Month: February 2010

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La Ceiba, San Isidro, and Heart to Honduras

The road between San Pedro Sula and La Ceiba is beautiful. There are orchards stretching onto the mountains on both sides of the road, and amazing countryside to be seen between the scattered little towns. You can get a ticket on a relatively secure bus for about 90L, or $5, and if you can ignore the frequent vendors walking up and down the aisle off the bus, you can have a good 3 hour relaxation period. This guy, selling the Honduran equivalent of Snake Oil, was too cool to not get a picture of.

Let me save you the suspense and tell you that La Ceiba is a place you should simply pass thorough. Also, the walk from the bus terminal to the city is quite nice for a city walk, but the map inside the Central American lonely planet book is completely wrong! The walk into the city laden down with gear is ok. The walk around the city for the subsequent hour is not fun and will hopefully result in some nice person giving you directions out of pity instead of laughing at you out of spite. Also, no one in the city knows where anything is. The city is sketchy at best, with hookers and pimps materializing even before the sun sets. The one part of the city that was quite nice was the Banana Republic Guest House, which is actually one block WEST of Ave San Isidro between 12a calle and 11a calle. Somewhere along the way, I saw this amazing person on his way to work… or something… I’m not really quite sure.

The guest house is filled with plenty of wild characters of varying levels of smelliness and a dozen different languages. There is a kitchen where you can cook, and computers for using the internet. The private rooms are nice enough and they do a great job of dispersing people around the dormitories so as not to pile everyone up on top of one another. If you wind up in La Ceiba and can’t get out before the sun goes down, feel free to look this place up.

The trip out of La Ceiba is just as weird as the rest of the time there. I spent the night and morning giving directions and assistance when possible to the other travelers, then finally packed my bag and walked out the door to catch a taxi. I would caution you against ever taking a taxi with someone already in it if you have any sort of timeline you are trying to adhere to. The taxi driver had a woman in the backseat and when I asked if he was going to the bus terminal he said yes. This meant, “Yes, I will go there eventually after driving completely the opposite direction and getting stuck in a traffic jam that will so frustrate my other passenger she will get out and walk away.”

The bus depot consists of more people yelling at me about taxi, bus, etc to go to anywhere but the place I want to go to. Another ticket vendor goes so far as to lie to me and say that the bus I took here yesterday, Diana Express, does not come to La Ceiba. Navigating liars and loiterers, I got a cheap ticket back to San Pedro Sula and spend the rest of the day in the bus terminal dodging flies and writing in vain hopes of catching up. Also, I found this excellent advertisement.

Throughout the day, I catch a glimpse of some of the smellier patrons of Banana Republic heading through SPS and on to Tegucigalpa. I am offered a taxi dozens of times, even when I am sitting down. I’m starting to wonder just that qualifies as a taxi customer…

Finally, I get a return call from Herman as he is approaching the bus terminal. He is to be my taxi to my next destination, half a world away where there are no phones, no computers or internet, almost nothing at all.

Heart to Honduras is a faith based organization that helps build facilities and provides improved health and sanitation for Honduras. It is a group of numerous Christian churches who work with individuals in Central America to coordinate North American volunteers, money, and supplies to safely improve the lives of Honduran families in rural areas. They are doing great work, and Herman is my first contact with them. I’ll be staying and working with them for a few days in Canchias, a village in the middle of no mans land.

On the drive in, I have the opportunity to talk to someone who speaks my language and will answer just about anything I ask. I learn that, yes, everything is corrupt. Chinese blackberries cost almost as much as real blackberries. Single parent adoption is easier in central America. There really is NO speed limit. You never ever ever want to get pulled over.

The Heart to Honduras camp I will be staying at consists of several dorm buildings, a conference hall (with a guitar!!!) and some lecture halls. The support staff lives behind the conference hall in a single house. Herman and I have one of the amazing picturesque drives through the mountains above the jungles that do not cease to awe me. It takes a good long time, but I get to see the local jail and some of the homes that people live in here. I have never seen anything like it. As you can see, Honduras needs a little help with their infrastructure.

We pull in to the HTH camp at around 5:45. This means that the teams are just getting back for the day. I am rapidly introduced to Amy, Callie, Allison, and a number of team members from Arizona that are down here helping to build classrooms and water purification systems for the surrounding areas. I learn that the HTH campus is actually run entirely on hydroelectric power from the nearby river because it is a very long way from anything that might be considered a power line.

Dinner is provided by the HTH folks and I am welcomed into the group and am provided with ample opportunity to talk with all the members of the team. Cliff falls down. Doug is a killer. Battle is nothing of the sort, and Les is More. Allison is our interpreter and team leader. Amy has extensive experience in Argentina, and as is always a surprise to me, you can actually be employed full time by a church. I never understand how people get a salary from working with a church, but maybe that is because salaried religion was never a part of my childhood.

The shower that I head to after dinner makes me feel like a king. The sweaty walk through the last couple days is manifest in the measurable amounts of dead skin and dirt sloughing off me and the physical change in the color of my skin after the shower; a gross testimony to just how far I have come from my life in the USA. I manage to get back up to the conference center to catch the last few minutes of the nightly team debrief. Allison does her best to catch me up on the agenda for tomorrow and get me introduced to my teammates.

Breakfast at 6. Break camp at 6:30. We should plan on returning around 6 p.m. I’m no stranger to long work days, and the prospect of having work to do again excites me. The realization that there is a guitar in the building is equally exciting, but it is currently in use. It is only when the support staff finishes prepping for a surprise birthday party that the guitar is available for public consumption again. So while inside, piñatas are destroyed and music is played at volumes that I am positive wouldn’t be legal anywhere in the States, I sit outside and play and play and play my musical meditation. I play until my fingertips are raw, red, and painful. I will never claim to be a masterful guitarist, but I do really love to play. This is a special treat for me.

Doug is a killer. He is ex-everything, and trains MMA fighters for a career. He overhears some of my conversation with others and makes it a point to engage me in conversation. We get to talking about learning and fighting and learning about fighting and I come away with a couple new books to read by an author called Sam Sherridan; A Fighter’s Heart, and A Fighter’s Mind. Somewhat of a superhero:

The morning brings sickness. Not for me, but for some of the other men. Two of them can’t roll out of bed even to make it to breakfast. The ride back to humanity takes the form of a human cattle car where half of us are standing and everyone is in high spirits. Doug is one of the taller members of the team and is standing on the outside of the truck, closest to the tree branches. Someone yells, “Duck,” warning of the incoming branch and he turns to say, “What?” only to catch a branch in the face. This happens about 6 times.

HTH is a relatively wide organization for this area of Honduras, we stop a few places to pick up more people and even switch out for a larger more comfortable form of transport. Pulling up at the final location where we are to be building classrooms, it looks pretty much like I assumed it would. Church nearby, dirt everything, tiny little store selling nothing I recognize as food, and several dozen children milling about. The locals working on the project full speed ahead by the time we finish our 90 minute drive to the site. There is a tentative period in the morning until we all overcome the moderate language barrier and take up stations and move forward.

The work is hot. Yesterday, people were dropping out from heat exhaustion. Today, thankfully, we are a few blessed degrees cooler. I am still dripping with sweat within minutes and it doesn’t stop all day. Most of the work is over our heads. Ceiling drywall needs to be installed, then taped and spackled. Then sanded and painted. Everyone jokes and talks and works simultaneously. Everyone is sick. Except me.

People are peeling off to lie in the shade, or puke, or drink more water… anything that might help them get over whatever monstrous illness has beset the gringos. At the end of the day, people are literally falling over, though it is mostly Cliff. We do have a little bit of help from the locals, as seen below:

My arms are a sore, my neck is kinked, sweat keeps running in my eye, and I am very thankful for the opportunity to do good work: to be more than good; to be good for something. My filthy shirt is a witness to just how hard these volunteers have been working for the last week. Yes, that is the sweat I wiped off my face all day. Yes, it’s gross.

Halfway through the day, several of the crew break off to go talk to the local jeffe to confirm that they can continue a water purification project that will bring water to the local citizens. Prior to this initiative the local folks had access to clean water only on every third day, for 30 minutes. The local chief has been skimming the funds and now is asking them for more money so clean water can be brought to his people. Then he wants to charge them for it. Don’t think this is this only place in the world this sort of thing is going on.

The days is not without levity. Near the end of the afternoon, Allison rounds everyone up and sends us to the church where some wild chair/curtain structure has been raised. Everyone is handed hand made puppets, and we read a Spanish version of Dr. Suess’ “Are you my Mother?” As soon as it starts, we all start making animal noises, and generally acting like bigger kids than the ones out front who are quite a gracious audience. Battle doesn’t stop making bird whistles the whole time. As we are all skilled thesbians, we can’t help but receive a standing ovation.

These individuals left work, family, children, convenience, luxury, warm water, soft beds, bossy dogs, and rhinos to come down here, sweat and labor, sleep on cots, and eat potentially life threatening food all to help other humans they have never met and can’t even speak with. Be it faith in a higher power, personal strength, or the unity of mankind that motivates this, I think it is fantastic and I cannot commend every one of these people highly enough. The welcomed me as an equal. In this often harsh section of the world, after being hijacked, overcharged, sworn at, and swindled… a little acceptance does great things for me. Thanks, folks.

The next morning, the crew and I get to do some hiking before setting out and they are kind enough to drop me off at an intersection with numerous busses coming by. It takes a while for a bus to appear and in the meantime a Honduran guy walks up to me and says hola. His name is Andres and what follows my meeting him is about 4 solid hours of conversation in Spanish. I didn’t know I could possible speak so much Spanish, but I think I owe it all to Andres. He just liked talking to me. He would repeat himself and try different words as often as needed and would wait for me to finish my sentences, which is something almost no one else here does. It was a blast. Andres even bought me an apple and gave me his contact information so I could come and stay at his place the next time I am in Honduras. This guy is awesome.

He even helped me find a hotel closer to the bus stations than the one I was heading to, because it was on the entire other side of town. The upside is I am right up the street from the terminal. The down side is that this is the first hotel I have been to, despite costing more than almost any place I have stayed in my trip, that has cockroaches. The floor in the bathroom is soaking wet, and someone else’s hair is all over the bedding. Lesson: Always ask to see the room before you pay, cuz you damn sure are not getting your money back. Ah well, at least there is free coffee. I’ll just sleep in my clothes on top of the sheets. This is a rough transition after all the hospitality of Heart to Honduras. Time to sleep; I have a 6 am bus to catch.

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San Pedro Sula, Honduras

Edit: most pictures removed from this post at the subject’s request.

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I’m getting better at packing the bag and can usually take it from completely unpacked to packed in about 15 minutes without interruptions. Today it comes together pretty well and the owner of Hotel Los Gemenos agrees to put it in the office for a few hours until I can get my act together.

Fast becoming one of my favorite pastimes is simply walking the streets of a city. I’m not talking about walking down alleyways, but rather walking the city proper and listening to the people, wandering in and out of shops at random intervals and just looking at what passes for a business model in that town. I have met some of the coolest people on my trip by doing just this. It acquaints me with the city and often allows me to help out other people later, even if I have only been in the city for a short time.

Today, I see a couple of Irish girls who have that unmistakable “we’re lost” look about them. A couple quick words and I walk a couple streets over to the travel agency that can sell them the bus tickets they are looking for at a reasonable price and get them there much faster than a chicken bus. It’s times like this that I like humans. Most people will toss a quick “thank you” over their shoulder at you while they walk away, but these girls went out of their way to stop and thank me sincerely a few times before they went in to get the ticket.

