Las Tierras Desconocidas

Day ???: It Again Rains

2010-07-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

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...

A walk on the Wild side?

2010-03-06T05:43:00.000-08:00

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.

Anyone for a sandwich?

2010-02-06T05:14:00.000-08:00

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.

Luna closes her eyes

2009-12-18T12:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Wind, Radiation, Pestilence, and a merry month

2009-11-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

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...

In which there are celebrations, dreams, kites, and filth

2009-11-02T19:13:00.000-08:00

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?

In which not much happens; but go ahead and read on anyway

2009-10-12T17:35:00.000-07:00

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.

In which I get a hair-cut and take a vacation

2009-09-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

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

Day 103: Untitled, Fifth Week in Antigua

2009-08-29T13:38:00.000-07:00

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......

Day 98: The Beginning of the Middle. Or, Fourth Week in Antigua

2009-08-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

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?

Day 88: Second Week in Antigua

2009-08-12T17:08:00.000-07:00

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...

Day 78: First Week in Antigua

2009-08-02T09:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 71: Antigua

2009-07-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 68: San Salvador

2009-07-23T09:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 63: Sam's Guest Post

2009-07-18T16:47:00.000-07:00

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

Day 56: San Jose

2009-07-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 52: Cartagena

2009-07-07T06:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 49: Santa Marta and Parque Tayrona

2009-07-04T08:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 45: Santa Marta

2009-06-30T17:25:00.000-07:00

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..

Day 39: Pasto

2009-06-24T14:25:00.000-07:00

A bit of a lazy, comtemplative day on my first full day in Colombia, so I marched over to this internet cafe in sandals and socks. There is a lady in the back yelling on/at the computer in what I believe to be Mandarin Chinese. If the world works the way it should, at this very moment there is someone in an internet cafe in China yelling on/at the computer in Spanish.

Or, as they call it here, Castellano. Here, Español is what is spoken in Spain and Castellano is what is spoken in Latin America. Sort of like English and "American" English. Just a side note if you, Oh Wanderlusting Reader, are ever traveling in South America.

I woke up early yesterday morning in Quito after a very nice last day and embarked on a series of automotive transportation types en route to Colombia:

1. Taxi from panaderia to Quito bus station: Short ride, happy to have some bread in my backpack for the trip.

2. Bus from Quito to Tulcan (near Colombian border): Ticket guy was shady and insisted on simply telling the bus driver that I had paid instead of giving me a ticket. Didn't trust him so much, but the bus driver and assistant kid were good people. At least, 'good' in the sense of 'honest' -- not so much in the sense of 'bus driving'. We circled the bus station for a good twenty minutes waiting for someone to bring the driver his license. Then went the wrong way around the hills of Quito and had to execute a driver's-test-failing 3 point turnaround. Then, about an hour outside of Quito on the Panamerican Highway, the bus started smelling funny, pulled over, and it was realized that the engine was leaking a significant amount of oil and other liquids. Everybody off. Several of the male passengers initiated the customary ritual of standing around the engine, staring at different angles, and pretending to know what the problem was. A school bus stopped by and offered a big water jug to refill the cooling system. Everybody back on! Here we go! From personal experience I knew this would be short-lived, and I was proved right a few hundred feet later when the bus pulled over, shut down, and everybody off. Fairly soon another bus with the same destinations came by and we all piled on. Rest of the ride was easy. Side note: the girl sitting across from me was severely Goth-ed up, including a picture of Hitler on her black sweatshirt.

3. Taxi from Tulcan bus station to border: Somehow I was unaware of the distance between bus terminals on opposite sides of the border. I had to make an ATM run in Tulcan, luckily close to the station, before proceeding to be ripped off by the taxi driver. It was a twenty minute ride to the border, costing $3.50. I did not really have any other options, no buses or taxi drivers not in league with the rip off artists.

4. Taxi from border to Ipiales bus station: The border was a simple cross, althoug the line on the Ecuador side was very long and for a while they only had one agent working. Made friends with a Colombian couple (actually not sure of their romantic status) heading to Guayaquil and we swapped some travel ideas. Walked over to the Colombian side with the woman ahead of me in line and she ushered me to the correct line and a taxi to the bus station. However she could not protect me from getting swindled by a money changer, who gave me a 2,000 peso note instead of a 20,000 peso note, which is about a $9 loss, which I only realized when I arrived at the hotel that night. Taxi driver was an older man, very friendly, and immediately blew away the one travel guide warning I had about Colombians: Don't talk politics. He talked nothing but politics. And his name was Marco! I add the exclamation point not because of the import of the name Marco, but simply because I am surprised to remember this detail.

5. Minivan from Ipiales to Pasto: I got ushered by a teenager into a waiting minivan right after walking into the parking lot of the bus station. Also, I accidentally hit the trunk door on this teenager's hand. My Pegleg strength has yet to depart me! The minivan filled up within a few minutes and we took off for a strangely calming ride through the Colombian dusk and along some very deep tree-filled canyons and their eternal salsa partner, winding roads.

6. Taxi from Pasto bus station to hotel: quick and cheap, and I had a little fútbol discussion with the driver.

The Hotel Manhattan! What a place. I had some touristy fun explaining to the lady how I lived in the United States' Manhattan, and that this one was much calmer. It is an old colonial mansion coverted into an interesting hotel, with enormous ceilings and a big second-floor patio off of which all the rooms open. I am certain this place is haunted. Everything creaks and shakes. I love it.

I was planning on taking the 9 hour ride to Cali in two pieces, one today to Popayan -- about half way. However as I was preparing to leave, bags packed and all, I went to hand my key back to the lady and asked her why there was a student parade in the street. She explained that today was the celebration of the founding of the city of Pasto, and that tonight would be a big mariachi party in the Cultural Plaza two blocks from the hotel. I put some thought into this news and decided to stay another night and do the 9 hours to Cali tomorrow. Tonight should be fun.

Today I wandered around a bit, filled up my wallet at the heavily guarded bank, and spent much of the day reading and watching the high school student parade -- marching bands followed by the non-musical students holding little Colombian flags and looking either bored or embarrassed (Is it possible to appear to be both at the same time?). I am reading Atlas Shrugged, which I do not recommend, highly or otherwise. I traded for it with one of my roommates in Quito, and along with Graham Greene's Travels with my Aunt, it makes up my entire backpack library (not counting my dictionary). It is a long book, which I am determined to finish, before or after the mariachis.

Sleeping is still a problem, which I find interesting the more I think about it. For the first few weeks of my trip I was sleeping a lot -- 10 to 12 hours a night most nights, going to sleep and waking up early, and almost never arising in the middle of the night. However since my first night in Guayaquil I have yet to last without waking up at least twice, and I have been unable to take a nap despite trying several times. These sleeping patterns were not affected by my environment, and so it must be something inside of me. So many possibilities!

Resolved: Any country that regularly serves fried bananas is a great country. Jesus, they are delicious. Sorry. Only that first sentence was the resolution. But they are frickin' delicious.

Day 37: Quito

2009-06-22T14:09:00.000-07:00

I think I may regret not spending more time in Ecuador. But I am sure that I will regret not spending enough time in Colombia. So my plans changed somewhat, my desire to visit that beautiful nation of cocaine and chicharron coupled with a cheaper connection to Costa Rica -- through Cartagena, on the Carribean coast, as opposed to Cali, just a few hours from the Ecuadoreanish border. I have just purchased such a flight from Cartagena to Panama City, departing at 6:15am on July the 8th. Which gives me a spot over two weeks to travel Colombia.

But that is the future, and this is no future blog. I split from Ambato after a day after making these plan-changes and took the quick bus trip to Quito, El Capital. Had a fun politics conversation with a young lady on the bus, which gave a nice little insight into Ecuadorishean politics. I was, however, often distracted by the beautiful -- albeit cloud-covered -- scenery and by my conversation partner's moustache. Either way, it was an easy bus ride. I made sure to actually watch the guy put my backpack on the bus this time.

I must say that part of these plan-changes are an unveiled attempt to jump-start my happiness and push aside my boredom. The Guayaquil-Ambato period will definitely go down as a low point on my travels, and also the period when I started having trouble sleeping. Going to sleep is easy, but I am waking up often during the night and unable to make this time up through naps. At first I thought this was due to the humid nights of Guayaquil, but the problem has continued through Ambato and Quito. I am unsure what caused this lack of zzz's. However despite the mildly sleepness nights, Quito has been a fun couple of days, just what, as it is said, "the doctor ordered."

