few times during the night -- but thankfully, never because I had been struck by a thick brown ball of terror. The wind was very strong all night, and I had to use my hammock as a wind-shield. Woke up a little before sunrise. I would have been happy to have been hit by several coconuts in order to experience such a marvelous sight. Take a look at some of the pictures so that I don't have to write thousands of words.
Spent the morning in and out of the water, which was very refreshing and fairly rough. A good workout, although it stung my feet where the sandals had inscribed sore red lines the previous day. When I though the afternoon was approaching, I hiked back to Arrecifes Beach with the idea of spending a cheaper night there and hiking back out the next morning. However this changed when I learned two things: one, that Arrecifes' campsite was full of horse flies, and two, that it was only noon. My feet sore and my back burnt, and no further interest in swimming, I decided to hike back that day instead. Bought a big thing of water at the little store and then cannibalized the sleeves of my dirty hole-filled T-shirt to make "socks" to protect the soreness on my feet. Along with a healthy amount of vaseline, my feet made it safely and painlessly back to the main road. This day was much sweatier than the previous, and the big thing of water was all but finished during the walk -- more than 8km in less than 2.5 hours, which considering my ailments and the up-hill and over-rocks nature of the walk, is not bad time. Proud of myself, I parked into a seat on the micro back to Santa Marta and rolled open the window, soaking in the cool air rushing past. Of course, halfway back to the city the bus blows not one, but two flat tires and we all have to stand on the side of the sun-baked road for 30 minutes while the massive tires are changed.
This morning I cleaned myself up -- haircut and shaved back down to the moustache -- and packed up, re-organzing my backpack so all the cold weather gear goes into the bottom of the pack where it may not be used until I am back in the States. Soon, on to Cartagena, which is supposed to be beautiful and historic. Which is how I like my cities.
It has been a pleasant stay here in Santa Marta. It is hot and humid year-round here, and this time of year brings mornings of burning sun and afternoons and evenings of cloudy humidity, broken only by the occasional ocean breeze. My first night here had no such windy charm, and my plan to camp out in a hammock on the second floor lasted only a few hours. I managed to doze off for a few hours after the sun went down, but woke up with a tremendous sweat and was not able to go back to sleep. So, I went downstairs and asked to be moved to a dormitory: four thin cots, a big wooden window, and a blessed ceiling fan. I managed to score a cot directly under the ceiling fan, and went off to dreamland with only the slightest of sweats.
First day: Let's hit the beach! Tubular, dude! Awesome! Grabbed my bathing suit and Ronaldiño sandals and strolled over to the thin beach. The beach stretches a ways to the west, but near my hostel is where it meets the port of Santa Marta. A bit strange, relaxing on the beach or playing around in the warm water while container ships mozy on by. Is that how 'mozy' is spelled? Seems like a word better said than written. But none of this was on my mind as I soaked in the warm, calm Caribbean waters. Walked further down the beach and out onto a rock jetty, at the end of which I found a nice flat rock and lay out, soaking in tropical heat.
The rest of the day wasn't much to report -- more walking on beach (including an unnoticed invasion of a private resort), more seeking of cool juices, some talking of important matters with local hostel folks. A nice, relaxing day in all. Some sunburn though, but not much. I sorted out my plans for the few days here -- Parque Tayrona was in, beach town of Taganga was out, as was city of Riohacha (which I realized only held interest for me because it was mentioned in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and not because there was anything interesting there).