Fresh bread is a favorite fare of mine while traveling. I picked up this habit in Spain a few years ago. It’s usually quite cheap and very tasty and simple to hold over hunger on long bus rides. Wandering around the neighborhoods away from the city center, I get to meet all kinds of folks while I am hunting for a decent panaderia. The only one closer to Parque Central is just a reseller and mostly vends pastries.

After about an hour, the only one I have come across is closed for the day, so pushing past 11 a.m. I figure I will swing into ViaVia again for some food. It’s nice and I still think that this restaurant has the most consistently informative, helpful, and responsive employees of any restaurant in the city. The internet is decently reliable and the food is tasty. The only drawback to this is that other people know this and there is never a quiet moment there. Fast forward another few hours. We are chilling in something of an abandoned dirt lot waiting to get onto a shuttle that seems similar to most of the minibuses I have been in over the last while, but the driver pats down all of the locals as they get on, refraining from checking me or the two Czech guys getting on the bus with me. I wind up in the seat right behind the driver with a slender San Pedro Sula native to my right. She works in Copan and is going home to San Pedro Sula, SPS, for the weekend.

The ride is at least as mortally dangerous as any vehicle I have ever entered, which makes me laugh out loud when I think of the security scan we went through on the way into the bus. As if any weapon that could be smuggled on to the bus would be anywhere near as dangerous to the inhabitants of the bus as the ride itself. At numerous points during the trip we pick up additional peoples for a short jaunt to the next stop and have as many as 5 people standing up at any moment. The added bonus of today’s ride is that about 45 minutes into the ride a girl in the middle of the bus got sick from our vertiginous route through the beautiful Honduran mountains and threw up in the bus.

The ride is eye opening. Iris, the girl sitting next to me works in the hospitality industry and has applied for a Visa to go to the U.S. twice in the last two years. The application process has taken up around a total of $500 USD of her money for hotel, travel costs, and the $150 application fee per application.

I know people who have visa’s and have come to the U.S. to work and have either stayed or left thereafter. I also know people who have come to the U.S. illegally and later realized what a mistake it is and gone through the proper channels for their citizenship. I have seen the conditions in which illegal aliens live in the U.S. and it is much worse than most of the people I have seen living in Central America so far.

Iris’ next words are startling. Starting at around $5000 USD a person can pay a smuggler to try and sneak them across the border into the U.S. This fee can go to well over $10,000 per person, and while perhaps offering a bit more chance of success, are by no means a guarantee that the person will make it into the States. In fact, she tells me, most women who make the attempt, no matter how much they are paid are raped on the journey; perhaps multiple times. The money is not a guarantee one will live. It is not uncommon for the guide to simply leave his people in the middle of the desert and leave with the money. In the better of bad circumstances, the guide is paid and he simply skips town with the money. Despite all of this, the people smuggling business is alive and well.

I can’t really process this so I keep asking her how it works, who goes where, and how many people she knows who have done it, and the story just never gets good. The only part that doesn’t make me cringe is that Iris has no intention of trying to go anywhere illegally and continues to have a rewarding life in Honduras.

When we finally get to SPS, Iris is kind enough to let me use her phone to call the couchsurfing host I am staying with for a couple days and my host is gracious enough to even come to the bus station and pick me up. She has limited space, and already has two people staying over, but has graciously offered me the floor, a roof, and a hot shower.

In the interim, my host needs to head out to classes at the University as she is finishing her Masters degree in Finance this year. She finds me a café to hang out at with wifi and calls Arai to let her know where I am so we can meet up.

Arai is a friend of a friend, really, though we have been communicating over email for some time, we have only met once, briefly about 3 years prior. Despite the look of it, she is not named after the helmet manufacturer, but rather the bearer of a fantastically Uruguayan name meaning, Roots of Heaven. I recognize her from memory and recent pictures when she walks in, but apparently she doesn’t realize I am me with the several weeks of beard growth obscuring the larger part of my face. She is even nicer than I remember and we cruise around the city checking out the sights and her house which is just about the nicest thing I have seen so far.

I love it. 9:30 comes and goes, and around 9:45 we hear from my host for the night. Sometime after 10 we make it back to her place and manage to fire a Port Royal around half of her kitchen. Moments later her other two surfers arrive and we have a great night of conversation about Car prices in brazil, the availability of holiday work in Central America, and what a vegetarian can do to survive on the road. Despite the delightful company and the newness of it all, I am quickly fading and upon learning that I need to be up and out before 8 a.m. I lay down on the floor sometime after 1 and am asleep before I can even put my headphones in.

Morning arrives with the usual chickens and I have time to grab the anticipated shower before my host gives me a ride down to Parque Central to find both a cel phone and some breakfast at a café I heard about. The cel phone was pretty easy to come by, because every, and I do not underestimate, every store in the mall sell chips and/or recharges mobile plans. The mobile communication industry is literally booming in Central America. I’m surprised that there is any other job to be had.

Dave in Honduras: 011-504-9704-9638

For  voicemails, regardless of the country I happen to be stationed in, dial 1-919-747-4097, this will reach my computer if I am online, and will leave me a voicemail if I am out and about.

Parque Central in San Pedro Sula is brimming with my favorite people in the whole world: Money Changers and Taxi Drivers. And inexplicably, they are all my friends. Once I wake up enough to read a map for the morning, I realize that Café Skandia is on quite the other side of the park.

If the hype is to be believed, Café Skandia makes some great pancakes, though I have to say the coffee was mediocre, and the ommelette was good, basic nutrition with no frills. There is a weak WiFi signal there that managed to power my recently resurrected blackberry enough for me to check email.

Following up on my promise to Arai, I shoot her a call so that she has my mobile number for the time being and she surprises me by coming to meet me for breakfast. She knows the café and is glad that I chose it for food. A strange phenomenon starts up that is to follow me for some time. I start getting text messages… in Spanish… about Tiger Woods and Football scores. Arai tells me that I don’t get charged for incoming text messages, so I should just ignore them and maybe they will stop eventually. Arai has a loose work schedule for the morning, so we roll out to go check out the local market and I can tell you, if you have seen one Central American Mercado, you can certainly give this one a pass. Lackluster is a good description.

Nearly every parking lot in the city has a man in an orange reflective vest just standing around. When you get in your car and try to leave, he comes up to your window and beings whistling and waving at you. Apparently, standing around a parking lot with shiny clothes consists of a job in Honduras, because as a driver, you are required to give this man money before you can drive away.

All morning long, Arai and I have been practicing one another’s languages. I know that I need a great deal more practice than she does, but since she is much better at speaking English than I am at Spanish, we will speak English for long periods of time. I think this is also largely due to her discomfort at hearing me butcher her language so badly.

Tonight, the plan is to make a traditional dinner at Arai’s house and go sing karaoke. As my part of the dinner, I have offered to make guacamole. In order for dinner to succeed, we’ll need to go to the grocery store, since I don’t make a habit of carrying avocados around with me.

In leaving the grocery store, I realize something interesting. Thus far in Honduras, being here for a few days, I have never seen a centavo, a coin. Every transaction I have done has been for whole dollar amounts. This means that either everyone I have exchanged goods or services with has done an amazing job of tailoring their prices and taxes to precise dollar amounts, or the prices are largely imagined up on the spot depending on how much it looks like the customer should pay. I’m sure the truth is a little of both.

Life is good with food in hand, but food in belly goes a long way too. That being said, we head back to Arai’s house to deposit groceries and head out for some Mexican food with her roommate Sandra. I’m surprised at the big city prevalence of chain restaraunts and horrifying drivers, but perhaps only because this is the largest city I have been in for more than 30 minutes in some weeks. The presence of a large city not crippled by pollution and crime is a difficult concept to wrap my head around down here.

The days passes quickly and Arai bails out to go to an appointment in the city so I get to chill out at a couple of coffee shops with WiFi. I’m really surprised at the amount of wireless available in the city, and NOT present in people’s homes. It’s a trip from any residential area to any free wifi area, so it’s somewhat of a hike.  If you are planning to stay in San Pedro Sula, plan accordingly. Get a place near downtown or ask your host if there is internet available. Tigo sells a cool USB unlimited cellular internet card, much like the Verizon aircard, for $16 a month; it’s slow, and moderately unreliable, but it’s progress.

I get a phone call from my couchsurfing host that she has to leave for Costa Rica at 5 a.m. in the morning, so I will have to be up and out in a strange city before then. Not really an appealing idea. So I ask Arai to drop me off at a hotel that I spoke with a couple of days prior. Turns out, she and Sandra have a guest quarters behind the house that is just being used for storage, and Arai invites me to come stay there instead. Arai even breaks out the cleaners and we go to work on the place. It is better than half of the hotels I have stayed at when we are done.

I am consistently failing at writing what I want to get done. At least it is consistent, eh? I haven’t nearly caught up with my writing when Arai calls me on my new Honduran phone and tells me she is going to swing by and pick me up. This means we get to go to her dance classes; hip hop and Arabic.

I amuse myself by making faces at the little kids running around and doing a bit of writing before the battery on my laptop dies, and finally we roll out to the house and commence the greatness that will become dinner.

Interesting fact about avocados in Honduras… there are a version of avocados called ahuacates hondurenias that really look nothing like avocados as I know them and are somewhat more duro, or hard, on the inside. If you can get them ripe enough, though, they make rocking guacamole. Combine red onions, lime juice, salt, pepper, garlic, and cranberries if you can find them, and you have some life changing guacamole on your hands.

Dinner is a combined effort of the two roommates and is a total success. Typical Honduran food with eggs, meat, beans, sauces, etc. Sandra can’t stop eating the guacamole. The secret to Honduran food appears to be the sauces. They are varied and include combinations that I have not ever considered before. You really have to see it to believe it.

 

My couchsurfing host was going to meet up with us for lunch and again for dinner, but she is otherwise busy. After dinner we have an appointment with a karaoke bar that should prove interesting.

Karaoke is something that seems to change with each culture, but retains the same horrible sound system. In America, it is largely boisterous, feel-good songs that get sung. In Japan, it is mostly sad songs about lost love. In Central America, it seems to be loud overly romantic ballads. A lot of heart in Honduras.

For no reason at all, the karaoke is interrupted at around 11 and music videos are played while people get up and dance. I do my best to eke out some salsa, merenge, and reggaeton dancing, with Jiemmy, but I’m a rather poor showing next to some of the guys up there. I rapidly retire my dancing shoes to protect Arai from the vultures circling our table.

We all requested a number of songs, and none of them have come up by 1:30 in the morning and everyone is flagging. Time to get some sleep.

The guest quarters were a great temperature all night long, the bed was relatively comfortable, and a cold shower feels good. Arai has a dentist appointment at 8:30, then 10, then 9:15, then finally it is rescheduled for Wednesday. This means we have the whole day to go adventuring. It also means that I won’t get any writing done today. The breakfast Arai makes of ommelettes and fried platanos is the best one I have eaten on the whole trip. Add in the guacamole leftover from last night, and it is an Oscar winner.

One hears of pirated DVDs all over Asia. I have never heard of pirated DVDs in Central America, but I tell you now, this is a booming business. I have seen people selling them all over the streets; in gas stations, bus stops, and mercados. When we are getting ice cream, I manage to get this great picture of the security guard and the guy breaking the law sitting hanging out and having a chat with one another. Note: if you are shy of guns, Central America may not be for you. There are guys with shotguns and assault rifles all over the place.

Not that I would endorse breaking the law or purchasing illegal goods; far from it. So you can be assured that I would never buy pirated DVDs. Not even for the purpose of learning Spanish. Never.