To be honest, my first day was not quite so fun. I arrived and decided to take a nice walk down to "Old Town", also known as the Historical Area. Saw the huge Gothic Basilica, had a nice lunch at a restaurant run by an older couple (more on both of these locations later), after which it started to rain. I had seen so many cloudy days without rain that I forgot the causal relationship between the two, and my T-shirt did little to keep me dry. I started to walk back to the hostel, and got completely, utterly, not to mention totally lost. I literally went in a big circle, ending up back within sight of the Basilica and finding my way after a good hour and a half of confusion and wetness. However, continuing on my streak of never getting sick, I did not get sick. I am just as impressed as you are, Oh Compassionate Reader, and perhaps more grateful.

Day Two began as Museum Day, which in turn began with a trip to the small but interesting Caamaño Museum in Old Town. A history of Quito, illustrated by paintings and photos from different periods and some creepy life-size historical figures in reconstructions of their natural habitats. There was a lot of hustle and bustle on the streets, with many religious processions, which in Ecuador and Peru seem to be a lot less solemn than those I have seen in the US and far more carnivalish. Made-up word? You be the judge.

Seeing literal storm clouds on the horizon, I high-tailed it back to the hostel, grabbing a little pork and fried banana lunch on the way. I joined a card game some of my fellow travelers were playing, a game called Durok of apparent Russian origin. I won't waste space trying to describe it in detail, but basically it's a combination of poker, speed, hearts, and vodka. It was an interesting group of people I took up with, mostly French folks, with an odd Belgian and German mixed in. I did enjoy the tri-language communication, and I was pleased to discover my French abilities are much better than I thought. Mais oui!

The card players and I, plus some others, decided to pitch in on a big cheese fondue dinner. I went with three others to a nearby supermarché to get supplies -- a French couple a few years older than me and a Belgian girl, about the same age, who was expecting her boyfriend to arrive the next day. More interchanging of languages, and I did feel a bit superior, being the most fluent in two out of the three languages. Shocked we were to discover the Ecuadoraner supply of fondue cheese is greatly lacking! We did some slow thinking and decided to make potatoes with cheese and bacon toppings instead. If that sounds very American, you can thank yours truly. We lugged the food items back to the hostel, myself in command of a 7 kilo watermelon. At this point I must add that the hostel is two long blocks up a very steep hill. Not to mention Quito is already around 3000 meters above sea level. At this point I must apologize to my American readers for my use of the metric system. Just make up the conversions -- that's the real American way.

Dinner was delicious and very filling, boxed wine and all. I collapsed in my bed, had another night of restlessness, and woke up to my last full day in Quito (and Ecuador). One of my three room-mates is another American who suggested I take a tour of the Basilica, mentioning that you are allowed to climb high up into the bell towers. I swung up to the Itchimbia lookout a few blocks above the hostel for some pictures and then strolled over to the Basilica, only to find it did not open for another twenty minutes. Therefore, I went to have breakfast at the old couple restaurant: scrambled eggs, biscuit, fake coffee, and some sort of shake-beverage -- the best I can guess is apple juice mixed with egg whites. Not bad, if you can believe it. What's that? You can't? Well, I drank that tall glass of yellowish foamy crud in two gulps. And it almost didn't stay down, but you will have to read further to find out why.

The Basilica "tour" was actually just an entrance fee. There was nobody else there, not on any of the levels -- except for a lady cleaning the bathrooms on the third floor who later became my inspiration. There are three towers on the Basilica, one at the far end and two parallel towers on the side closer to the entrance. I walked up three floors of regular stairs. Please note that I used the phrase "regular stairs". There was a small unattended gift shop and bathrooms, and a gate that stood between me and a wooden pathway over concrete ceiling of the church. I came back for this part, because first I wanted to climb the bell tower. Two more flights of regular stairs brought me outside at the base of the actual belfry tower. I then went inside and climbed a tiny spiral staircase in the corner, which brought me to the huge clock room. At this point I started to feel a little dizzy and nauseous. Kept going up the spiral staircase up to a wooden construction platform near the top of the clock room, and then more spiral stairs above the clock room -- here there were no more windows, and the wind was very strong. I knew that I had some fear of heights, but it had never affected me so much. I took my time on this level, and was able to make it up the first rebar ladder to the next level (there are three rebar ladders to get to the very top). At that point I realized I could not go any further. My head was swimming, my stomach was churning, and I couldn't keep my mind off all the terrible possibilities. The Caamaño museum on the previous day had taught me all about the great earthquakes and volcanic eruptions in Quito's history. My legs and arms were shaking so much I was afraid to climb the next ladder. So I went back down, and back on the third floor I saw the bathroom cleaning lady, and I told her how scary it was up there. Keep in mind, there was nobody else in the whole tower structure. Not a soul.

I walked across the church ceiling walkway and up onto the base of the far tower. There was ladder up along one of the flying buttresses, but I imagine only insane or drunk people would go up. I went back -- but my inability to get to the top of the belfry tower bothered me, itched at me, challenged me. I saw the bathroom cleaning lady again, and told her I was going to try again, and she laughed. This time I had a plan to conquer my fear: no thinking. And it worked! I made it up the spiral staircases, and all three rebar ladders. The top floor, if you can call it that, was just a bunch of metal bracings with chicken wire tied down. I stepped up onto a metal bracing, looked out at the ant-people, and started back down. I had yet to put two feet down on the ladder when the HOLY SHIT BELL started to ring RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD. Everything shook, not least of all me. I climbed down as fast as I could, back to solid ground. On the way down the regular stairs I saw some English-speaking tourists on their way up, and I laughed inside.

After conquering my fear and almost peeing myself because of a big bell, I went to find a particular bus, which I took to the end of the line, and then another bus, also to the end of the line, where I found a huge stone obelisk with a big metal globe at the top (and a $2 entrance fee). What was this place, Oh Inquisitive Reader? Why, it was the Equator! The Middle of the World! I took some cool pictures, wandered from hemisphere to hemisphere, and got great amusement fomr watching tourists take various pictures at the site. In addition: I took a crap on the Equator. My quest complete, I wandered via bus back to the hostel, and then on some newer quests: buying plane tickets, checking international bus service to Colombia, and buying a English book.

Take a look at the pictures I posted, two sets to catch me up. Tomorrow will find me in Colombia, and today finds me much more energized. I imagine, and hope, that these last two weeks of solo travel will continue to engage and entertain me, fill me with delicious food, and keep my mind occupied. The lesson for today, between the fear of heights at the Basilica and the silliness at the Equator, is that most of what you perceive as your environment is actually in your head, a creation of our expectations, our fears, our desires, and so on.

And so on!

Maps!! The Journey So-Far

2009-06-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

Day 34: Ambato

2009-06-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

I am getting close to the Equator, the belt of the world, the mid-way point between the poles, and coincidentally I am also near to the half way point of my solo wanderings. Which gives me some reason to pause and think about what I have done so far, what I aim to do in the rest of my wanderings, and what comes afterwards. These last few weeks have been far more relaxed, but I am realizing that I have been more withdrawn as well, spending more time in my room(s), more time on the Internet, more time reading, too much time letting my thoughts wander. New cities, new sights, new food, they are losing their automatic appeal to me, as earlier everything new was awesome. Boredom is a word I find myself often wandering to, pausing at, trying to find some reason I should be on a an adventure such as this and still stand for being bored.

On my last day in Peru I lay on the roof of the Hotel California (yes, I know, like in the song), in a chair made of thin green rubber tubing knit around a rebar frame, took off my shirt, and sat in the sun for the afternoon. I let everything slowly drain from my mind and fell into a blissful and warm nap. Clouds drifted overhead, the sun dropped into the waiting arms of the horizon. This was my last day in Peru. My first day in Ecuador: sunburn.

After ambling around Loja for a day, I decided to follow my quasi-fantasy of getting passage on a freighter from Guayaquil on the southern coast of Ecuador to Panama, after which I would make my way to Costa Rica to meet up with my hermano. I took the bus from Loja to Guayaquil, eight hours which passed by smoothly as can be. Of course, arriving at 7pm in Guayaquil I discovered that my backpack had not made the trip with me. Apparently I was too trusting of the baggage buy in Loja. This event was discouraging to say the least. Not to mention I had no address for any hotel.

I won't go all into the details of my backpack situation, suffice to say I got it sent to Guayaquil overnight and picked it up the next morning. It was a pretty awful 12 hours though. Located a hotel near the bus terminal, which was heavily overpriced. To boot: Guayaquil is incredibly hot and humid, even in the winter. Especially humid after sundown. I could not sleep more than an hour that night without waking up, and I had terrible dreams in between. Awful, vivid, engrossing nightmares. Woke up early by choice and went to the bus station -- which is surprisingly modern, complete with a food court and three-level mall.