Parque Tayrona is a huge and wonderful park that takes up much of the coast and neighboring jungle hills to the east of Santa Marta. My second day in Santa Marta I located the micro which drives by the park entrance and made my way, dragging my small backpack -- water, towel, hammock, other necessities. The entrance to the park is separated from the main tourist area by a 4.5 km paved road, which I decided to walk instead of paying an overpriced taxi or motorcycle. After the paved road there is a stretch of camping areas along the coast, only reachable by a dirt/mud/rock path a bit inland from the beach. I went along this path to the Arrecifes Beach, which had cheaper rates for camping but unfortunately swimming was not allowed at the beach. Further down there were a few swimming beaches, which I took aquatic advantage of. Another 30 minutes on a dirt path took me to Cabo San Juan, more expensive camping but located right at two swimming beaches and a great little rocky point. Here is where I decamped for the night, and made a great decision to move my hammock from a little palm grove inland from the main camp area (which was very full) to a little coconut grove right on the water. I'm talking 3 meters from the waves. Note about Parque Tayrona: By far the most replies to my greetings anywhere on my journeys. Something about national parks makes people friendly, I guess. And mostly, the people who did not respond were English-speaking folks. Vat a silly language, anyvay.
Now we will take a break for a short one-question mini-quiz, whose purpose will soon become abundantly clear.
What feature of Parque Tayrona is most dangerous to its visitors?
a) Man-eating jaguars
b) Man-eating sharks
c) Man-eating riptides
d) Coconuts
I would give a hint, but I doubt that you, Oh Intuitive Reader, will need one.
Explanations: Jaguars do live in the park, but they hunt at night and are generally afraid of people. Scary to think about, but not really dangerous. Sharks do inhabit the waters off the coast, but pose little threat to swimmers because all of the beaches where swimming is allowed are ringed by large rock formations which prevent most animals from getting in. This is also the reason riptides do not pose much of a threat -- beaches where this is a problem are well-marked with 'No Swimming' signs.
Which leaves us with coconuts.
I was lying in my hammock under the coconut trees after sunset when a few people walked by, and one girl with a possibly-German accent told me that I should be careful because the coconuts can fall and that her friend almost got hit. I thanked her and went back to my thoughts. Not more than a minute later a big thump hit the ground a few feet behind me. A strong wind was shaking the trees, which were at least 25-30 meters tall, and dropping huge, heavy coconuts all around me. After another fell a little off to my right, I decided to change positions and set myself up on the sand at the base of a coconut tree which leaned far towards the water, thus protecting me from falling death-fruits. I woke up a few times during the night -- but thankfully, never because I had been struck by a thick brown ball of terror. The wind was very strong all night, and I had to use my hammock as a wind-shield. Woke up a little before sunrise. I would have been happy to have been hit by several coconuts in order to experience such a marvelous sight. Take a look at some of the pictures so that I don't have to write thousands of words.
Spent the morning in and out of the water, which was very refreshing and fairly rough. A good workout, although it stung my feet where the sandals had inscribed sore red lines the previous day. When I though the afternoon was approaching, I hiked back to Arrecifes Beach with the idea of spending a cheaper night there and hiking back out the next morning. However this changed when I learned two things: one, that Arrecifes' campsite was full of horse flies, and two, that it was only noon. My feet sore and my back burnt, and no further interest in swimming, I decided to hike back that day instead. Bought a big thing of water at the little store and then cannibalized the sleeves of my dirty hole-filled T-shirt to make "socks" to protect the soreness on my feet. Along with a healthy amount of vaseline, my feet made it safely and painlessly back to the main road. This day was much sweatier than the previous, and the big thing of water was all but finished during the walk -- more than 8km in less than 2.5 hours, which considering my ailments and the up-hill and over-rocks nature of the walk, is not bad time. Proud of myself, I parked into a seat on the micro back to Santa Marta and rolled open the window, soaking in the cool air rushing past. Of course, halfway back to the city the bus blows not one, but two flat tires and we all have to stand on the side of the sun-baked road for 30 minutes while the massive tires are changed.
This morning I cleaned myself up -- haircut and shaved back down to the moustache -- and packed up, re-organzing my backpack so all the cold weather gear goes into the bottom of the pack where it may not be used until I am back in the States. Soon, on to Cartagena, which is supposed to be beautiful and historic. Which is how I like my cities.
June 30, 2009
Day 45: Santa Marta
I wasn't going to do up a posting tonight, because I just arrived here after two straight days of very long bus rides, and I am tired, and I am sweaty, not to mention stinky and unshaved. But then I realized there is a fan pointed near me, so I will stay and type it up.