Throughout the day, Arai tells me stories of the perils of Honduras. Police are not something to feel secure about. Most of the time, one need fear the police more than the criminals. She has been robbed at gunpoint, nearly been kidnapped and falsely arrested; but she says these things are just part of life here. She says something else too. “The more good you are, the more good you see.”

This simple sentiment is her justification for being a good person. She believes that because she is good to others that truly bad things will not happen to her. Sound reasoning I think.

This was not the only piece of life changing greatness to come from Arai. She actually invented an entirely new number. Somehow, she has managed to see through the roots of Arabic and mayan mathematics to a number no one has ever imagined… Fixteen. Yes, you heard it. I believe it lies somewhere between 10 and 20, though I am not exactly sure where. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out for sure.

Travesty. Travesti.  The first word means a mockery or a sham; false pretense. The second word means there is a name for the man dressed up as a woman with his bare ass showing standing on the street corner as we drive back to Arias house around 9:30. I wish I had been fast enough to take a picture, but then again, you probably do not want this mental image.

There is some truly fantastic food to be had at great prices all over San Pedro Sula, but if you don’t live here, you won’t be able to find it. Most of the accessible restaurants are chains or rather expensive. Luckily I have my own guide who is continually serving up new and wonderful places to eat. Dinner tonight is a large old house that has filled the courtyard with plastic lawn furniture and they crank out fantastic Honduran food. There is no menu, you simply say wether you want beef or chicken and what you would like to drink, then it is brought to you along with a wild array of sauces, picantes, and sides. This is another typical Honduran dish called, Parrilladas. Between this and baleadas I can see why some people here pack on the weight.

 

By the time Arai and I get back to the house, we are good for little more than laying around on the couches in the living room and mumbling. I head off to sleep with the two geckos that have taken up residence in the guest quarters.

Arai and I roll out around 8:30 the following morning after another fantastic breakfast and after some downtime due to a mysteriously cancelled bus, I get rolling out to La Ceiba.

I firmly believe that if all I get from this trip is bug bites and the friendship of one person like Arai, then every second, every dollar, and every mile will have been worth it.

 

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Copan Ruinas and the view from the top.

Yay chickens. I wonder why I was concerned with bringing an alarm clock when I am awakened every morning at godless hours by pollo locos.

I am starting to think that Central America is actually (I had to go back and rewrite that in English cuz I started in Spanish) ruled by a secret army of chickens. They dominate the transport industry with their chicken busses, they control the breakfast market with their eggs, and are second only to corn or perhaps rice in their lunch and dinner proliferation. Not to mention they actively control the sleep cycles of all the humans. This could be a real crisis.

No shower today, since I left my sandals in Antigua and haven’t managed to purchase more, despite wandering the streets for quite some time last night. FYI: I love pupusas. Today is a leisurely morning. Pack the bag, pick up the stuff. Another lovely surprise is that somehow all my Velcro that I use to tie up cords and things has disappeared from the room. I wonder if grandmother was helping me out by cleaning and threw them all out. Nice.

Halfway through packing, grandmother brings me a cup of coffee, which is especially cool because the cup is decidedly cleaner than it was yesterday. I tell her I am rolling out and she tells me a whole bunch of things I don’t actually understand.

I make mention that the dog bite wasn’t the highlight of my week to grandmother and grandfather and they regale me with a wonderful story that, if I understood properly, goes something like this. Little girl walks down the street. She is wearing jeans and passes in front of their house. Awesome dog runs out the door and sinks all his teeth into her calf. Dog needs to be beaten and forcibly removed from her leg by grown man from across the street, but not before it has caused massive injury to the girls calf and shredded the jeans. The End.

Nice Doggie!

Lovely story. I stop to take a few pictures of the chickens and am assaulted by the rooster; should have seen that one coming. It’s time to roll out, so we all say our goodbyes and I walk into town to get directions to the bus station from the only English speaking person I know how to find; Melissa from the internet café.

The walk feels good. It’s probably only about a kilometer, but the weight of the pack makes the work feel sincere; honest. Melissa really goes above and beyond by helping me to find a supercheap ($2.50) pair of sandals, and then hailing a tuktuk for me to take to the bus station.

Once I arrive, it’s time to play Musical Busses!!!  I need to get to the city Angiatu. There is a conveniently marked bus labeled “Angiatu” near the rear of the dirt bus complex. In speaking to the bus driver, I learn that this is not the bus to Angiatu as the gigantic sign would lead me to believe, but that the bus is elsewhere. The next 20 minutes consists of me bouncing from bus to bus in some heinous recreation of a pinball game getting stranger and more varied answers with each bus. Half of this time I am accompanied by the only ambulatory person I have ever seen who is actually more drunk before noon than Jack Sparrow was. He makes the experience more flavorful.

Finally, I walk up to what appears to be the El Salvadoran equivalent of a supermarket that has been placed inside the bus terminal and just start asking people if they are going where I need to go. This works VERY well, and within moments I add myself to a large pile of children and women in varying stages of gestation who are all bound in the same direction I am. A gentleman in a clean black polo materializes next to me and says a few phrases to me in English. “Hello.” “How are you?” “It is warm today.” “I have a car.” “Have a good day.”

I think he simply said every word he knew in English and then shook my hand and walked away. On a side note, women over 300 pounds should wear bras; No Exceptions. Here comes the bus.

The fun part about a chicken bus is that the emergency exit is not just for emergencies anymore! You get to climb in or out of it whenever you want! The bus fills up from both sides like a pair of Chinese fingercuffs. Promptly on the tail of the passengers come the vendors. Ice cream, vegetables, all manner of snack foods and drinks come through the bus and are purchased with surprising frequency.  After a few minutes we are on the way. I ask how many stops there are between the terminal and Angiatu. The lady in front of me says there are none. Apparently I asked the wrong question. Our bus stops about 50 times between Metapan and Angiatu.

The Guatemalan border crossing is confusing to them because I just left two days before. Noone can figure out why I would want to come back so soon. Apparently they have never been to El Salvador. I catch a couple more shuttles for a total of about 50Q to get from one border to the next. One guy even lets me pay in American quarters, which blew my mind. I got a glimpse of just how loose the intercity busses run when we pulled up at Vado Hondo to switch shuttles to take me to the border of Honduras and the other shuttle was already several hundred yards down the road and leaving. Through a process of laying on the horn, screaming, and madly waving arms in the air my shuttle drivers were able to communicate to the rapidly disappearing bus that they needed to stop and wait for me. It all worked out in the end and I made it across the border to Honduras with minimal issue.

One thing to note, when crossing out of Guatemala to El Salvador it is free (unless you are stupid), but when crossing from Guatemala into Honduras it will cost you $2 US to leave Guatemala and $3 US to enter Honduras. There was no logical or discernible explanation given to me despite repeated questioning for why You must pay to leave Guatemala at one point and not another. There was also no signage indicating that one needed to pay. Again, I must assume this is an agreement between the border officials and the tour bus companies who filter massive amounts of turistas through the border there to go to Copan.

The first guy across the border offers me a taxi ride which I promptly turn down. The next guy was a wildly lazy eye and a shuttle he wants me to ride in for 20 Limpiras, but it won’t leave for at least 15 minutes. I decide I’d rather hitchhike and walk back up to the road and thumb down a car. It turns out to be the taxi driver and he will take me to Copan for 20L. At least I don’t have to hang around the border any longer. It’s a beautiful drive and I use the time to relax and review my next steps.

  1. Procure a place to sleep.
  2. Find internet and figure out what Schwab Banks problem is.
  3. Get food.

Hopefully I can combine these last two. I chose a hotel to check out first from my book a while ago. Turns out they have one room left and it’s 150L a night. I get her to drop to 130L, about 7 dollars, and book it.

Luckily there is a place next door called Casa de Todo which is not a lie. They have internet, Laundry Service, Food, coffee, alcohol, books, souvenirs, and a cat. Platos tipical go a long way after being on a bus for most of the day.

Fed and watered, I go out to wander the city. The layout is really quite similar to Antigua; central park surrounded by a grid of streets. I spend a couple hours just wandering in and out of shops getting a coffee or trying one of the national cervezas and striking up a conversation with anyone there.

Things are progressing well, and I’m walking back through Parque Central to go grab my laptop and do some writing when I hear, “Genki desu ka?” come from behind me. Given the number of comparisons between C.A. and Japan that I have thrown out there lately, this should not really be that surprising, but it stops me dead in my tracks.

Turning around I see a rather unassuming Honduran man standing on a corner all by himself. He repeats,”Genki desu ka?”

I reply in the affirmative and greasing the wheels of the Japanese section of my brain, I rattle off a few more sentences at him. The lost look appears on his face that tells me we have passed the threshold of his Japanese knowledge.

Manuel, a caballero tour guide, tells me that there is a surprising number of Japanese turistas that come through Copan. He has managed to pick up a few phrases to pick up tourist business and even speaks English serviceably.

We sit and jabber for a while in the square with the barrage of startled and confused humanity flowing around us in the Honduran night. It’s fun to think about what the others wandering around us must think hearing our voices bounce in and out of several different languages without warning. Finally, Manuel gives me his phone number, so I’ll pass it on to you in case you are even in Copan and need a hand.

Manuel: 011-504-9823-3144

The rest of the night is passed at a wine and coffee bar with a pair of Japanese turistas enjoying a glass of Chilean red and trying to write with little success.

Morning in Honduras is somewhat of a novelty. For starters there are NO ROOSTERS screaming at me to get out of bed. I’m thrilled to have a shower waiting for me , so I make a small effort of getting my act together and getting into the shower. The “hot water” that is available in some of the hotels here in C.A. is actually an electric showerhead that, when wired improperly or hastily, can shock a person while they are trying to get clean. Luckily, Hotel Los Gemenos does not have that problem and I am able to get a decent warm shower by finding the delicate balance where the shower is heated and the water pressure is still strong enough to get me clean.

Outside of Copan there is a significant amount of rainforest. Over said rainforest, there are some gigantic steel cables that are used as ziplines. You won’t find this in any guide books, and you won’t see it advertised in town. You have to know about it and ask one of the locals how to get there. If you ask for a zipline, you will get a blank look. You will have to ask for “Canopy” and any local will pick up the phone and call Canopy Tours and have them come pick you up wherever you are and take you up to ride about 15 different ziplines that span a few kilometers. I learned about this from a family at dinner last night and it was confirmed by Manuel.

After Copan Ruins, this is my next destination; but first to go see another dead city. The Ruins are roughly a kilometer outside of the city. It’s a nice walk and happily I am not assaulted by the taxi and tuktuk drivers on the way, making it that much more pleasant.

Looking at the map, the city is compact, especially in comparison to Tikal which stretched over many kilometers. What in Tikal would have been a 5-30 minute walk from structure to structure was as simple as turning around here in Copan.  The reality of Copan is quite different from the map. The buildings are beautifully crafted. Nearly every building is covered with ornate carvings and crafts. Entire gigantic staircases ornately carved telling the history of the Mayans in this valley and the story of creation. From time to time I hook up with a tour and listen to the guide filling in the people on what’s what. I even roll with a Japanese and Spanish speaking tour at different points, though I understand little of the Japanese with my brain primarily in Spanish mode. It’s interesting to me that the Mayans were making pokemon sculptures and emoticons a thousand or so years before anyone else. 🙂

these guys are so high

Also, note that the combination Tiger/penis/flamethrower seems to be a recurring decorative tough.

tigerpenisflamethrower

The fun part of the morning comes in the form of a strange North American. He walks around the temple performing pseudo-yoga and wearing what appears to be a hotel towel as a headband while doing a Mister Miagi impression over his expansive gut.