I tried to follow my freighter fantasy, but found this option both less possible and less desirable the more people I asked about it. Apparently Ecuadoran President Rafael Correa -- of whom I am a fan -- has increased the amount of inspection at the port and cut down on corruption, meaning that ship captains are not so likely to pick up stragglers. The shipping companies will certainly not facilitate passengers. And the maritime port, where I would have needed to go to try and bribe a captain, is very far from the main part of the city and in a dangerous area. In thinking about the freighter option, I also realized that, considering I am growing bored wandering around beautiful foreign cities, spending a week or so on board a ship might not be the best thing for my mental well-being. So I gave up on the freighter fantasy, and found some cheaper flights that will take me from Cali in Colombia to Panama City, a short but unexpectedly expensive hop.

The high point of Guayaquil was the Museum of Anthropology and Contemporary Art. Weird combination, but exactly what I needed -- two hours wandering around a nearly-empty air-conditioned museum. Three exhibits: a 20th century art grab bag of mostly Latin American artists, a collection of lurid paintings by a contemporary Colombian artisit, and a anthropological retrospective of the last 10,000 years of Ecuadorean history. Side note: I am still unsure of the adjective which implies something being from or of Ecuador. Ecuadoran? Ecuadorian? Ecuadorean? Ecuadorish? Just thinking out loud.

Bus ride today from Guayaquil to Ambato also uneventful, although we did spend an hour, literally, waiting for construction on the highway:

Constant road construction + Only two-lane highways = Lots of delays

There was a four year-old boy who sat next to me most of the ride. He fell asleep on my shoulder for a while, which was adorable. For most of the ride he would not respond to any of my questions, at the most shaking his head slightly to indicate "no". About an hour outside of Ambato he started talking with words and would not stop. He was singing and talking and asking me questions. His parents were sitting across the aisle with his infant brother and smiling at me when I talked to the little boy. A nice family scene.

As for Ambato, it lies on the Panamerican Highway somewhere south of Quito. Not sure what I am doing here -- upon arrival I checked into the dirty but lively hotel, had some dissapointing lunch, and came here to the internet cafe. I have thought a lot about the next few months and years, but not at all about the next few days. Is this a good thing? My instinct says no, but it's been wrong before.

Day 31: Loja

2009-06-16T06:58:00.000-07:00

This morning I accidentally woke up early and took a walk through the city of Loja....in Ecuador! It is a pleasant town nestled into the green hills of the Ecuadoran Andes. I strolled down the central canal and had breakfast in the main market -- guatita (delicious platano and chicharron meatball), greenish beans mixed with queso fresco, a chicken leg, tomato and onion salad, all on top of rice. With a big glass of fresh coffee -- $1.90. For those readers who tend to keep out of the international finance loop, the national currency of Ecuador is the US Dollar, the Mighty Greenback, the Fightin' Jacksons. They use the exact same currency, with the odd exception of their own unique quarter with a big "25" on it.

I apologize for the lack of posting over the last week. Allow me, if you will, to take you on a little guided tour...

After my last posting I resumed the Great Cassette Search in the city of Trujillo, which was preposturously successful. All of my tapes work (the one I could not remember last time was a random collection of Beatles songs), although the cheap batteries I bought in Lima have already failed. And Yes, I feel super-cool riding the buses and listening to my bright yellow Walkman.

After the Conclusion of the Cassette Search, I went to see 'Angeles y Demonios' at a local movie theater. Not a great movie, but entertaining enough and fun to try and match subtitles to spoken lines. I left the theater right around dusk, and was swept away by an incredible euphoria. Everything was going to be okay, every problem swept under the rug into a deep, dark hole, tomorrow will most certainly be better than today. It was an odd feeling, unexpected but entirely welcomed. The euphoria had slowly drifted away by the next morning, where I took advantage of the first clear day to take a nice long walk on the beach before shouldering up my life belongings and heading on a bus for Chiclayo, even further north along the Panamerican Highway.

Chiclayo was an unremarkable city, but I did enjoy wandering aimlessly around the enormous bustling marketplace a block from my hotel. Speaking of the hotel...nicest one yet. Big rooms, my own bathroom with hot water, people cleaned the rooms every day and left a new ratty towel and cheap bar of soap, like a damn Holiday Inn! There was even a little restaurant in the back of the lobby!

I visited a little museum, the Bruning Museum, to the north of town. It was a really nice museum, with lots of incredible artifacts and well-done maps and dioramas. The artifacts were quite incredible, mostly gold work and pottery dating 1000 to 2500 years ago. The craftsmanship was very delicate and precise. I also enjoyed the little gold statue of a man with a golden penis and two little golden balls.

After Chiclayo I traveled further north to Piura, which was by far the friendliest city I have visited in Peru. I got six replies to my greetings! Six strangers said "good day" or "good afternoon" to me! Another fairly nice hotel, although the rooms seemed to have been constructed from the same thin laquered wood used to make cheap coffins. Piura was very hot during the day, so the thin walls were appreciated. Except, of course, when the older couple in the next room went for a little Sunday Special at eight in the morning. But I digress...

Bought some sweet sandals at the Piura market. They say "Ronaldiño" on them, which to me makes them the Air Jordans of South America. Also made in China!

Hopped the bus across the border to Loja. My first experiences in Ecuador were not of a such a high quality: running from one border office to the next in the mid-day heat trying to unravel customs paperwork mysteries, then dropping the d-word in the bus bathroom while shifting wildly on S-curve mountain roads. The bus guy was not too happy about my excretory deposit, but I felt it was a fair outcome. The on-board entertainment for the past four hours had been music from a CD collection whose name I surmise to be Music Guaranteed to Get You on a Shooting Rampage, Discs 1-8. To be clear: it featured the Macarena, that herpes wound on modern music. My internal argument was as follows: you shit on my ears, I shit on your bus. Which, I believe, was the original formulation of Newton's Second Law of Physics. The rest of the ride got better, both in my stomach and the on-board entertainment. Which sort of proves my point.

The Great Peruvian Culture Exam!

2009-06-12T15:03:00.000-07:00

Each question is worth one point. Although the values may change unexpectedly. Remember, this is Peru! Please send your answers in the form of comments on this posting, and include an email address with your answers. The winner will receive a very, very special prize in his or her inbox.

Que tenga buena suerte, amigos!

1. What do Peruvian men generally do when they see a pretty woman?

a) Whistle
b) Stare
c) Howl
d) Nothing

2. What should one do when sitting in the back of a combi?
a) Open the windows
b) Duck one's head
c) Yell when you want to get off
d) All of the above

3. How did one Lima newspaper refer to the country's soccer team after a 1-0 loss to Ecuador?
a) "The embarassment of South America"
b) "A bunch of headless chickens"
c) "They should be locked away with Fujimori"
d) "Worse than watching earthquake victims"

4. Why is Arequipa known as "the White City"?
a) It refers to the lighter skin color of its inhabitants
b) It refers to the White army in the Peruvian Civil War
c) It refers to the color of the stone used in many of its buildings
d) It is not known as such

5. Which of the following is not a fruit found in Peruvian juice?
a) Lúcuma
b) Barilocha
c) Maracuya
d) Granilla

6. What is the Peruvian National Condiment (unofficial)?
a) Guano -- a thick, dark sauce with chunks of pepper and corn
b) Aji -- a spicy mixed vegtable sauce with great variety in color and composition across Peru
c) Chupa -- spicy hot pepper seeds mixed with different kinds of chopped fruit
d) Mayonnaise

7. What is a 'tortota'?
a) a kind of boat
b) slang for a slow-moving driver
c) the blessing given by curanderos in Northern Peru to help infertile couples
d) a completely made-up word

8. The Incan Empire began around which century:
a) 4th century BC
b) 3rd century AD
c) 10th century AD
d) 15th century AD

9. What is the slogan of current Peruvian president Alan Garcia?
a) "A spoon for everyone!"
b) "Peru advances!"
c) "Free the China-man!"
d) "Sol power!"

10. What is the "Shining Path"
a) The road to Machu Pichu
b) Any road that leads to a hot shower
c) An ancient Chimu ritual
d) A 1980s terrorist organization

Short Answer Questions

1. What is the difference between a llama and an alpaca?

2. What is the difference between a micro and a combi?

Tie-breaker Question

1. If you had one week to spend anywhere on Earth, where would you go and why?

Day 25: Huanchaco

2009-06-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

Since the last post was a bit out in left field, today I will return to the traditional travel blog format. Time for some in-depth narrative!