In the 6 days between this post and the last one I have traveled the entire length of Colombia, now finding myself on the Caribbean coast. The sunset here takes up the whole sky, I mean the whole damn sky, like a giant stained glass window. Which would make this my church? But I digress.
As promised, the Happy Birthday Pasto celebration was fun and excitement. There was a nice New World moment where a mariachi band from Jalisco in Mexico sang "Happy Birthday" in English to the Colombians of Pasto. I sauntered around the square, attempted to man-dance -- which involves some slow, quasi-rhythmic shoulder and hip motions and ABSOLUTELY NO EYE CONTACT WITH ANY OTHER MALES. That would just be embarrassing for everyone involved. There was some sort of incident behind the stage in which one guy was trying to chase down some other guy and beat him up, both being drunk, and instead the local police chased down the chasee and arrested him, and then let him go. When the police guy took him down -- and I mean he really took him down, WWF style -- everyone rushed over like in a high school fight. I sat, looking cool as I am occasionally wont to do, and watched the melee. On that note, there are a lot of army guys in Colombia who stand around with machine guns, in the cities, on the highways, everywhere. Again, not doing much, but still intimidating.
After the fiesta I went and had a sausage on a stick and a beer with the hotel people, then went to sleep, woke up, and hopped the bus to Cali, a 9 hour ride. Cali is fucking hot. I only spent one full day there, wandering to the Cali Zoo, which was nice and check the pictures for proof. Two separate individuals asked me for directions while I was walking around. Operation Blend-In a great success. Chatted with the hotel types about the new tax system the government put in, and general government complaints. I made the absolute worst meal I have ever made. Seriously here. It was supposed to be a simple pasta and tomato sauce deal, but apparently in Colombia "Salsa de Tomate" -- literally, 'tomate sauce' -- is actually ketchup. And "pasta" -- literally, 'pasta' -- tastes like shit. I threw most of it out. And just that morning my various fruit breakfast had been so good! Can't win 'em all, I guess. Eww, though, big eww.
Took the bus from Cali to Bogota, and attempted to cheat the expensive Colombian transportation system:
Taxi ride to Cali bus station: guy let me off at the traffic circle outside of the station, walked through a hidden tunnel to the station. Success!
Bus ride to Bogota: Tried to take two buses instead of one to avoid the expensive Cali departures. Ended up paying exactly the same. Bus ride was fun though, because I sat in the middle of the last row (which is raised up a little) and was able to greatly enjoy the roller coaster style of roads in south-east Colombia. Broke even overall.
Taxi ride to hostel in Bogota: Walked outside of the bus station because all the taxis inside were colluding on 10,000 flat rate. Ended up getting cheated and paying 15,000. And then that hostel was full and, just to spite Bogotan taxis, I walked to the other hostel (bad idea, I know). Failure :(
Overall: Failure -- the Bogota experience was more bad than the Cali one was good.
Woke up in Bogota in a foul mood, because of the previous day, general annoyances, and the lack of the expected Sunday afternoon Bogotan soccer games. I self-medicated myself by visiting a great art museum collection and deciding to leave Bogota the next day instead of staying two. The museum, the Botero, was great. It had a huge collection of random 19th and 20th century art, and a big collection of Botero work. For those neanderthals out there who aren't "in" the Colombian art world, Botero is a guy who paints and is Colombian. It is actual interesting work, most of his figures being...the word I would use is "swollen". They are all fat, moon-faced, big thighs and buttocks, and many of them have those eyes that follow you. Cool stuff.
Bogota and Cali are generally expensive cities, but I did find ice creams cones for 500 pesos (about 25 cents) after a nice African lunch of a whole fried fish, fried plantains, and coconut rice. I usually have difficulty with whole fish, but this one went well. And the restaurant had a big poster of Obama on the wall. My explanation of my connection to that figure resulted in a fist bump between myself and the proprietor. My first fist bump in a while, also went well.
Finished* Atlas Shrugged and traded it for JD Salinger's Franny and Zooey at the Bogota hotel. Huge library improvement in my mind. Monday morning bus ride to Bucaramanga.