After spending most of the morning in the ruins, I’m starting to get a little hungry and decide it is time to head back in to town. I’d like to find another panaderia in town to get some rolls for traveling food.

Café Viavia is in every guidebook I have seen. It’s a short walk from Parque Central west, and is popular for good reason. Wireless internet, good food, large portions, and a very cool environment. The bartender speaks a very small amount of English, so We chat for a moment and I order something called a baleada. This is basically a quesadilla about twice the size of any you have ever seen, filled with all manner of meat and spice and awesome. By the time I am done with it, I’m considering just laying down and going to sleep. Two things stop me from doing so. A pair of hungry looking dogs sitting and staring at me from a few feet away who I know are fully capable of eating my face, should I put it in range. And the thought of zipline greatness over the rainforest.  I swing by the local bodega that I have been buying water at for the last couple days and  ask her about the canopy tours. She says she knows the guy and picks up the phone to call him. Informing me that he’ll be right over and that I should wait, she goes back to work. This whole scenario sounds awfully familiar to Antigua, so after waiting for about 5 minutes, I get bored and walk off to Parque Central to find my own ride there.

Noone driving a tuktuk speaks English; this is a fact you must realize and deal with if you are traveling. If they WERE bilingual, they would be working a better paying job. My new tuktuk driver makes pleasant conversation over the bone rattling ride through the cobblestone streets of downtown. I don’t bother to reply for fear of biting my tongue off on accident.

In typical Central American form, the Canopy guide is asleep when we arrive. He seems a likeable enough fellow after waking up, though, and I would surprised if he were even 20 years of age. We do a brief introduction, then he starts giving me a TSA-familiar brushing of the inside of my legs while he is hooking up my harness. Now that he has felt my member and we are properly acquainted, he gives me a brief demonstration of how to hook up to the line and where to place my hands, which when you look at the following video, you’ll see that I completely disregard.

The view from the top is everything that we have been promised it would be. Wild and unspoilt, the forest is inspiring, even at speeds that seem properly unsafe. I must say, if you ever get the chance to do something similar, do not let it pass you by. If given the chance to go upside down or ‘Superman’ style, do it… and try not to puke.

Garrett is the other gentleman on the ziplide ride with me. He is an English teacher from the Virgin Islands with a love for travel and an extremely well endowed girlfriend. I imagine that this works in his favor while his students are hitting on him, as seems to be commonplace. Over the course of the tour, we discover that he and I are staying at the same hotel and traveling to the same city tomorrow. We pay the kingly sum of $35 each plus tip and head out for happy hour at Twisted Tanya’s.

Tanya’s is also in every guide book you will find. I’m not sure why, other than the prolific use of garlic in their cooking which makes my mouth water so much I’m going to look like I just wet myself from the slobber. The food I can’t speak for, not having eaten here, but the drinks are mildly weak and the waitress, Victoria (NOT Vicki as I am informed), has a left eye that is decidedly lower on her face than her right. Britons being as they are, a somewhat challenged gene pool at times, I have to assume this isn’t actually a setback in her country. Though, perhaps that is the reason that she came to Central America.

Garrett informs me that rather than pay 200L for dinner at Tanya’s there is a place down the road that serves great tacos for next to nothing. Little did I know that “down the road” also meant “IN the road.” Thus far I have been quite lucky. I have brushed my teeth with the water, I have had drinks with local ice, and I have eaten fresh vegetables and fruit from time to time. Having a go at some grilled meat tacos doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch.

Perhaps this was ill advised.

After chowing down on some rather bland tacos to fill my stomach up in the lobby of the Hotel Los Gemenos, Garrett and I kick back and chat for a little while until a slender dark haired Briton comes into the hotel and asks for a room. The hotel owner quotes the standard rate of 150L a night and the girls is obviously too tired to do anything but nod. Catching her attention, I tell her quietly in English that she can easily get 20L taken off the price just by asking. She thanks me, though I have no idea if she did, since I bid Garrett good night and wander off to find a wireless signal.

After a few minutes on the web, I start to feel terrible. By the time I get back to the hotel, I am having chills, sweats, and my stomach is doing backflips. As one can rightly assume from this knowledge, I had a long night.

Hallucinations can be troubling, especially when they are so close to real life. Between ill fated visits to the restroom, I imagine all manner of weird and awful things. Just about the only good part of the whole night is when I dreamt I was driving my truck. What a distant memory driving a vehicle is after just a few short weeks.

The morning light finally filters in and I make a show of getting dressed. Today is the first day I have worn pants, because it is completely overcast and there is a light rain coming down.  Casasolas sells relatively cheap $6 tickets to San Pedro Sula, so that is my first stop for the day before heading out to find something to put back in my stomach and hope it won’t come right back out again.

Welchez gourmet coffee house has become my base camp for the last few days. They serve something for every meal, and have lovely coffee drinks of just about any kind and a real espresso machine! You can choose from a two level courtyard, open air seats, a balcony, or the main dining area. The staff is helpful, though none of them speak English, and the bread they serve is among the best I have tasted. Try the Mocha.

Breakfast comes in the form of a very basic ommelette and their lovely bread with some black coffee. Despite repeated waves of nausea, it all seems to have stayed down and I need to head back to the hotel and pack my bag before killing a couple hours. Checkout time is 10:30.

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Where are my shoes? El Salvador edition…

Remember when I said it all started to go wrong my last morning in Antigua? Well I didn’t realize it until I woke up in Metapan, El Salvador the following morning. Preparing for an ice cold shower, I went to my bag to find my havainanas and found that I had not packed them.

In contrast to Japan, where any individual would have done anything short of murdering a delivery driver and stealing the delivery truck to drive across the country to return an item, I’m rather certain that the innkeep, still somewhat miffed at being caught lying and trying to cheat me out of money, quite rapidly threw them in the trash can.

Following yesterday’s robbery and intensely expensive taxi raping, this is really the icing on a towering turd cake. Putting my pack down, I just go back to bed. Brilliantly, the overly vocal dogs decide this is a terrible idea and summon the chicken army to roust me from anything that may have turned into slumber.

I stayed up late last night after drinking a cup of coffee and watched some movies on the ipod, which doesn’t help my sleeping matter any. Rolling out of bed again, I fish a clean shirt out of my pack and slip some socks n shoes on before heading out into the courtyard. Next step, find a café and get some breakfast and coffee.

The grandmother of the house starts talking to me and I catch about every third word of the barrage. Apparently she has some coffee. Sounds like a plan. I hope there is less dirt in it than the cup I had last night.

Nope. There is, however, a heaping plate of fresh eggs intended as an apology from the chickens for their behavior. Apology accepted, just don’t do it again. Unless you plan on following it up with more fresh eggs!

Grandmother and I chill out, exchanging some broken Spanish and we decide to roll out for the post office to go kick off a package and some postcards. She makes good time and plenty of conversation. We swing by one of the local’s places so grandmother can give a high five to one of her elderly peeps. They have a great laugh, though I have no idea what about, and we continue on our quest for the mail.

The post office is pretty empty at this point with only one person in line and that person is promptly finished and is on her way out. Next comes the fun part. Grandmother lets me do my own talking, which is cool and works out pretty well. Soon, I have stamps on the postcards and am writing on a box. That’s about where the cool ends.

Grandmother gives me a few words, which I think mean, “Cool out. I’m gonna roll out to see my homies and I’ll be back to get down wit’ cho ass in a few, Player.”

What it actually meant was something like, “Foo, I gots betta stuff to do than sit around and watch you make an ass out of yourself with a mailman, foreigner. Are you still considered retarded even in your own country?”

Next comes the fun part, filling out the paperwork for international packages. The mailman points at the To and From sections on the box and I fill them in. By the time I am finished with the box, he turns, looks at me, looks at the box, and bids me to continue with the second box. When I finish with that one, he looks at me like I am crazy, then makes me go back and fix the ‘from’ address because it is not a local address. So, I just pull what I assume will look like a local address to him out of my head and he is cool with it.

This sort of thing continues many more times with each piece of paper. He tells me what to write, I confirm that I understood him, he confirms, then after he watches me write it a couple times, he tells me I did it wrong and we do it all over again.

Lesson learned: ask at least three times with increasingly large or detailed sign language, receiving the same answer every time, before you proceed.

After what seems like an hour with still no sign of Grandmother, we get to the fun part: The Money. Post office workers are ok by me. One of my friends is a mailman. I think they get a bad rap because a few of them came to work with guns and had a bad day. However, there are exceptions.

By the time the postal worker is done with the maths I am about to strangle him. I require almost $5 USD in change. He hands me 55 cents and says have a good day. When I ask him to do the math again, he comes up with all new maths. Soon he is creating numbers, charging me for imaginary items, and explaining that he is so totally right. It isn’t until I take out pen and paper, write it all down in order and hold it up to his face that he finally materializes the missing money.

Honestly, do I have a huge sign on my face that says, RIP ME OFF? The border crossing bandits, I can expect it from, but government employees? Well, maybe I should have expected that even more.

Still no Grandmother. By this point, I assume she has gone off to somewhere cooler than the post office, and I go on my way.

Downtown Metapan looks almost exactly like every other town I have seen these last few weeks. Narrow roads, deadly sidewalks, people selling all manner of godless items and a thousand tiny shops that don’t provide any service or sell any item that you would actually want sandwiched around the one shop that you are actually looking for.

We have a million pairs of weird shoes, though no good sandals in my size, dead fish in baskets and no ice, a mobile phone repair guy on a towel on the sidewalk with a boy who entertains you with a Jesus and Mary pictograph slideshow while you wait, among others.

I need to fix a seam in my shorts and would like to get the water out of my watch from Semuk Champey. Unfortunately, I don’t know the word for tailor or seamstress in Spanish and folks in El Salvador speak even faster than folks in Guatemala and have less inclination toward humoring a hapless Anglo traveler. After a few good misadventures, I land myself in an internet café long enough to look up the words for tailor and seamstress and realize that this particular internet café doubles as the largest mosquito breeding ground I have seen yet; more than rivers, streams, or lakes. It is startling and I get the hell out of there.

Armed with new words in my arsenal, I head bravely out into the market to take on the world. Over the next hour I get a myriad of responses. Listed below:

  1. Left, then right, and it will be on your left hand side.
  2. There are none is the market, but my sister on the edge of town will do it.
  3. 4 blocks down.
  4. There are none in town.
  5. Yes, right next door.

The final answer came courtesy of a watch repairman after I handed him my watch to clean up. On my way into the store, “What are you looking for?” blasts me in the face. After a long couple days of no English, you’ll understand why I jumped backwards .

After I got over the initial shock and said Hi back, I realized that the watchman was absolutely correct, there was a sewing machine inside… and a rather large cache of fireworks. Luis, the El Salvadoran who learned English in New York, is here for the fireworks. Apparently, his grandmother is 86 and he plans to invite all their friends and neighbors over to the house at 4 a.m. on his grandmothers birthday and LIGHT OFF AN ASSLOAD OF FIREWORKS WHILE SCREAMING AT HER!!! Wouldn’t we call this “homicide” in the USA?

I was waiting for an invite from him, mostly because I’ve never seen someone die of shock before, but it never comes. My shorts are fixed in no time for $1, and I have to wait a  bit to get my watch back. There is an internet café across the street and I figure I can chill out for a few.