(Cue the narrative music)

Arrived in Trujillo around 6pm Monday night after the sweet bus ride from Lima. Lugged my backpack extraordinaire onto the micro bound for Huanchaco, a quaint little village on the coast 30 minutes west of Trujillo. Micro was very crowded, like taking a NYC subway at rush hour with a backpack. Nice guy helped me find the hostel -- Hostal Naylamp -- along the waterfront. Found out they did not have any rooms available, only "camping", which conists of a nice little tree-lined area above the alley behind the main hostel area. Dinner was difficult, as most restaurants were closed, but I found a dive bar with food that would have been incredible...if there had been anyone else there. Took down a sort of stir fry dinner with a big bottle of Trujillo beer. This beer tastes like re-bottled Pabst Blue Ribbon. Back to the hostel and to sleep in my hammock listening to a bunch of Australians playing drinking games in the patio area. Woke up cold and with no blanket, so I pull my hammock down and used it as a sheet while lying on the couch in the patio area (Australian were gone by that point).

In the morning decided to walk to Chan Chan, some big ruin site between Huanchaco and Trujillo. It was a long walk. Very long. I passed a man pushing some trash on a cart, and for a little while we were walking at the same pace. I did a little side glance to see if he wanted to race. Would have been a funny situation if it weren't for the fact that he collected trash for a living, and I am an American tourist who spends more on a seafood dinner (more on that later) than he probably makes in a week.

Chan Chan was impressive looking, but not all that interesting. It is a huge city built by the Chimu people between the 12th and 15th century, at which point they were conquered by the Inca. They built everything out of sand bricks, and had a lot of bird and fish designs carved into the brick. The government is in the process of reconstructing the city, so it was a little unclear as to what parts were hundreds of years old and what parts were recent. The nearby museum was also fairly uninteresting, although I did spend a good amount of time reading both the Spanish and poorly-translated-English explanations on the exhibits. There was a entertaining group walking ahead of me at Chan Chan: an older French couple, the starched-looking thin woman with painted-on eyebrows and the clumsy balding man who filmed everything with his digital camcorder and attempted to apologize to me for this habit without using words, and the Peruvian tour guide lady who spoke surprisingly excellent French and shared a little laugh with me at the couple's expense.

After Chan Chan I had a suspect lunch of cow parts. Brain? Tongue? Grab bag? It's a good thing I know litle about meat-borne disease and bacteria. Ignorance is such culinary bliss. I walked to the Adventura Mall, which is....a really fancy outdoor mall. Just like we have in the States! Oh my gosh! I did not know what to do, so I bought some ice cream, and then went back to the hostel. On the way back spotted the Z car and took a picture from the back of the micro because the driver's seat amused me.

Spent the afternoon at the hostel reading Moneyball. Just picked it up and read all the way through, and by the time I was finished it was night time. So then I walked down and got myself a fancy fish dinner. There was some creole style fish with grilled onions, and then a big fried fish that looked like an enormous pancake, both delicious. Along with some mixed juice! I f-ing love the juice down here. F!

Last night I laid out my sleeping bag in the hammock, which was difficult to get into, but gave me a great night of rest. Took a shower in the morning. No hot water, which was not cool. Ha! See what I did there! What a sweet play on words. After the shower I shaved my entire face for the first time in a while, which was fun. Took a combi to Trujillo, where I commenced the Great Laundry Search (completed), followed by the Great Cassette Search (ongoing). Also included: Chicharron breakfast -- that would be bits of fried pork, for those uninitiated.

And so the days continue to pile up, now closing in on a month of traveling. Soon I will be leaving Peru and entering Ecuador. Which means, of course, that you, Oh Faithful Reader, should be preparing for the Great Peruvian Culture Exam! Coming soon!

Incredibly Important Update!!

The Great Cassette Search was successful!! I tracked down, literally, the ONLY GUY WHO SELLS TAPES IN THE WHOLE CITY!! At least, the only one according to him. I found one street where everyone I asked pointed up the street to where such tapes might be found, and there he was, a little stall with a eight foot wall stacked with tapes. Purchased:
1. The Wall, Pink Floyd
2. Burnin, Bob Marley
3. 2010, La Factoria
4. Hits of the 70s, assorted
5. Best of the 80s, assorted
6. something else I can't remember right now, but is assuredly awesome

Addendum: If you are, for some God-awfully absurd and black hole-consuming reason, searching for an ABBA tape...I know a guy. Just saying.

Day 24 - Huanchaco

2009-06-09T05:51:00.000-07:00

The last few days since I left Cuzco have been fairly low-key, mostly traveling, relaxing, and, of course, thinking. I therefore present...

Things That I Miss

1. Cars driving by blasting hip-hop

I miss that you cannot go anywhere, New York or California, without having cars driving by playing hip-hop loudly. Music is everywhere. Here, that is not the case. I realized that I was missing having music in my life. So I found myself a new travel companion while in Lima. Went to the Polvos Azules market in downtown Lima, which is basically a huge Peruvian mall. Mostly shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. But I was able to track down my new travel companion....which is....a brand new Walkman! The 80's are back, baby! It even has a flashlight! Still new to find some tapes to listen to, because apparently Peru is no longer in the 80's. I asked one of the CD vendors where I could find tapes, and he looked at me like I had asked him if I could have his little sister's phone number to ask her out on a date. No go on the cassettes, but listening to the radio on the ride from Lima to Trujillo (about 9 hours) was awesome, if only with intermittent reception. Lots of 80's rock music and reggaeton. Speaking of the ride, it was the best bus ride I have had in Peru and possibly the best solo bus ride I have ever taken. Bus left on time, ticket was cheap, no seat mate, plenty of movies. We stopped at this little roadside restaurant on the Panamerican and I had some stewed goat, Carribean style, f-ing delicious. And I got to listen to my radio when we passed through cities! The scenery was also beautiful, a lot of empty beaches and towering sand dunes.

2. Bathroom with toilet paper

Self-explanatory

3. Real Chinese food

They love Chinese food here. Love that shit. But it is awful. It is like food from that one buffet place where they leave the food out for days and you can see stuff starting to grow on it. After being offered some of this Asiatic gruel, I decided to make my own dinner on my last night in Lima. Got some pasta, some Roma tomatoes, garlic, and a baguette, and made myself (and others) a nice Italian dinner. Put some jazz on the radio at the hostel (some New Orleans jazz and some Sinatra), and got cooking. It was a very nice night overall, and I enjoyed being around some people I was getting used to at that hostel. Of course, it has to be on my last night there. Perhaps, because it was my last night there. Either way, a nice way to end my stay in Southern Peru.

4. People

It would be cheesy of me to list the people I miss. But I do miss them, and they know who they are. I have been trying my best to keep in touch. Emails just aren't the same as hugs though.

I believe now that this trip of mine was a mistake, at least in its timing. The problem is not so much that I should not have come -- at some point I needed to do something like this, and I am learning to enjoy these adventures more and more each day. The problem is that I should not have left. I missed out on things that I did not need to miss out on. At the point in my life where I most need support and resources -- the point where I try to figure out what I want to do, where I want to do it, and with whom around me -- at that point I find myself further from those resources and support than I have ever been.

This is not to say that I feel bad, or feel self-pity. A mistake is a mistake, and we all make them. I recognize this as a mistake because it is important to acknowledge errors when they are made. This mistake will not change who I am, and I will not run back immediately to try and pick up the pieces. I will learn from this, take what lessons I can, try to do better in the future. Sounds simple, only gets more complicated as time goes on. Which, from what I have heard, it tends to do.

Breakfast is calling me now. I will update and post pictures when I can.

Day 18: Cuzco and the Sacred Valley

2009-06-03T10:51:00.000-07:00

I would apologize for the delay in posting, but I am still feeling a little queasy from the bus ride to Abancay, and thus not feeling particularly apologetic. The map of the road from Cuzco to Abancay bears an uncanny resemblance to my small intestine. My trying to read and write at the same time was not helpful to my well-being. Beautiful ride, of course, but not quite as nice as the Sacred Valley.

After a few days in Cuzco, wandering around and getting spooked by Incan ruins (more on that later), I decided to put my limited camping/hiking gear to use. Plotted out a little route north of the Urubamba River, which runs down the middle of the Sacred Valley. I planned to do three days of hiking and camping; in reality it turned out to be less than twenty-four hours. The combination of altitude sickness and freezing cold did me in, although the rest of the trip was interesting and exciting.