BUCARAMANGA
Fun to say, fun to look at, and for me, fun to be in.
Side note: the name of the bus company was 'Autoboy'. Not sure why, but it attracted me.
In BUCARAMANGA, I walked a little ways up the street from the bus station instead of taking a taxi because I have become anti-taxi, and was able to ask around a locate a little guest house normally used by bus drivers. Convinced the lady to let me stay there with some charm and/or my obvious exhaustion. I'm going with charm, but you can draw your own conclusions, Oh Wise Reader. Bought some plantains and a soda at the local market, and when I walked back into the house the husband notified me that I could not eat these plantains, that they were only for frying. He asked his wife to fry them up, and she did so, and brought me a bowl of soup as well.
Which brings me to a Lesson of the Day: Not all mistakes turn out bad.
I chatted with the husband for a while about Colombia and America, politics, life, et cetera. He was really into it. He scooted his chair closer to mine when I started talking about how things are expensive in the States. Everyone's got their talking points. Afterwards, he left and I enjoyed my friend plantains, potato soup, and kola while watching music videos with the wife and her teenage son. There was one song I recognized, and so I asked the son who the artists was.
"Nigga," he said.
"What?" said I.
"Nigga. See?" and he pointed to the screen. "I've heard that a bad word or something in the US."
"Yeah, it is."
"Why?"
And so I tried to explain the history of that word and the difference between the "-er" ending and the "-a" ending. I think he understood, more or less.
BUCARAMANGA was very hot but I managed a solid night of sleep, only woken slightly in the early morning when rain came down heavy. Left early for a bus to here, Santa Marta. Another great meal along the way, two pork steaks, fried plantain mash, rice, beans, and boiled yucca. It is very hot and sweaty here, and I am going to attempt to sleep in my hammock tonight, strung up from the roof beams at a local hostel. Remains to be seen how well this works.
Tomorrow: beach and chilling. Oh yes. Chilling. Mmmhhhaaaaaa..
In the 6 days between this post and the last one I have traveled the entire length of Colombia, now finding myself on the Caribbean coast. The sunset here takes up the whole sky, I mean the whole damn sky, like a giant stained glass window. Which would make this my church? But I digress.
As promised, the Happy Birthday Pasto celebration was fun and excitement. There was a nice New World moment where a mariachi band from Jalisco in Mexico sang "Happy Birthday" in English to the Colombians of Pasto. I sauntered around the square, attempted to man-dance -- which involves some slow, quasi-rhythmic shoulder and hip motions and ABSOLUTELY NO EYE CONTACT WITH ANY OTHER MALES. That would just be embarrassing for everyone involved. There was some sort of incident behind the stage in which one guy was trying to chase down some other guy and beat him up, both being drunk, and instead the local police chased down the chasee and arrested him, and then let him go. When the police guy took him down -- and I mean he really took him down, WWF style -- everyone rushed over like in a high school fight. I sat, looking cool as I am occasionally wont to do, and watched the melee. On that note, there are a lot of army guys in Colombia who stand around with machine guns, in the cities, on the highways, everywhere. Again, not doing much, but still intimidating.
After the fiesta I went and had a sausage on a stick and a beer with the hotel people, then went to sleep, woke up, and hopped the bus to Cali, a 9 hour ride. Cali is fucking hot. I only spent one full day there, wandering to the Cali Zoo, which was nice and check the pictures for proof. Two separate individuals asked me for directions while I was walking around. Operation Blend-In a great success. Chatted with the hotel types about the new tax system the government put in, and general government complaints. I made the absolute worst meal I have ever made. Seriously here. It was supposed to be a simple pasta and tomato sauce deal, but apparently in Colombia "Salsa de Tomate" -- literally, 'tomate sauce' -- is actually ketchup. And "pasta" -- literally, 'pasta' -- tastes like shit. I threw most of it out. And just that morning my various fruit breakfast had been so good! Can't win 'em all, I guess. Eww, though, big eww.