No dice. The place is film noir dark but there is a door in the back that leads into a courtyard that looks a lot like the one at Grandmothers place minus the chickens. With no open computers and no sign of coffee or water, I turn around to leave when a face fills my vision, “What You Want!?”

Heart attack #2 for the day.

The face is early 20’s,  pale for the common El Salvadoran, wearing trendy glasses which are rare around here, has a mouth full of braces, and is connected to a not fat body with a blaring yellow t-shirt that doesn’t disguise her large breasts are packed into a bra that is a size too small.

“Coffee?”

She answers in the negative, but asks me if I know Ban Ban. Obviously, I don’t so she walks me a couple blocks over to a deli-like building with air conditioning and a security guard. It’s a great place and I pull up a seat next to the window to await my coffee, water, and pan chocolat! I am so excited that they actually have pan chocolat that I don’t bother fact checking until he rolls up with a big slice of chocolate cake.

Doh.

Regardless, I get caught up on some writing and chill out for a couple hours. My watch is returned to me with warnings that if I get any water on it the watch will fog up again like it did before. Fine fine fine.

One thing I may have neglected to mention, Breastfeeding is a national sport in El Salvador. I don’t mean that it happens occasionally, I mean that in one morning I have seen no less than a dozen bare breasted women  doing everything from catching taxi cabs, to shopping, to just walking or talking to friends. Just because baby hungry is no reason to sit down or cover up, you just pop out a titty and put the hose to that fire.

Wandering back to the house around 2 p.m. I figure granddaughter will get out of school in an hour or so and I’ll have someone to talk to after I chill out for a while.

She is already home. Yesterday, she had promised to take me to an internet café so I could shoot some emails off and as I walk in the door, she asks me if I am ready to leave. She grants me a 10 minute recess before we take off for, surprise, surprise, the mosquito breeding grounds internet café.

An interesting thing happens here, granddaughter speaks the first English I have heard her speak. “I’ll be back.” I give her a high five and say I’ll wait. In the meantime my battery runs out on the laptop, so I go outside and take a picture of a very strange tree and write in my notebook a bit.

Granddaughter comes back in a few pages and shows me the football stadium and one of the worst smelling alleyways I have ever been exposed to. All in a day’s work, I suppose. It is during this walk that I truly realize that I am adequate at Spanish for doing some things, primarily point of sale transactions and getting food, but I really can’t hold down my end of a conversation. As opposed to Japan, where many people wanted to help teach me the words and help me learn their language even if they didn’t want to learn English, Central Americans really do not seem to care.

Maybe tonight I’ll find out where the bus terminal is and get a bus schedule for heading to Honduras tomorrow to see Arai. I think El Salvador just started out on the wrong foot and I am just not up to turning it around.

Walking out of my room after typing this, the dogs immediately begin their barking, but now they charge, the one I was petting earlier stops short barking at me, the other one comes full bore and takes a chunk out of me knee with his teeth and catches my fist in his eye before running away yelping. The family is, for lack of a better word, unconcerned. Yeah, I’d say that just about spells out, Time To Leave. Not that I didn’t meet some colorful people here.

Nice Doggie!

Luckily, Copan in Honduras isn’t far away and San Pedro Sula isn’t far from there. I could be to either within a day. I’ll try to head out and do that in the morning. For tonight, some comfort food: Pupusas!

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Highway Robbery

Leaving Antigua was a terrible f@#*ing idea.

The morning starts innocently enough, I wake up. I take a shower. I pack my bag. This is where the trouble starts, but I won’t know this until the next morning.

The Reginadawn Villa is quite secure. So secure, in fact, that there is one key to the outer doors, and when anyone staying there needs to enter or exit the premises, they must go to the back of the hotel or ring the doorbell and ask the innkeep to come and unlock the other gates for them so they may enter/exit. Every time. Day or Night.

Shouldering my pack, I walk to the back of the hotel one last time and find the owner and exit the building one last time. Goodbye, hot showers. Hello, noisy street. With nifty motorcycle parking sign.

La Esquina, the lovely restaurant around the corner with free wi-fi is closed. It is only just past 8 on Sunday morning, so I suppose most tourists are still nursing a hangover or sipping coffee. In parquet central is a travel agency that is affliated with Lonely Planet and, based on a conversation I had yesterday with a pair of tourists, they offer trips to El Salvador on Sunday and Monday. They are closed too. I assume that a more breakfast oriented place will be open already and head up to Bagel Barn, a cool little Einstein’s wanna-be just west of Parque Central. They’re open and also have free wi-fi. It’s noisy, and the noise is really getting to me today for some reason. I put in my headphones to try and drown it out.
A little breakfast goes a long way with me. I prefer breakfast to any other meal of the day. A sandwich named “God Save the Queen” and some ill-prepared coffee go down pretty quickly and I’m heading back to Parque Central to see if the agency is open. No, again. Knocking on the door reveals that someone is there, but they only LIVE there, they don’t work there. Rather dejected I sit down on the curb to think about what to do next.

“Que necesita, amigo?”

I should be more wary when people call me friend. Appearing at my side is a young boy, perhaps ten years of age.

“A donde va?”

I tell him, I’m trying to get to El Salvador. He tells me that the unmarked door several doors up is a travel agency that should be opening in 5 minutes. They can take me to El Salvador for $25 USD, which is pretty damn expensive. I say, “No thanks. Just direct me to the regular bus station.” The kid starts playing with his phone and walks off after telling me to hold on for one minute. Now a man walks up to start talking to me. Assuming he wants my money only makes me correct. He is a taxi driver and offers to drive me to Guatemala City, Unholy Hell Pit that it is, for only $30. I tell him, thanks but no thanks; I already have a better deal, but am thinking of taking the regular bus. His face gets a little pinched and he looks at my big backpack.

“Es muy inseguridad.”

He continues on this vein, telling me it is dangerous and unduly slow until the kid comes back. They begin arguing over the kid telling me the price for a shuttle. Apparently, the taxi driver thinks he should have been able to get my money. After a few minutes, the kid tells him to get lost, and rightly so. The kid then picks up the phone to call the girl from the travel agency and get her ass down to the shop, since they don’t actually open until 11 a.m., contrary to what he told me previously.

Lesson learned here: almost anyone in Guatemala will tell you ANYTHING if it makes them money; even just a little money. Like the little kid who called me a pinchi American son of a bitch because I refused to give him a dollar just because he was begging for it. Seriously… if the dude with no legs and only one hand laying in the middle of the sidewalk is not enough to elicit cash from me, a little rat with 4 perfectly good extremities begging has little effect on me.

Lesson number two today: Central America is full of fat women. Yes, Americans have a reputation for being fat, but most folks generally attribute that only to US citizens. This is not so. Case in point, the fattie who works for the travel agency who arrives via taxi to sell me a shuttle ticket.

I’m wondering who has gone off more half-cocked here. Me, for assuming I could just wake up and find transportation to another country, or the travel agent, who apparently doesn’t have a key to the office, doesn’t know when it opens, doesn’t know if anyone else is coming, and apparently doesn’t know after numerous phone calls, what company or who if anyone will be driving the shuttle if there actually is one today. I do have to applaud her ethics though, as she does not actually try to get money from me until AFTER she confirms that there is a shuttle and I will fit. This is actually pretty damn good customer service for Central America. I have about three more hours to kill until I leave Antigua. Luckily, the Bagel Barn is right around the corner. The kid, Christian, has been chilling out the whole time just waiting for some propios from me. I give him a couple quetzales and take off.

Three hours is plenty of time to chill out and talk to the ex-pats, exchange students, and turistas filtering through the café. I make some phone calls, take the time to filter through some photographs and upload a bunch more along with some videos. Most of the older posts on the travelogue should have some form of visual stimulation now.

There are a number of girls in their early twenties who are more than willing to recount their torrid stories of their drunken Saturday night and tell me all about the volunteer and exchange programs they are here on. The company VGI USA seems to come up a bit in conversation. (You’re welcome, Jo.)

Eventually, I need to start wrapping it up and head over to the travel agency to catch the 12:30 shuttle. By this time, the Ruta Maya travel agency is open, what little good that does me. The shuttle is driven, as is common, by two people, much like the stage coaches of old. A driver, a young man in a black stylized t-shirt and new ball cap, and an older gentleman riding shotgun in a white collared shirt sporting a moustache.

There is already a guy sitting a couple rows back, though he says nothing to me for the entire ride. The streets of Antigua are largely cobblestone, as my toe has already discovered, and it makes for an interesting ride. Twisting through the grid-like streets, we grab three more ambiguously asian women from a hotel and we are heading out of the city on our way to Guate, short for Guatemala City.

The ladies and I start chatting as they are all quite fluent in English. Occasionally they speak between themselves in something that sounds like Japanese. The lady sitting next to me, Sookie, reminds me a lot of my mom; similar build, and haircut. Interestingly enough, they are subscribers to the same religious beliefs. They are not Japanese as I first assumed, but Korean. It seems, the languages are quite similar.

All the ladies are fans of the fresh fruit in Central America. So much so they have taken up packing their own knives to cut it up as they travel. This was of great interest to the Security at Guatemala City Airport. The ladies have flown to Honduras and Guatemala in the last few weeks and on one particular trip through the airport, they were packing so many knives, they were pulled aside and searched and all their weapons confiscated. Apparently, Knife wielding Korean Mormon women are the real problem in Guatemala; not the murder and robbery.

I am happy to help them convey to the driver that they need to get to the airport first before he drops me off at the bus station, as they know little to no Spanish despite their fluency otherwise. Soon we are trading names, emails, etc. One of the ladies, Nam-Hee Kong (no relation), is a professor of English in Seoul and invites me to come visit and help out with her classes and perhaps learn some Korean. This is truly why I love to travel, because the very act of traveling opens more borders and opportunities than one could ever hope by simply sitting at home and planning. Looks like I’ll be going to Korea at some point.

The elder of the trio, Soon Ja, has an amazing knowledge of the world, she has traveled everywhere and I immediately begin picking her brain for new destinations and the inside line on Italy; a place in which she is well versed. Arriving at the airport, the ladies make a hasty escape as they are running a bit late, and the gentleman in the back, who has been listening to all our conversations and never saying a word, wishes me a good journey as he leaves.

The Guatemala City bus station is not a place you ever need to go. Seriously. Unless you truly want to be able to have an answer for the question:

‘When was the last time you push-started a bus?’

The building and the bus are filled with crow-like chatter and music that sets my teeth on edge. Noise, noise, noise. I am the only foreigner on the bus other than two blonde girls that could be from anywhere in Europe. After several unsuccessful attempts to get our bus on the road, we pull away in a grinding of gears and a cloud of smoke. I opted to take the somewhat luxury bus instead of the chicken bus experience and I have to say I’m not convinced it was the right choice. Though in a city where there are actually stores that specialize in bullet proofing your car maybe it was a good call. After three hours of smelling the urine and offal wafting up from the cramped bathroom at the back of the bus, it does get a little hard to make that argument.

I can tell I am entering the third week of travel. I am unsettled. I don’t feel at ease, everyone around me seems like an alien. I was English, I want my own motorcycle, I want my own bed. The same things happened about my third week in Japan and continued to the fourth week, when I got over it and really started to integrate. All I have to do is power through the next couple weeks. This knowledge does not really make the next hours any more enjoyable.

Everyone is talking. There is lousy music piping into the bus overhead. After a while, someone puts of a Spanish version of the movie ‘Shooter’ over the bus’ entertainment system and it is just scrambling my brain. At first I listen to my Spanish lessons, but give up on that after I realize I haven’t been listening to what they are actually saying. I switch over to watching movies. Maybe this is what took my head out of the game.