Jumping back to Cuzco, I spent most of my days wandering the city and sampling delicious food. I tried my best to avoid the touristy areas as part of further self-denial. The street food, I must say, was by far my favorite part of the city. Almost every corner has hot juice vendors. That's right, hot juice. Like hot apple cider, but better. Two kinds of hot juice: quinoa and maca. Quinoa is a basic juice for Soutern Peru, grown from the quinoa plant, which basically looks like fat pink wheat. Quinoa juice is very filling and tastes like something between apple juice and oatmeal. Maca is some sort of grain or root (the mystery makes it all the more delicious), which is mixed with milk and sugar to make a caramel-like juice, thick and syrupy. There is nothing better than a nice big glass of hot juice on a cold morning. Cuzco is also home to my current favorite meal: eggs, rice, fries, and a side salad of tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers (all piled into one incredible bowl, and with optional fried chicken, sausage, or fried banana). There are 10-15 vendors who sell this great meal in the back of the central market. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner, it serves all purposes.

After one day of wanderings and great digestibles, I decided I would visit Saqsayhuman at night. These are huge ruins on a hill overlooking Cuzco, which apparently are shaped like a puma's head (the city is the body). I walked the long streets and long steps up the hill, the sun long since gone below the horizon. Wind blows gently through the trees. Not a soul moves through the ruins. Long wall of giant boulders, cut to fit into each other, tall stone towers, winding stairways through and around the stones. If there was a time to believe in ghosts, it was there. High above the city, I lay on my back to stare up at the stars, ancient ruins at my feet. Spooky but beautiful, like Morticia Adams. I practically ran down the hill and stumbled back into a big drunk party outside a church. Odd transition, from silent ruins to drunk church party. Very Peruvian though, if I am yet permitted to say so.

My Sacred Valley Journey began early Monday morning on two bumpy bus trips to Ollantaytambo. I quickly got my bearings and headed north, along the Patachancha River. The first few hours were mostly flat alongside the river. I met an adobe brick maker and his family, and we exchanged food stuffs (granola mix for coca leaves). The family only spoke Quechua. I am fairly certain the older neighbor lady had a crush on me, although I couldn't understand anything she was saying. Sometimes you just know.

I continued uphill now, which caused me great difficulty because of the altitude. A few minutes hiking slowly, a few minutes resting on the ground. This area was more populated that I had imagined, and I soon stumbled upon a little village (five or six houses) of sheep herders. I was invited to a late lunch of boiled potatoes and a fried egg, and so I shared more of my granola and water. The man, a year younger than me, spoke Spanish (the rest of the family just Quechua) and so we were able to converse. We talked some politics, and I found out that the electricity wires which I had wondered about had only been there for two years.

Continued on until sunset, and found a nice little spot between some bushes to lay my campsite (hammock as ground cover, light sleeping bag on top of that). The campsite was also far enough away from the nearby houses that I figured the guard dogs, who guard the sheep against coyotes, wouldn't bother me. Lay down on my back, stared up as the stars appeared, breathing lightly and relaxing, wondering about the universe, and HOLY SHIT THERE IS SOMEONE STANDING BEHIND ME! I sat up quick and turned around. The guy had a baseball cap and a goofy smile. "Give me the money," he said.

Just kidding. He asked me where I was going and told me to watch out for the dogs, and not to keep food near me. He told me to stop by his house in the morning for breakfast. Bautista was his name (the only one of the people that day whose name I remember, apologies to the rest). I was a little spooked by all the dogs barking loudly nearby, but I was able to drift off to sleep.

Woke up a few hours later in a horrible state. Pounding sinus headache, feverish, felt like puking. None of the symptoms were terrible by themselves, but put together caused a great deal of anguish. Not to mention the freezing cold and the spectre of circling attack dogs. Tried for a while to relax, self-medicate, but I had not brought the two things which could help me: aspirin and coca leaves. The moon shone brightly above, giving the world an eery green light.

Dear Gabe,

This is what you wanted, no? To be all alone in a foreign place, to be in control of your destiny, to face risk with poor planning? Well, here it is. It is cold. Your head hurts, your feet are swelling, your back pains at every turn and bend. The dogs are coming closer. This is the paradise you requested. You are welcome.

Sincerely,

Gabe

It was driving me stir-crazy trying to lie there and figure out how to relax myself enough to sleep until morning. I decided to pack up camp and hike down to a lower altitude in the hopes that my illness would lighten up. Threw everything into my pack, pack on my back. Flashlight (courtesy of the Skirvin family) in my left hand, apple in my left hand. I made my way, stumbling to the best of my abilities, trying to avoid houses where Peruvian Attack Dogs (PADs, for short) might be waiting. It was a mess of rocks, rough sheep trails, animal dookie, and my two feet. Walking felt good. Moving felt good, warming me up, keeping my mind off the headache and fever and body pains. The only problem was (Keep reading at risk to your sensibilities) that the inside of my right thigh and corresponsing testicle area was extremely sore and rashy, pain with each right step.

Just kept walking, not tired enough to need to stop, wanting to get somewhere. As I got back to the original flat road by the river, I felt much better. Back and feet still sore, but headache, fever, stomach sickness, all went away. It was a beautiful night. Waxing gibbous moon, thousands of stars, all illuminating the sheer mountains on both sides of the valley, sound of rushing water off to my right through the bushes and trees. Little animals and birds scurrying around in the brush. One foot after the other. Passed by the field of adobe bricks, rough in the moonlight. Closer to Ollantaytambo I had more run-ins with PADs. Used my flashlight LAPD-style, shining to right in their faces, which worked with all except one big German shepherd fella who followed me for a while and got too close for comfort. Thought about throwing some rocks, while is a local custom, but PETA might revoke my membership.

It might have easily been expected that my night would have ended when I stumbled, bleary-eyed, into Ollantaytambo's main square. Except that none of the hostels or hotels answered their doors at...well, at whatever time it was. Sat down on the benches near a late-night party on one side of the square, salsa band playing for the benefit of a hundred or so locals, mostly drunk. The party had one element which attracted me: a big, warm bonfire (local bonfire uses several big chunks of tree around a bunch of smaller branches so that you can sit on the big chunks to get warmer). I tried to stay out of the drunk party action, but inevitably several drunk guys came over to talk to me, in that boundary-crossing, repeat-question-asking way that drunk men have. I sampled some of the party fare -- beef soup and punché (more hot fruit juice).

Drama: There was a crazy lady at this party. She was dancing all over the place and running from side to side, and up into the bleachers that were set up there. She had what my advanced and culturally sensitive Seneca experience has taught me to call "crazy eyes" -- eyes that cannot stay focused on one thing for more than a second, eyes that seem to bulge out of the socket, eyes that mirror the disorganization inside the mind. She had a blanket wrapped around her back in the indigenous style used to carry personal items or children. Hers contained a child, a child who started crying, at which point she seemed to remember that the child was even there, and rushed to warm the baby up by the bonfire. She asked a woman to hold the child and went to wash herself in the gutter water. More running around. Whenever she came nearby, the woman asked to give the baby back. This went on for around thirty minutes. The woman walked off with the baby and then refused to give it back. The crazy lady started screaming and pulling on her skirt, then went to gutter wash again. I did not see where the lady took the baby. The crazy lady seemed to forget about the incident after a little while, and eventually dissapeared into the night.

Took the first bus back to Cuzco at 5am and trekked back to the hostel, took a much needed shower, and then fell into the sweetest nap...on an actual bed, pillows, blankets and all. Watched The Case of Benjamin Button dubbed in Spanish with some of the hostel Israelis, then fell asleep again, woke up and went to the bus for Abancay. Abancay is not much of a town, but it helps split up the 24 hour trip from Cuzco to Lima, a trip whose length exceeds my maximum possible bus time. Tomorrow we will push those limits with a 10-12 hour trip down to Ica. And yes, that was the royal "we".

Day 14: Cuzco

2009-05-30T11:50:00.000-07:00

Arrived yesterday in Cuzco. A beautiful city, but also by far the most touristical. Lots of pale faces, seems to be mostly Americans and Israelis. My hostel, comfortable and cheap, is 99% Israelis. I am thus also assumed to be Israeli -- unlike in Spanish, I cannot explain my lack of communication abilities in Hebrew. But no biggy. Went to dinner with a bunch of them last night, a fairly pleasant affair and it was nice to be around a big group of people my age again. Most of them went out partying afterwards, and I dragged my old-man self back to the hostel. Ended up playing pool for a while with one of the guys who works at the hostel. All I can say is that I am a born hustler. Too bad we weren't playing for nuevos soles.

The last few days have been very calm, very normal-feeling. Thinking a lot about the future, making plans like a blind man playing darts -- who cares where the dart lands as long as I can hear that satisfying thwack. I feel more settled down into this traveling lifestyle, although still unsure whether this is due to a gradual aclimatization or to the decision I have made to limit my pure tourist-traveling time to around two months. A little bit of both, most likely, but still worth thinking on (for me, at least).