Took the bus from Cali to Bogota, and attempted to cheat the expensive Colombian transportation system:
Taxi ride to Cali bus station: guy let me off at the traffic circle outside of the station, walked through a hidden tunnel to the station. Success!
Bus ride to Bogota: Tried to take two buses instead of one to avoid the expensive Cali departures. Ended up paying exactly the same. Bus ride was fun though, because I sat in the middle of the last row (which is raised up a little) and was able to greatly enjoy the roller coaster style of roads in south-east Colombia. Broke even overall.
Taxi ride to hostel in Bogota: Walked outside of the bus station because all the taxis inside were colluding on 10,000 flat rate. Ended up getting cheated and paying 15,000. And then that hostel was full and, just to spite Bogotan taxis, I walked to the other hostel (bad idea, I know). Failure :(
Overall: Failure -- the Bogota experience was more bad than the Cali one was good.
Woke up in Bogota in a foul mood, because of the previous day, general annoyances, and the lack of the expected Sunday afternoon Bogotan soccer games. I self-medicated myself by visiting a great art museum collection and deciding to leave Bogota the next day instead of staying two. The museum, the Botero, was great. It had a huge collection of random 19th and 20th century art, and a big collection of Botero work. For those neanderthals out there who aren't "in" the Colombian art world, Botero is a guy who paints and is Colombian. It is actual interesting work, most of his figures being...the word I would use is "swollen". They are all fat, moon-faced, big thighs and buttocks, and many of them have those eyes that follow you. Cool stuff.
Bogota and Cali are generally expensive cities, but I did find ice creams cones for 500 pesos (about 25 cents) after a nice African lunch of a whole fried fish, fried plantains, and coconut rice. I usually have difficulty with whole fish, but this one went well. And the restaurant had a big poster of Obama on the wall. My explanation of my connection to that figure resulted in a fist bump between myself and the proprietor. My first fist bump in a while, also went well.
Finished* Atlas Shrugged and traded it for JD Salinger's Franny and Zooey at the Bogota hotel. Huge library improvement in my mind. Monday morning bus ride to Bucaramanga.
BUCARAMANGA
Fun to say, fun to look at, and for me, fun to be in.
Side note: the name of the bus company was 'Autoboy'. Not sure why, but it attracted me.
In BUCARAMANGA, I walked a little ways up the street from the bus station instead of taking a taxi because I have become anti-taxi, and was able to ask around a locate a little guest house normally used by bus drivers. Convinced the lady to let me stay there with some charm and/or my obvious exhaustion. I'm going with charm, but you can draw your own conclusions, Oh Wise Reader. Bought some plantains and a soda at the local market, and when I walked back into the house the husband notified me that I could not eat these plantains, that they were only for frying. He asked his wife to fry them up, and she did so, and brought me a bowl of soup as well.
Which brings me to a Lesson of the Day: Not all mistakes turn out bad.
I chatted with the husband for a while about Colombia and America, politics, life, et cetera. He was really into it. He scooted his chair closer to mine when I started talking about how things are expensive in the States. Everyone's got their talking points. Afterwards, he left and I enjoyed my friend plantains, potato soup, and kola while watching music videos with the wife and her teenage son. There was one song I recognized, and so I asked the son who the artists was.
"Nigga," he said.
"What?" said I.
"Nigga. See?" and he pointed to the screen. "I've heard that a bad word or something in the US."
"Yeah, it is."
"Why?"
And so I tried to explain the history of that word and the difference between the "-er" ending and the "-a" ending. I think he understood, more or less.
BUCARAMANGA was very hot but I managed a solid night of sleep, only woken slightly in the early morning when rain came down heavy. Left early for a bus to here, Santa Marta. Another great meal along the way, two pork steaks, fried plantain mash, rice, beans, and boiled yucca. It is very hot and sweaty here, and I am going to attempt to sleep in my hammock tonight, strung up from the roof beams at a local hostel. Remains to be seen how well this works.
Tomorrow: beach and chilling. Oh yes. Chilling. Mmmhhhaaaaaa..
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