Disclaimer: my natural inclination is to pad this scenario to make me look like less of an idiot. I am going to fight this and try to be as clear and accurate in what happened so as to help anyone else in this situation see it clearly and get the heck out of there. Please refrain from reinforcing what I already know: I am an idiot.

We pull up at the Guatemalan border crossing and everyone disembarks. I’m focusing on putting away my ipod and worrying if my big back is going to be ok with me not staring at it for a few minutes. All the zippers are locked, and it is a
bit heavy to run away with, weighing in at over 20 kilos, so I think it will be alright.

Before I am even off the bus my was is being blocked by three moneychangers waving their filthy hands and filthy lucre in my face. I have to physically push them out of my way to disembark. I hate this part of the trip. Once I get off, I realize I have no idea what line to get in or what doors to go in, so I just sort of stand there looking stupid for a moment.
I think that was my mistake.

Lesson learned: when in doubt head straight for the nearest guy in a uniform.

Unfortunately for me, Guatemala has no one outside their little air conditioned office. Now I am literally surrounded by about 9 moneychangers trying to shove their hands in my face. I’m keeping a hand on my wallet and a hand on my passport and telling them to get the hell away from me. Then a face appears that I recognize. The shuttle driver in the black t-shirt and hat. He immediately starts blasting me in Spanish along with everyone else.

I tell him to get lost as well, then he holds up a small slip of paper with the Immigration stamp on it and tries to hand it to me. At first I just stare at it blankly, then I ask him if this is for me to get out of Guatemala. (Let me interject that this is not uneard of. Cuba stamps a visa paper, not your passport. When entering England, they staple a piece of paper in your passport as well.) He replies in the affirmative, then I begin to doubt and he motions me towards what I think are some other doors as if I am to come into the office so they can validate it. However, we do not enter the doors, we have simply moved farther away from the other doors with a line of Guatemalans out of it. Honestly, all of them look similar from the back, and I can’t see the two blonde girls from the bus in that line, so I’m not sure if that’s where I am supposed to be.

The moneychangers are all talking very loudly at me and the shuttle driver tries to take my passport from me. Grabbing it back it becomes a yelling match, he insisting that I need to pay $20 for the stamp to leave, and me insisting that he find someone to speak to me in English. He even produces some rather official looking identification as a means of verifying that this is the correct procedure. I start to walk away at several points over the next minute or so but am continually surrounded and under fire from so many Guatemalans I am having a hard time concentrating. The shuttle drive keeps trying to press the paper into my passport and eventually I just take the paper from him. The money changer hands a $20 bill to the shuttle driver and indicates that he has paid for me and all I need to do is give him the equivalent in Quetzales and any additional I have and he will give me change. I start to pull out my Quetzales and count them out and I have about $30 equivalent in Q. I hand it to the changer and look around for the shuttle driver, but he is nowhere to be found. When I turn around, neither is the money changer who just took the money out of my hands. Within seconds, the crowd of men around me disperses and I am left there looking stupid.

I climb back on to the bus and the blond girls are there again. Walking down the aisle of the bus, I am uneasy and look at the paper again, it says 2002. Sh!t. I ask the blondes to see their stamps, and there they are, right in their passports. 2010.

Jumping off the bus I make a beeline to the office and the a uniform. They inform me that, Yes, in fact, I am an idiot and all have a good laugh at the robbery that just happened outside their door. They stamp my passport and inform me that next time I come through I should remember it is free to leave. Thanks. I find it hard to believe that they don’t know this sort of this happens a few feet away. I believe that the people working the border are complicit in these activities, either because of their own prejudices against extranjeros or that they are paid a portion of the money skimmed.

The moustache copilot from the shuttle this morning is the copilot for our bus. I have some choice words with him, though how much he understands is unclear, and head back to my seat. The entrance to El Salvador is less eventful. A man gets on the bus, looks at my passport, writes down my name and leaves. Not even anything as satisfying as a stamp in my passport. What a waste.

Negotiating a place to stay in El Salvador has been nothing short of a nightmare. I was going to stay with a friends family, but that friend simply couldn’t be bothered to get me the information in the month or so since the home stay was offered. Now in the last 6 hours, I’ve been able to get said information, though it was incorrect and I had to get that fixed. Still, answering the phone was simply too much to ask from said friend and I am left to wade into El Salvador, having redirected my travel at the very last second to accommodate this home stay, and am going to Santa Ana, instead of the couchsurfing homestay I had lined up in another city.

One thing that may have been nice to know previously is that Santa Ana, is NOT actually next to Metapan, the two names of cities I was given as navigational coordinates for getting to said home. Getting off the bus in Santa Ana, I look around and realize, this is not a bus station, it is a near empty street; less of a bus stop than San Ignacio had. Then the familiar cry rings out.

“Taxi?”

I’m going to hold the next person down and remove their eye balls with a broken beer bottle the next time someone says that to me.

“NO.”

I turn to a guy standing on the street with some luggage and point out the address I have written down in my notebook. He looks at me with wide eyes and informs me I am at least an hour away by car.

Sh!t. Fine. I ask for directions to the local bus station so I can catch the next chicken bus. I am promptly informed that there is not bus station here. Sh!t, again. $50 for a taxi ride. Ok, fine.

The ride is awful, and the taxi is like something spat out of a mad max film. I’m angry, tired, and hungry. I’ve been on a shuttle or bus for about 7 hours at this point with no food. I’d rather kill someone than speak to them.

When we finally do arrive in Metapan, the taxi driver is kind enough to inform me that he has no idea where the address is and I should get out and take a tuktuk. I look at him squarely and inform him I did not pay $50 for a tuktuk, so he had better figure it out. An hour of complete idiocy later, I finally make him pull over and call the family and ask them to come meet us. The family finally arrives… on foot. Taxi man takes us to their house, and informs me my bill is now $56 for having used his phone and being a general pain in the ass. I hope he goes to jail and is violated by a broomstick for his unscrupulous business practices along with the wonderful moneychanging staff of Central America.

It’s too late to even attempt speaking Spanish so I just speak to the family in English. They don’t seem to care, they just do what every other person in Central America does and speak as rapidly as possible to you unconcerned with whether you understand or not. Indoors, I go throw my bags in what is to be my room, and inform them I am going out for food. Yoselin, the youngest at 17, rolls out with me so I don’t get killed while traversing the Barrio. We wind up at the local pupuseria, not as dirty as it sounds, and order some food.

All things aside, pupusas are delicious. It is some sort of corn torilla with goodies inside. I don’t dare ask where the meat came from, but coupled with beans and cooked up on a hotplate, a couple of these things with some good salsa are enough to make me smile again if just for a moment. El Salvadorans can’t make coffee any better than Guatemalans it appears.

Yoselin was purported to speak a little English. Now, like so many other things, I find this is not true. Ok. I throw out a little bit of Spanish and am met with the usual barrage, though after repeated requests she does slow it down a little bit. I’m so tired I don’t care and we head straight back to the house where I climb into bed with less bugs than I had thought and try to find some sleep amidst the noise from the three hyperactive dogs and 40 something chickens outside in the courtyard.

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Antigua and the Volcano

As I have alluded to there is a huge cultural bias against extranjeros in Guatemala. I think this happens in many or most countries all over the world, but this is the first time that I am really feeling it. It’s out in the open; palpable.

The incident at the restaurant in Lanquin. Waiting an hour for coffee I had already paid for and never receiving it. Now, being overcharged by 100Q for a hotel and being told I was wrong repeatedly when I brought it to their attention. Fortunately, I have an innate ability to make friends; or perhaps a built-in friendly people finder that seems to get me through times like these.

I arrived via shuttle in Antigua’s Parque Central which contains, among other things, the Catedral de Sanitago. The Cathedral makes a great landmark to get your bearings if you don’t notice the giant Volcan de Agua rising up over all the buildings to the south of the city. I shoulder my pack, and pull out my only map of the area which is in my Lonely Planet.

Seeing this a local man walks up asking if I need anything information, and I tell him that I don’t need any help, thanks. I think I missed some of the nuance in Spanish when I said it because he looks slightly offended. A cursory examination of the map shows an STA Travel Agency a few blocks away. Sweet.

Almost. It appears that the STA agency has been replaced by an ice cream shop. No problem. There is an internet café down the street. Nope, that’s not there either. Checking my book, which is the most recent version, I note it was published 3 years ago. Oops. Now where to go to try and figure out where to stay tonight.

Antigu@net café is one block south and a half block west of el Parque Central in downtown Antigua. The shop boasts a wireless network, about a dozen computers with webcams, and a mean coffee menu. My initial impression was a little startling.

Seeing the sign on the door for an internet café, I walk in and find an empty desk in the entryway. I stop to ask the only worker in the café if I can use the desk to look at my book for a moment and find a place for the evening. He gives me a pained look and says, no. I check him again for confirmation and again he says no.

I need a place to camp for a few minutes, so I ask him how much internet is and he quotes me a reasonable rate. Within 30 seconds I am so hung up on the No, that I shoulder my pack again and make ready to head out the door, when a well dressed woman with gold tear drop shaped ear rings walks through the room. She is obviously at home here and seems in a position of authority, as she asks the desk worker what he is doing away from the desk. He tells her he is telling me to get out of their spare chair and she stops him. She turns to me and says in heavily accented English, “This is your house.”

A minute or so later, she comes back to me and asks what I am looking for in a place to sleep. I tell her it must be clean and I would prefer it be inexpensive. She doesn’t remember the name, but her friend owns a place 4tth Avenue South that has private rooms with hot water and breakfast included for $7 USD a night. This is a little high for the country, but would be a reasonable rate for a dorm room in such a great tourist town. I tell her that’s great so she writes down the address for me. She then proceeds to call the hostel for me and even checks the nights I need availability for.

Over the space of the next hour, Carla (that’s her name), has found me a replacement hotel since the initial idea was booked up that is even more outstanding, usually charging $40 USD a night, she has asked the owner to match $7. Carla then directed me to a tour agency nearby that books my pacaya trip for the next morning and when the Hotel charged me double and would not return the money when confronted, she called them up and asked them to stop jerking me around. As soon as I got back to the hotel, my extra 100Q was returned to me promptly.

My toe hurts.

Reginadawn Villa, the place that I wound up staying at, has just opened this week. The sign isn’t even hung out front. The place is the near definition of opulence after my recent string of accommodations. The beds are giant and fluffy. They come with comforters and good pillows. Breakfast is provided as well as afternoon coffee. There is hot water, giant showers, and a gigantic mural hand painted by the owner down one side of the inner courtyard. She doesn’t speak any English, but she weathers my at Spanish tirelessly and we usually wind up at an understanding. She taught me a new word, “curitas”, for Band-Aids needed to patch up my toe. Pacaya comes early tomorrow, 6 a.m., so I need to get to bed.

The real draw to Antigua is Volcan de Pacaya. It’s the only currently active volcano in Guatemala and is open to the public to hike with a park entrance fee of 40Q. Tour guides are included with the park entry price. Steeeks, are not.

Our shuttle stops in a city called San Francisco de Sale. As soon as the doors are open we are surrounded, literally being flooded by little children with inch thing 4 foot long walking sticks yelling, “Steek. Steeek.” When I politely decline I receive, “Es necesario!” in return. This lovely dance continues for about 5 minutes until a few of the ladies have purchased steeeks and our tour guide arrives and shoos them away.