I am trying to think very hard on these vital subjects, but my thinking is being rudely interrupted by more Extremely Loud Fireworks. There is some kind of religious festival going on in downtown Cuzco. Originally I was walking back to the hostel from a great lunch and saw several hundred people marching in the streets. Thinking it was some sort of political march (there were many people waving the Indigenous Rights flag, which happens to look almost exactly like the Gay Rights flag in the US), I joined up with the marchers. Look at me, the Yanqui with a conscience! Aren't I just great! My doubts on the purpose of the march were first aroused when I saw the National Police band marching with us. Then I saw the massive Virgin float (there are a lot of virgins down here, this was one of them) and the Catholic-type people. Lost interest pretty fast after that. My apologies to God and Jesus and whatnot.

Last bit of Puno was a good experience. Right after finishing my last post I walked down the street and stopped into a local cevicheria (ceviche = pile of seafood with lime juice and spices), where I met Jose Luis and his brother, local university students and friendly types. The ceviche was f'ing delicious! First meal I had in a while that did not give me gas. And you wouldn't think seafood would be stomach-calming.

I found out that basically everyone staying in my ghetto hostel were indigenous Bolivian women attending the Indigenous Rights conference at the local university. The National Police were stationed at our hostel, and every other one with conference attendants, supposedly for security. They had lists of all the people staying at the hotel, and were monitoring when they came and went. The woman I talked to did not seem to be so concerned about this. The policeman I spoke with was fairly close-lipped about the whole deal. The police did not seem to be harassing anyone, but it still seemed fairly odd that they would be monitoring these women so closely and so openly.

Went to Sillustani in the afternoon with a full tour, which included some interesting information about the site, a visit to a local family and sampling of some local food, and feeling very sorry for the tour guide who was trying his best to translate everything into English for the four Americans on the tour. You can see the pictures for a better idea, but it is a very beautiful site...and there are alpacas!

----Info Box #1----
Alpacas, llamas, and vicuñas are often confused for each other.
Alpacas have shorter noses and ears, while llamas have longer
ones. Vicuñas are wild and rarely seen.

Ok, side note. There is a giant tropical Jesus float going right by the internet cafe. Right now. It's Jesus, looking skywards, under a palm tree. Followed by a nice horns section. Ok, it's gone now.

I will try to write more about Cuzco tomorrow. Planning on doing some hiking in the Sacred Valley, which is basically between here and Machu Pichu. It's supposed to be incredibly beautiful....More Really Loud Fireworks...and now there's a bunch of smoke coming into the cafe and making old women cough...this shit is Real Time.

Day 12: Puno

2009-05-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

Changed my mind at the last minute and decided to stay an extra night in Arequipa, which turned out to be a good idea. I needed a day to stay in a semi-familiar place and sort things out. It also turned out that Puno is full of travelers, and finding available rooms was difficult -- much better to wander around with a backpack at 2pm (when I arrived yesterday) than 10pm (which is when I would have arrived if I had left Arequipa on Tuesday). The first of many good decisions, which would be written inside of my fortune cookie if they did that here.

Puno is a small city on the edge of a big lake, nestled into some low hills and alternately smelling of fish and domesticated animal doo-doo. I will not stay long here. Tomorrow I will get an early bus for the 7 hour trip to Cuzco, which I have been promised many times is the best place for tourists, a nomenclature I grudgingly accept.

The bus ride from Arequipa to Puno was uneventful and far superior and far cheaper than the bus from Lima to Arequipa. The only bad part was that I got a nosebleed as we were coming up into the mountains, and had to use a glove to mop up the mess (OJ Simpson style). Had a pleasant chat with the lady sitting next to me -- who, by the way, slept silently. Arrived in Puno and searched around for a hotel before settling into the luxurious Hostal Florida. I use the word 'luxurious' here to emphasize the sarcastic tone I would be using if this were an oral communication rather than a written one. The Hostal Florida reminds me of Tijuana. My room, a single, is for some inexplicable reason, shaped like a fat oblong pyramid. I smelled the bed, and decided to sleep in my sleeping bag on top of the covers. The pillow seems to be filled with old, torn up books. The shared bathroom is also a shower, but there is no separation. You can literally sit on the toilet (balance yourself, I should say, because there is no seat), take a shower, and wash your hands at the same time.

Today I booked a tour for Sillustani, a site a little ways outside the city famous for its Pre-Incan towers. Pictures of that, and a few of the Puno harbor at sunset, should be up in a few days.

I unfortunately did not bring my camera on the morning walk in which I discovered the great Puma of Puno! It is a huge concrete mountain lion in a park on top of a hill overlooking the city. It is so huge there are stairs which go under its legs and its front paws are like concrete love seats. Best part of Puno so far!

Second best part, at least in entertainment value, was when I was sitting by the marina and was approached by a man I can best desribe as a transvestite candy salesman. His hair was bleached blond and tied up, and he wore what looked like balloons in the breast and ass regions under his rainbow-colored smock. Very friendly guy, unexpected in this fairly conservative area.

Ya for today.

Day 10: Bad News?

2009-05-26T11:40:00.000-07:00

I was sitting around the hostel, about to call a taxi to take me to the bus station, and onwards to Puno. Decided to check my email one last time, and lo and behold, the long awaited email from the US State Department! For better or for worse, I will not be invited to the interview (or Oral Assessment) and will not become a Foreign Service Officer -- although apparently I can apply every year for as long as I live.

This news was not quite devastating, but it does shift my thinking considerably. By pure force of self-confidence I was expecting to be invited to the interview, although I also knew that out of the three stages of their hiring process (big exam, resume review, and interview) the resume review was the one in which I had the least to offer.

So now I have begun to plan alternate routes into the future, which is a little intimidating but also liberating. I know that I will be meeting el hermanito Samuel in Costa Rica in a little over a month, and so I have until then to figure out where to go after Costa Rica. Lucky for me the internet is available in almost any place I might visit, so I will have many opportunities to do some research. I have to say, it is nice to be in charge of my destiny, to have both hands on the rudder again.

I won't say much more for today because my stomach has issued a grumbling clarion call to lunch, and I still plan to make the 5 hour bus trip to Puno today. According to my fellow Californian who was sitting next to me at the internet cafe, there is some sort of massive indigenous gathering in Puno over the next few days. Onwards!

Day 10: Arequipa

2009-05-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

My first night in Arequipa I watched the sun set over the city from a beautiful plaza a few blocks uphill from my hostel. To the north towered two enourmous mountains, the magnificent Chachani and the spectacular El Misti, a conical behemoth at whose foot lies Arequipa -- 'the White City', as it is known. I prefer to call it 'the City of Dogs on the Roof', which I feel is a more fitting name.

I feel much better, much more at home here than I did in Lima. I imagine part of this change is just me getting accustomed to being in Peru -- but I cannot help but give some credit to the beautiful and friendly city of Arequipa. I will spend only four days here, tomorrow heading five hours east to the city of Puno on the shore of Lake Titicaca. They have been a laid back few days. I arrived here early Saturday morning after an unnecesarily uncomfortable 16 hour bus ride from Lima.

Exhibit A: The lady sitting next to me, while quiet and friendly while awake, snored like she was dreaming of intense constipation for most of the trip.
Exhibit B: The on-board entertainment system, while not playing crappy Hollywood movies dubbed in Spanish, played the same two Andean flute songs over and over again. And over again.
Exhibit C: Sixteen hours. Which is like watching thirty-two consecutive episodes of The Nanny.
I rest my case.

I split most of Saturday between sitting around the hotel and talking to Milagros, one of the girls who works at Hostel Bhelen, and attempting to nap in said hostel. Today has not been the most active of days either, morning spent again sitting around the hostel shooting the breeze, and the afternoon spent walking around downtown Arequipa and catching up on some emails, blogging, and Skyping. Sunday, however, was full of fun and interesting things -- so far my best day in Peru.

I woke up planning on hitting the main museums and the famous Santa Catalina convent. That was before, of course, that I realized it was Sunday and none of those locations were open. After an hour of light travel depression, boredom-anxiety, and general over-thinking of life, I decided I would simply walk to El Misti. Google Maps made it appear that I could simply walk from the streets of northern Arequipa into the national park. I walked through downtown Arequipa, bustling and full of white stone buildings -- thus 'the White City'. I walked uphill, through the Miraflores District where every few minutes I heard an incredibly loud noise, similar to a gunshot or construction accident (those are my New York City comparisons). I found, to my delight, that people in Arequipa responded to my greetings instead of just looking away or muttering as was the custom in Lima. Miraflores and its paved streets gave way to Alto Misti (note: I do not actually know what the name of this community is, or whether it actually has a name. I call it Alto Misti because all of the combis that drove there had "Alto Misti" written on the front windshield.) As I was walking down a dusty street trying to convince stray dogs that I had no Bacon Bits in my pockets, I saw a few police officers standing a "block" ahead.