We are Falcones, our guide tells us. So when we are hiking the mountain, if we meet any other groups, we should listen for our name to be called for instructions. The hike up is a mere 4 kilometers, making the round trip somewhat less than I walked in Tikal in a day. The difference is, this is quite uphill, and half of it is over loose volcanic rock; somewhat different and rather unforgiving if you should happen to take a spill.

The first kilometer is the hardest, getting my body to wake up and work. The second is still a little tiring. After that, my group is moving so slowly that I take off and catch up to first one group and then, passing them, another group while ascending. There are horses available for the easily tired or lazy. According to this picture though, just because you are too lazy to walk, doesn’t mean the horse is a good idea.

First time in a horse at Pacaya

On the way to the top, I have plenty of time to stop and take some picture of the landscape.

Pacaya

At the top, there are even more picture opportunities.

Early on in the trip, our guide handed me a great stick for roasting marshmallows on, and coupled with the two fantastic schoolteachers from the Bay who are in Guatemala for ski week who brought a giant bad of overstuffed marshmallows, we have on hell of a lava roasting experience. The heat wind coming up the mountain carries all the heat from the lava like a convection oven and literally bakes the skin off your face within seconds. I had to cover up with a hat and bandana to keep my delicate gringo skin in place.

sharing is caring

If you don’t watch your step, the rock beneath your feet won’t be rock and you’ll find your foot rapidly sinking into magma. All around us are cracks in the ground bearing testament to this.

Lava exposed at Pacaya

And one idiot’s pair of shoes.

bring good shoes to Pacaya

All in all, I come away unscathed and victorious!

Praying to the Volcano Gods

Now back to Antigua for an afternoon of relaxation.

Just kidding. I have to get back to Antigua so I can figure out where the hell I am going tomorrow morning in El Salvador and see if I even have a place to stay once I get there.

Mas luego.

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Semuk Champey

I’ve got an awesome bruise on the inside of my right bicep. It’s been there for a few days now, and I’m not sure how I got it. My best guess is in the Cave of the Crystal Maiden. I just noticed another one on my left leg.

The roosters are going nuts early in the morning all around the town. After so many hours, even the earplugs don’t keep them out. We didn’t book a shuttle for the trip to Semuk Champey because I figured  we could just hitch a ride from the main road with as many shuttles and trucks as I figured would be going that way. Unfortunately, most of the people going to semuk champey stayed closer to the pools at the resorts. I prefer to stay in the area where I am not forced to eat whatever food the resort will provide and have no place to explore. That being, this choice means I gave up the free shuttle to the pools and will pay 20Q for Jimmy to arrange a shuttle for me.

The shuttlecraft is common to Central America. It is basically the same people mover/ delivery truck that is used to move, drinks, groceries, humans, etc, from anywhere to anywhere. Addison and I stand up in the back of the truck like the North American lookie-loos that we are and smile and wave at all the locals that I’m relatively sure think that we are retarded.  I saw my first Central American with down syndrome, though he looked very much like the rest of the locals, so it may have been somewhat of a mild case, if such a thing exists. Every man seems to be carrying a machete. A surprising number of women in all age ranges have pots of every size balanced squarely on their heads as they walk up and down the wild mountain paths. Mostly, it is the very young that smile back, but at least half wave in return. The ride to Semuk is longer that it should be. It’s only 9 kilometers, but it seems to take nearly half an hour. Along the way we pass a sketchy looking guest house, and two others, Las Marias and El Portal, that seem quite nice for being in the middle of the jungle. El Portal is 100 meters or so from the entrance to Semuk Champey.

The restaurant at El Portal serves mostly typical fare food, but adds coffee to the line-up which has me excited. I ask for some but the guide informs me that I would have to get it to go, and that isn’t an option. So, the group sits there for almost another 30 minutes while the guides and hostel workers talk. After everyone has had their fill of chat and food, the guide Edgar rounds us all up and we take off for the entrance to the protected area. We pay 50Q for entrance and I sign my name as Robert Marley in the register. The Scotsman in the bunch, also named David, looks at it and asks if people often call me Bob. I feel inclined to explain since we will be hanging out all day.

Edgar has expressed concern over my choice of havaianas as footwear. I was under the impression we would be going to a series of pools and hanging out in a big river. Apparently this involves a 1.2 kilometer hike up some of the most treacherous terrain I have seen; mud, sharp rocks, and wet leaves all up the side of the mountain. Anyone going to Semuk Champey, bring some good walking shoes and a waterproof bag. If you can avoid it, you don’t want to leave your valuables on the side of the stream.

up close and personal shocking

Semuk Champey is beautiful and unique. There is no doubt about it. The water was a little bit low, so diving from some of the places was not allowed, but others were just fine. I took my scuba camera with me and got some fun shots of us goofing off. I dropped it in one of the deeper sections of the pools and had to go diving for it. After that I clipped it onto one of my havaianas and it floated quite well.

Take a look at some of the pics.

Edgar and I baywatch?

Long and short of it, if you have time and are in Guatemala, go check out the pools. With 20Q ($2.50USD) you get the guide that shows you some huge rocks to jump off of and breaks out the tubes for you to enjoy the river, then shows you the rope swing.

After all that, then we went to the cueva de vela, the candle cave. Basically, they have wild guides like Carlos, who give you some candles, light them up, then take you about ¼ mile underground through some caves full of water. There is a lot of swimming and climbing involved, so imagine swimming in a subterranean river with only one hand because you are trying to hold a candle out of the water with the other one. If that doesn’t sound like fun to you, then give the caves a pass. There are some skietchy places where it looks like someone just taped a ladder to a piece of rock and you have to climb up or down it into pitch black. The reward at the end is that you can finally get to a quite large cavern where the brave can climb up the rock walls to some ledges up high and do some underground cliff jumping into the pools below; again, perhaps not for the faint of heart. I loved every second of it.

Finally after a very long day, we grabbed the cattle car back into Lanquin and I went shopping for some dinner to cook up at Hotel Cacao. For about 11Q I bought 6 eggs and three tomatoes and cooked them up with some picante that Jimmy had, then ate it with three rolls from the local bakery. It was delicious and very filling and cost less than half of what any meal in any restaurant in town would cost. Jimmy’s wife, Francis, just spent the entire night testing the limits of my Spanish. Thankfully, whether I actually understood or not really made little difference to her.

In the morning, the crazy rooster woke me up again, and I learned from Jimmy that he starts at 5 a.m. and will continue to crow until he notices someone is awake (me) and then he chills out. So it’s like a game of endurance. Whoever can stay in bed longer gets to keep sleeping after someone finally gets up. The shuttle comes at 8 a.m. but I am not there because I am hunting the post office. The postmaster was quite helpful, though I’m not sure that means that the postcards will ever get there. Anyone who gets one, drop me a line and let me know they made it.

The shuttle ride is packed as usual. I spend much of the 7 hours listening to my Spanish immersion mp3s and I have to say, I think they are helping quite a bit. We passed some interesting scenery, and even passed through a desert that mirrored much of the southwestern United States. I can now say from personal experience if you have the option, stay the hell away from Guatemala City. It is a cacophony of environmental hazard crossed with constant life-threatening danger. I would rather have a cannibal for a roommate than spend one day in that city.

Antigua, on the other hand, is beautiful. The outer regions of the city are what you would expect, but much of the downtown area is beautifully painted and the cobblestone streets are as quaint as the are dangerous. This is what happens when you walk around in your flip-flops without looking at the ground. Ouch.

Cobblestones can be hard teachers

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Lanquin, Guatemala

The anonymity I enjoyed in San Ignacio and El Remate is gone. Again, we turistas have targets on us. The shuttle hasn’t even stopped and there are hands coming in every window holding adverts for the hostels and hotels in the area. So intent are they on putting their paper in your hands that we can’t even get out of the shuttle because they are crowding at the door. Angry, I begin yelling at them to move so we may disembark, and finally they cooperate.

I had decided to look into a place called Rabin Itzam. It isn’t more than 50 feet away so I stop to chat with one of the guys from the shuttle about his plans. He is heading to Las Marias, which is quite a popular place about 1 kilometer from the 8th wonder of the world that we are all here to see. While we are chatting, a man walks up to me and asks in English as clear as you might hear anywhere in California, “Do you know where you are staying?”

‘I had planned to go to Rabin Itzam.’

He says,”there is another place up there that costs the same and is a little different. Check it out if you like.” And with that he hands me a slip of paper and walks off.

Rabin Itzam is nice looking. The building is truly neat looking inside, but so are many of the buildings here. The beds are clean and hard as a rock. And with that deal breaker, I am out and on my way to the place on the paper in my pocket.

Once you actually enter Lanquin, if you take the first road on the right and walk about 30 meters, you will encounter on your right hand side a gate that is always open. There is a small courtyard and several doors bearing names of notable cities in Guatemala. Tikal. Antigua. Etc. Take the stairs down and you will find more doors, a couple hammocks, a clothesline, a kitchen, and a refrigerator. None of this is too out of the ordinary except that it is all available for use by the people who stay here.

Jimmy is the hotel owner, and his is not Guatemalan, but hails from Nicaragua. His English is so good because he used to live in the East bay not far from where I was born. We spend a few minutes laughing about our friends up in California and the quirks of Guatemala while I look at the beds. They are the most comfortable bed I have found since leaving the USA. I’m sold.

Every room is lockable from the inside or out. The shower is spacious and single temperature, and he seems to know the best way to go about everything. Jimmy’s wife, Francis, is solid gold. She knows that I am barely serviceable at speaking Spanish, but she never slows down or caters to my gringo-ness. She just keeps on talking to me full speed until I get my act together. It is some of the most consistent and honest Spanish practice I have received since I got here. She never loses patience when I can’t understand, she simply keeps finding new ways to say it until I get it. It is priceless and worth far more than the 35Q a night for the room. She is continuously striking up conversations about everything.

Addison is a likeable, if a little talkative, aspiring archeologist from Pennsylvania that I was speaking with on the ride to Lanquin. Walking around the streets, I take a detour on my way to the post office to go back to the main street and tell him about the place I found. He takes off to check it out and I go in search of the post office. What follows is a classic example of Latin American values.

I’m looking for the post office. Lanquin is composed of about ten streets, each of them roughly one or two city blocks in length. Perhaps it’s my fault for not remembering the word for post office or mail, but I am hoping that by waving postcards at someone and making up the words I can get pointed in the right direction. Not so much. The first person I ask tells me that it is back on the main street. I’m almost positive that isn’t true because Jimmy gave me the directions earlier in a very vague sense. Still I run down there to check. The building I was told had the mail houses simply an old woman who informs me that there is NO post office in the whole town. I know this isn’t true. Heading back up into the town, I stop to ask a couple people on the street on how to get there. They direct me to my hotel. Finally one of them comes up with the word “correo” which I am assuming means mail. Victory. Almost. He then informs me that it is 5 minutes after 5, not 5 minutes before 5 as I had though, and that the post office is surely closed. For those who care “la oficia postale”, post office in Italian, does NOT mean anything in Spanish.

I want to upload some pictures to the site, so head back over to where I was told the internet was available. The internet is available, surprisingly enough, dozens of miles from anything, in the middle of the jungle, some enterprising youth has rented a storage shed or oversized closet underneath one of the hotels, paid the deposit for a satellite link, and has a few broken down computers hooked up to it to surf the web. The latency is incredible (awful) and I’m losing packets everywhere, but I am connected. After a few minutes I manage to get connected and with some difficulty get the pictures uploaded. As such, you can go back to some of the older entries in this travelogue and take a look at some of the wackiness I was describing. Addison is here now and is arguing with the kid as to wether he should be charged for a half hour or less, since Addison has only been in attendance for about 20 minutes. I’ve been here for about 45 minutes. The kid charges Addison for a full hour, and charges me for an hour and a half. As I said, the kid is enterprising.