Note on Peruvian police. I have yet to see any police officer actually do anything law-enforcement related. They mostly seem to stand around with sunglasses on trying to look cool. They don't harrass anyone, which is nice. They just stand or drive around and try to catch surrepitious glances of female backsides. I can't fault them for that, I suppose, but they do seem awfully lazy. However, have yet to see a police officer eating donuts.

Back to Alto Misti. There was a group of twenty or so people gathered around the police officers, one of whom seemed to be important. I say this because he had extra stripes on his uniform, sunglasses, and talked a lot. This was a community meeting I had stumbled upon, apparently due to the lack of police presence in Alto Misti. The main police dude talked like a politician -- which is to say, mostly bullshit -- but the people were generally receptive. They wanted a better way to contact the police, especially at night, as many if not all of them lacked telephones. The main dude promised that they would try and get a radio to put somewhere in the area. After the meeting ended I watch a couple of toddlers play tag (or 'te piqué' -- "I poked you"), which was the most adorable thing I have seen in years. I saw one of the little ones later pushing a cart around a dusty field and took a long-range picture of him.

I wandered further uphill to the very edge of the community. Past Alto Misti is all property of the Peruvian Military. I took some nice pictures from the top of this last civilian hill and then wandered back down past the fútbol game (pictured). Just as I was walking by a taxi drove up on the other side of the field, drivers pops out some serious speakers and starts blasting salsa and cumbia. I took this as a good omen and sat for a while to watch. Seemed like a regular Sunday activity for these folks, all joking around with each other while remaining pretty competitive. There was one kid in the second game, looked about 15 or 16, who was head and shoulders above the rest.

More wandering, and managed to get myself fairly lost back in the paved streets area, when all of a sudden I heard the Incredibly Loud Noise again, this time very close. I tracked it down to a high school graduation ceremony on a basketball/fútbol court (there are many of these double-use courts). There were some fairly drunk fellows on a roof next to the court firing these ridiculous fireworks out of what looked like an oversized lute, and enjoying themselves accordingly. The noise was so great that even when I was looking directly at the firing base I still flinched when they went off -- but all of the local people seemed not to notice at all. It seems to me that Peruvians, at least in big cities, have an incredible noise tolerance. Me, I'm still getting used to all of the honking.

My stomach decided that it was time for lunch in a big way, so I pulled into Restaurante El Tronquito, a few blocks from the graduation ceremony. This was the best, not to mention biggest, meal I have had yet here. A run-down:
1. Rocoto Relleno -- big hot pepper stuffed with meat, cheese, and vegetables and baked to juicy perfection
2. Pastel de Papa -- slices of baked potato covered in delicious creamy sauce
3. Meat on a bone -- still not sure what kind of meat, but it was chewy and incredible
4. Pig's feet -- not my favorite, but still fun to try
5. Cuzqueña beer -- tall boy bottle, tastes similar to Sierra Nevada
All of this, plus rice, condiments, and a glass of anonymous juice (every meal in Arequipa comes with this glass of purple juice with sediments, have yet to figure out what it actually is...maybe some mysteries are better unsolved?). All of this for 14 soles -- less than $5.

At this point it was obviously nap time, and with another two hours of staggering I made it back to the hostel. The rest of the day is sort of a blur. Such a worthwhile blur though. Perhaps that is the best one can say about a day of travel. A worthwhile blur.

Day 8: Reflections on my first visit to Lima

2009-05-24T14:49:00.000-07:00

I spent five days in Lima after arriving from San Francisco. The first days of my trip in Peru's largest and most metropolitan city. I want to say that these days were great, and then continue on to some rambling about Colonial architecture and sweeping confluences of culture. That would be fun to write, mostly true, and valuable as a writing sample for my future application to graduate school.

However I do not want this to be "that kind" of travel journal. I will not gloss over mistakes, romanticize the traveling life, or pretend that these are the best days of my life. They are not the best days of my life -- as they should not be, as the people closest to my heart are far away. They are not the worst days either, although adjustment does take time and can be painful sometimes. Days of travel are not necessarily different from a day of non-travel. There are good days and bad days. Hot showers are still great, and hard to leave when outside the air is cold. Food can be delicious, but it can also give you diarhhea -- the same exact food, mind you. I won't spend too much time ruminating on these thoughts here, but expect similar sentiments in future posts, Oh faithful Reader.

Lima is not really a beautiful city, but is alive with humanity. As a somewhat lapsed New Yorker I greatly enjoyed running through the streets in front of tiny speeding taxis and running to jump on buses and vans as they shuffle and shoot through down the main avenues. The buses, micros and combis, are by far my favorite mechanical mode of transportation. They run throughout the city, letting passenger on and off at a variety of unofficial stops, lurching and honking through traffic seemingly 24 hours a day. A note: micros are small buses, about the size of airport shuttles but packed with far more seats, and combis are old vans with a few rows of seats and a sliding side door. On each of these creatures there are two people who run the show: the Driver (necessary skills: honking, changing lanes into oncoming traffic, incredible peripheral vision to see when people are running to catch the bus) and the Announcer (necessary skills: yelling out stops and destinations constantly, hanging or jumping onto the side door while bus is in motion, clinking change around in hand to encourage passengers to pay before exiting). In most of the buses I was on the pair seemed like a Odd Couple match, with the Driver a strong, silent type and the Announcer a gabby jokester. It would make a perfect sitcom!

I spent my first real day in Lima climbing up to Cerro San Cristobal -- see previous post -- and touring the Plaza de Armas, the main square. I took a tour of the main Cathedral, which doubled as a Religious Art museum. This was the place where Francisco Pizarro was buried and where representatives of the Spanish king signed the documents giving Peru its independence. A beautiful building with the perfunctory "skulls and baby caskets" display in the crypt-basement. Is this display actually perfunctory for Peruvian cathedrals? I plan to find out.

The other days involved a lot of walking, and one day of resting at the hostel and gossiping with my great hosts. A few fun anecdotes:

+ While in the taxi on the way to the bus station, we stopped at a light (there are not very many traffic lights in Lima) and I saw an extremely beautiful woman walking down the street. I couldn't help but turn and watch as she walked by the taxi. When she passed and I turned back to face forward, I saw that the taxi driver had just been staring at the same woman and we both turned our heads back around at the same time. I stifled a laugh and he tried his best to look professional.

+ I spent around an hour on Thursday discussing female menstrual cycles and religion with my friend Pilar, the boss lady at the Casa del Mochilero hostel. I was a little surprised that she was open enough to talk about this subject -- according to her, women have 2 periods. Apparently in her evangelical religion, women are not allowed to go to church or touch men while on their period (either one, I guess). We went back and forth on the issue, and moved on to religion in general. Despite my best efforts she was not offended and at the end of our discussion invited to visit their religious camp in an area a few hours east of Lima known as the "eyebrow of the jungle".

+ While riding a bus I watched man get slapped full-force by another man. One guy ran up along side of the bus as it was pulling away from a stop and slapped another man through the open bus window. The slapper then ran full speed in the other direction and the slapee turned around and looked entirely confused and upset, but neither did nor said anything. The bus was full, and several people laughed quietly.

+ I spent too much time in Lima feeling uncomfortable because people were staring at me as I walked on the street. I didn't think I stood out so much! However on my last day in Lima a car pulled over as I was walking to ask me where some restaurant was -- as if I was a local! Not only that, but I actually knew where the restaurant was! I did a little mental celebration as they pulled away.

It is getting late here in Arequipa, and I will end my recollections there. Tomorrow I will get you, Oh faithful Reader, caught up with my escapades here in Arequipa and my future plans...to the extent that they exist. More pictures too!

Pepe y Yo (Pepe and I)

2009-05-22T05:52:00.000-07:00

The following conversations were, of course, entirely in Spanish. I translate them here, with some paraphrasing as my memory -- the lack thereof -- requires.

"Adios, Pepe," I said, gripping his roug hand with mine.
"Adios, Gabriel," said he, "Take care and good luck. Don't forget what we talked about."
"I won't."
We stood by the steep roadside leading up to the summit of Cerro San Cristobal, a small mountain on the north side of Lima with stunning views over the whole city. Except, of course, for the Pacific Ocean, which remains blanketed in fog for half the year. We went our separate ways, Pepe and I. I walked by the side of the steep paved road up to the summit, towards the enormous white cross. Pepe and his dog Rufu began to drag the six bags of sand we had filled down to the slums of Rimac below, where they would supposedly be sold for a one sol each -- approximately 33 US cents. Pepe and Rufu walked down the same set of narrow concrete stairs which we had all ascended nearly an hour earlier. While filling the bags with sand, we had stood near the top of those stairs and talked. We discussed Peru, and the many failings of its leading politicians. We discussed the United States, and how it was not the paragon of goodness many in the Third World thought it was -- but that it still held promise for millions around the world. We discussed life and love, and what it meant to have children and to be involved with women. We discussed the future, what we eached hoped it would bring, for ourselves, for our countries, for the world. A beautiful conversation with a beautiful view. But it had not started as such.

The first time I saw Pepe was at the base of the narrow stairway. I had climbed through the hillside slums of Rimac near the base of the Cerro San Cristobal. Rimac is notoriously poor and, therefore, dangerous. Rimac looks like your stereotpyical Third World slum (think City of God, for those of you who have seen that excellent film). The concrete shacks are dilapidated, and the only way through is on winding concrete stairways. The streets have no names and no numbers. I had yet to see a mailman. But Rimac was the friendliest place I had been in Lima. Everyone greeted me with a "Hola" or "Buenos Dias". Two young children leaning over the edge of a concrete wall above me beckoned me to talk and play with them. I felt safe; travel guide warnings be damned.

Above Rimac the wide winding stairway-streets stopped and the narrow stairway to Cerro San Cristobal began. Here there were six or seven street dogs resting in the sun. As I walked up the stairs into their realm, all began barking furiously and running down towards me. I reached down for some courage and continued, yelling "Shut Up!" and "Go Away!". One brave mutt jumped on my leg from behind, and received an accidental kick. The rest jumped and howled around me, but made no move to bite. This is when I first saw Pepe. He was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, with a another shirt tied around his head and neck, and a ratty baseball cap on top. His dog, a black and brown retriever-type mutt, trailed behind him searching for food scraps. I continued up the narrow stairs twenty feet behind him and the dog. We reached a rocky platform out of sight and earshot from Rimac below, and, as I found out later, from the road above. Pepe turned and walked towards me.
"Give me the money," he said.

"No," I said, "Why should I?"
"Give me the money," he reiterated.
Now he moved a step closer and reached his hands into my front pockets. Unbeknownst to him, his hand were perilously close to almost 300 Peruvian soles, an American passport, and two ATM cards. I pulled his hands out, we struggled for a minute, and I pushed him back.
"Fifty cents," said he.
I pulled out ten cents and tossed it to him.
"That's it. That's all I will give you."
He sat down on the steps, blocking my path. I leaned against a rock a few feet in front of him. I watched the dog nervously and looked down the stairs to see if any other would-be robbers might be approaching. There was no sense in trying to yell for help. There was no one to hear me, let alone anyone willing to help.

"Listen, buddy," I said, stepping towards him. "Why are you trying to rob me?"
"I need food," he said, "For my children. I have many, many children." He put on what I can only describe as a pained puppy-dog face. "Please," he said. From a robber to a beggar.
"We will make a deal," I said after a minute of silence. "I will give you half of the change in my pocket if you will be my guide to the top of the mountain." I estimated that I had 4 or 5 soles in my back pocket. "But if you try to rob me again, you will get nothing. You understand me?"
He shook his head in agreement. I started to walk up towards him. He stood up and blocked my path.
"Now," he said, "Give me the money now. Give me the cash." He again tried to reach for my pockets, this time putting his full weight into me, sending us both back agains the rock. Again I grabbed him by the wrists, then used my shoulder to push him back to his perch on the steps.
"That is not the deal!" I yelled, my voice pitch rising. "Do we have a deal, or don't we? Because if not, I will just go back down the way I came and you will get nothing."
"There are crazy people down there," he said, "and they will cut you with machetes and kill you. They are crazy. You can't go back there."
"I'll take my chances," I said, "Deal or no deal?"

He agreed again to the deal, and again tried to convince me to give him the cash he knew I had in my front pocket.
"Look," I said, "I want to share with you. Sharing is good. You will help me get to the top, and I will share with you. But there is a difference between sharing and robbing. You are trying to rob me. I will not give you any money with robbery. Sharing, yes. Robbery, no. Understand?"
There was more arguing about what I should give him and when I should give it to him. More pained puppy-dog faces. More threats about what would happen if I tried to go back down to Rimac. At one point he tried to trick me into walking back down the stairs a little so he could go over to the edge of the platform to see if there were any friends he could call up to help do me in. Lucky for me Pepe was as friendless as I. We started talking on a more friendly basis after that, where I learned his name and the name of his dog. After a little while longer of him trying to haggle with me and me trying to befriend him, Pepe decided that it was time to start walking up. "Let's go," he said, "Call Rufu for me."

I still lacked some trust in Pepe, and chose to walk behind him on the trip up. He made no further attempts to take money from me, and instead began to act as a tour guide. I am still not sure whether he did this out of fidelity to our original agreement, or whether he simply had a lot to say about our surroundings and rarely had someone to listen.
"They are going to build a giant bridge here," he said, gesturing grandly to the mountainside.
"A bridge," I said, "or a cable car?"
"A cable car," he said, without missing a beat. "There," he said, pointing to a small white building ahead of us, "that is the engineers' building. I was an engineer, too. I help build this stairway that we are walking on."
I said nothing, just listened as he continued his stories and grand engineering designs, wavering on the line between tangible dreams and insanity. His voice took on emotion as he talked, seeming proud as he would if these grand designs had actually been built and I was the first passenger on Pepe's cable car. He carried his sand bags over his shoulder as if they were already full, his back already bending and twisting under the weight.

He told me little in the way of specifics about his family, and asked little about mine. He told me at various points about several children he had, a wife, or two other women, and a house in Rimac. His name, he said, was actually Jose -- but he preferred Pepe. He answered all my questions about Lima and Peru with all the authority of a tenured professor. I answered all his questions about the United States. When we went our separate ways, I gave him half of my back pocket change -- which turned out to be more than I thought. I could have easily changed my mind, ran up the road to the summit where some tourist buses and security people waited. Yet he had performed his guide services well, and I am not one to stiff on the tip.

The tour guide at the summit asked how I had gotten there without the bus, and I explained.
"I was robbed on the way up," I told her, "or at least they tried. But it's okay now, we're friends." She looked confused, and then smiled when I smiled. In all likelihood Pepe and I will never see each other again. We live in different worlds. But perhaps someday I will come back to Lima and ride the cable car to the top of Cerro San Cristobal. Pepe's dream.

Day 2: Lima

2009-05-18T05:42:00.000-07:00

I sit here typing this, sipping coca tea at 7:45am, listening to street vendors passing and backpackers slowly ruffling and rising (and even a few showering!). I arrived here yesterday afternoon after an ardous journey, not so much for what was going on around me but for what was going on inside of my mind. Travel such as this is a wonder drug in many ways; it can sweep away the most painful of memories and the most crsuhing of boredoms. For better or worse I am blessed with neither painful memories nor crushing boredoms. My journey so far has been more like a cold shower -- terrifying and shocking, immediate, stimulating. Perhaps as the days crawl forward my journey will take on that other characteristic of cold showers, namely, refreshment. Am I truly in need of refreshment? Answers will perhaps come later. Now for some light description of my first day.

My flight left San Francisco at the appropriate hour of 1:30am. I was in bad shape at the airport, psychosomatic sickness, beer, and so on. Having Nate and Linzy there got me through. Goodbyes sucked. The rest of the night and morning of travel were blurry. San Salvador airport with its rows of duty free shops, all with uniformed young women beconing shoppers and passer-by's to over-priced rum and T-shirts. The food on the TACA flight was surprisingly good, especially the cinnamon covered pancake-material and fried plantains on the second leg. Customs in Lima were fairly easy. The masked customs official was skeptical of how I could take a 40 day vacation from my job. I conveniently left out the part where I don´t have a job. I lugged my human-sized pack through the airport and took an overpriced taxi to the ¨rich¨ Miraflores district in the south of Lima. I checked into the hostel, a very friendly place populated mostly by Israelis just out of the army. Apparently South America is a big tourist destination for that segment of the Israeli population. I strolled around the area and managed to get kicked out of the patio of a fancy restaurant -- the patio was connected to some guided-tour-only Inca ruins. I had a meal of ¨salchipapas¨, which is basically french fries and pieces of sausage with several choices of dipping sauce. I dined on this delicacy at a street corner restaurant while watching ¨Rocky¨ on TV. French fries, ¨Rocky¨, douchebag restaurant security... it´s almost like I never left the US! Not to mention the Peruvian Walmart I stumbled upon.

I´ll end with that for today. Today I plan to head downtown, although I am still unsure of what exactly is there. The coca tea is helping my sniffles, and I am feeling... optimisticó.

Pictures to come later!