Wandering down the street discussing our recent robbery, Addison and I meet a lovely women from Great Britain and invite her to come have dinner with us. We are all chatting amiably in the restaurant, being congenially ignored by the serving staff for a while, when I finally get one of the women to come and take our orders. We’ve been here for about 30 minutes now, so we’re right on schedule. A camioneta rolls up outside and unloads about a dozen local men. It is dark outside, so I am assuming they are all coming back from working in the fields surrounding the town. Within about 30 seconds, there is hot tortilla on everyone of their tables.  Within about 5 minutes, they all have a hot plate of food accompanying it and coca cola in front of them.

A thin, somewhat unwashed looking white youth walks in the door and starts to take a seat at the table behind Addison. We three beckon him to sit at our table and chat with us a bit. He does so hesitantly and introduces himself as Connor. This is where things get awesome. Connor is an anthropology student who recently graduated in the States and came south with no itinerary. He’s been around for several months and is widely accepted as one of the locals. Except for when he sits at a table with a bunch of turistas. For now he is being ignored just as soundly as we are. This works out well for us, as Connor has the most interesting conversations topics I have heard in years. We are talking about the land owners of the pyramids, the local ddrug dealers, muggings, etc until the heavyweight comes on. He spent some time hanging around with an Incan priest in Mexico long enough to figure out why they were so into studying the heavens. They believed that we are currently orbiting the 5th sun to give life. Knowing that the sun would eventually die, they were searching the heavens for the 6th sun that would give life. Talk about forward thinking.

We spend hours discussing ancient civilizations and comparing their stories and technologies to our “advanced” civilization. Like how the Egyptians had the steam engine, and acid batteries. The Babylonians had stories of a city that was completely destroyed and all the inhabitants who survived died within weeks. We talk about Nietzsche and his demonic question. Imagine that you are at the end of your life and a Demon appears to you. The Demon tells you that you will be sent back through time and you will relive every second of your life all over again. The question being, will this be a great reward or a great misery? We talk of Buddhism and the karma and dharma. Reincarnation and pre-existence to this planet. Why did you choose to come into the world with these particular parents? What do you need to learn from them? What mission do you have to fulfill?

At the end of all this, I look at Connor and ask, “Connor, how did you get here?”

He looks at me, smiles and says, “I don’t know. I really don’t know anything.”

At the end of a night like this, a little quiet time goes a long way, so I excuse myself from the table to go and ponder my dharma. Connor writes down his email and we part ways. I’ll save you the weight of the rest of my thoughts that night.

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El Remate and Tikal, Guatemala

Guatemalan Rainstorms are no respecters of laundry. More on this later.

That lovely feeling of anonymity granted me by San Ignacio is gone. I sit back in the shade of the building and wait for Dom to emerge. About ten steps from the door entering our new territory we are accosted by a taxi driver asking us to ride with him.

Dom and I do enough deliberating that the driver lowers the price a bit and we go for it. He drives a new enough Montero and cruises us along with intermittent English and weird music. Dom tells me about a cave he went to in Guatemala where they sell candles and send you on your way. Listening to his description of swimming underneath a mountain in near total blackness, with just a candle held out of the water, pressing deeper through the caves on nothing but prayer is intoxicating.

An hour or so later, I am disembarking the vehicle in the middle of Guatemala at a jungle of a guest house where no one appears to be at home. Dom and I exchange our goodbyes and he leaves…  with my rechargeable batteries.

Dom, if you are reading this. I’ll be in Antigua soon, so you can come drop them off to me.

The hostel is fantastic looking, and ultra rustic. But with only marginal mosquito protection, I’m a little hesitant. I decide to take a walk in to town and see what else is going on. There is an American with a great looking dual sport 250 chilling on the side of the road. He is informative but by no means friendly, so I keep on rolling.

The next hotel is unattended, so I land at the Sun Breeze Inn. Hardly an Inn, really just a fantastic old house with a courtyard run by a splendid gentleman named Humberto, who has absolutely no interest in speaking English. Perfect.

I really feel like my Spanish speaking abilities are in full effect after I negotiate the room, a ride to Tikal, and some food recommendations nearby. The room has sufficient screens, a mosquito net, and a startling beautiful view of the lake behind the house.

My view in El Remate

Today is filled with motorcycles. After a good 2 kilometer walk, and a fantastic chat with an Australian woman named Moonwhisper, followed by an attempted chat with a Taiwanese co-op farmer, I find myself at a French restaurant that really looks like any thatched roof bamboo hut in central America. The fare is reasonably priced, but no one is in attendance. Just another American from Washington in the corner who tells me he just rode down here in his Kawi 650 dual sport. Yes. From Washington.

Eventually the owner shows up and brings me some delicious food for a price that would be criminal in the USA. Jay, the Kawasaki king pulls up at a table that would seat Genghis Khan’s hordes and orders his food as they are clearing my empty plates. We chat a bit about adventures, just enough to convince me I need to immediately buy a dual sport bike and go travel the world when I finally realize the sun is long down and there are no street lights in the middle of Guatemala. Being the Eagle Scout that I am, I am glad that I brought a flashlight. Flashlight or no, a horse snorting next to me in the dark scared the bejeebus out of me on the way back.

Fireflies are nearly great. In Guatemala they seem to have a marginally red tint to them. Orange perhaps. About a half kilometer from the Sun Breeze I become aware of lights in the fields. Making a possibly questionable call for the middle of the Guatemalan country street, I shut off my flashlight and just chill out for a while watching the fireflies. It’s nice, but I have to get up early, so it doesn’t last long.

New life lesson learned: always check the bed before paying the hotel. The bed I have chosen is little more than a boxspring. The other bed in the room is even more uncomfortable. So I fold the blanket up underneath me as best as I can and situate the mosquito net and go to sleep, such as it is.

I sleep fitfully. The time between 3:15 and 4:30 when I finally get up is characterized by an agonizing slowness and about 50 half awake looks at the clock. Yuck.

I make the bus on time and we pick up Jay on the way, among others. He doesn’t notice me, so I say nothing. My mission for Tikal is to see the sunrise from the top of Temple 4. As soon as they unload the bus, I dodge into the restaurant, grab a cup of coffee to go and take off for the temple. About half of the coffee spills before I am halfway to the ticket booth. The disparity between locals and tourists is spelled out in black and white on the board over the ticket booth. Nacionales: 50Q. Extrajanes: 150Q.

This is the same everywhere. At the very least I will pay 3x as much as a Guatemalan for anything. Ah well… such is the life of the invader.

Jay catches up to me at the map and we take off in search of Temple 4. We are walking nearly as fast as can still be considered walking. When we finally reach our destination, a walk of a couple kilometers, the climb is outrageous and we take it just as quickly. The heights are dizzying and my lack of oxygen from the climb makes me a little wary of being too near the edge at first.

There is fog everywhere. There is no sun. There is no sky. It is still brilliant.

Finally we descend and go off in search of new sights. The day is not simple. The park is huge and the trails are poorly marked, if at all. But the walks are rewarding and the temples are gargantuan. El Mundo Perdido; The Lost World. The Gran Plaza. Temples by every number.

Getting the lowdown on Tikal

Whenever I am under a tree it is raining on me. Whenever I emerge from under the canopy, there is no rain. The humidity and mists are so high, that it truly rains only in the forest; I suppose that’s why they call it a rainforest.

I sit on top of the Gran Plaza and write a couple postcards and think and write and think. It’s comforting to be inspired and surrounded by the work of dead people. Makes one think that I might be able to do something inspiring to others one day. Though, perhaps a little smaller.

Jay has taken off in search of something, so I wander and eventually find myself at temple 5. I’ve been looking for it for part of the day, since I didn’t buy the 25Q map they were selling at the door. Perhaps that has something to do with the horrible signage. Temple 5 is massive; it goes up and up and up and up. The climb is dauting, though luckily not nearly as fast as Temple 4, since some local guy is taking his 4 children (all under 10 years of age) up the Temple. Picture the Empire State Building, then add a wooden ladder that runs up the outside. That is basically what we are on.

The view from the top makes it all worth it. I’m amazed to see more people smoking at the top of the temple. I think forcing people to climb even one of these temples would be an effective quit smoking program. I need to leave. Lucky me, I get stuck behind the man and his children again on the way down.

Jay and I compare notes on the way back. He says a tour guide bribed a grounds worker and took him back to see some things that weren’t open to the public. I say I think that’s pretty cool, but probably wouldn’t attempt it myself since every park guard has an M-16 or a shotgun with him at all times. We make plans to meet up for dinner and talk about bikes and traveling and I get out at the hotel.

That’s it? You may ask… That’s all of the famed Tikal? Honestly, it is amazing and giant and formidable and inspiring and involves many kilometers of walking. But you really need to see it to believe it.

When I get back to the SunBreeze I still have a few hours before sundown and a ton of dirty clothes. Humberto, the owner is an agreeable sort, so I ask him.

‘Es possible puedo llavar mis ropas in el lago?’

“Claro, que si!”

“Donde puedo comprar jabon?”

‘En la tienda,’ he says pointing out the window at the store.

Next door, I can’t remember the word for soap again. This sort of thing happens a lot. The lady is helpful enough and soon I have an odd blue spheroid of soap and a bunch of dirty clothes and am on my way to the lake behind the hotel.

Washing Stones in the lake at El Remate

The local ladies think I am a trip. I ask them if it is ok if I do my laundry nearby on some washing and drying stones, and they agree mostly out of shock. I don’t think a lot of men do laundry here, and the town is pretty small. Despite El Remate’s proximity to something as famous as Tikal, it still has a wonderfully small town mentality. I sort of stare at some of the women as they do their washing to get a grip on what to do. The younger one asks her mom why I am staring at them. I can’t really hear her response, but it still makes me grin. I’m probably using too much soap. I just wash my board shorts while they are still on me and go for a swim to rinse them out. Laying the clothes out on the line, I put on what little dry clothing I have and don a wet shirt in hopes that it will dry out while I am going to get food.

There is a possible delicious Italian restaurant on the road out of town, which I may never know because it was twice as expensive as the French place down the road, so Jay and I head back over there to eat and drink and discuss the nature of our findings today; archeologists that we are.

We really know nothing, but Jay does know that the dots and slashes on the inscriptions are dates in Mayan. They are either 1’s or 5’s or 10’s according to Jay, as they used a base 20 counting system since they generally had 20 digits… fingers and toes.

It’s dark outside. Quite dark, and I forgot my flashlight at Sun Breeze. Looks like a dark walk tonight. Truly the only danger is stepping in some of the gifts from the horses that are scattered around the road.

None of my clothes are completely dry, but I think they will be by morning. That is, until I am awakened by the violent rapping of the rainstorm of the metal roof above. Oops.

Picture me in a pair of boxers, trying to fight my way out of a mosquito net, unbolt a foreign door and storm out into a cobblestone courtyard in a rainstorm and a completely black night to start fighting clothes pins for possession of my rapidly soaked clothing.

Adventures aside, the night doesn’t give me anything more restful than the night before. The shuttle to Lanquin comes at 8:30 in the morning. It’s about 7:30 so I have time. Just in case, a lesson learned hard on my flights in recent history, I check the ticket Humberto gave me two days ago.

8:10 departure.

Oh. Wet clothes. 30 minutes to pack and leave. Super. Somehow all my clothes are dry except for socks, a pair of shorts, 2 pair of boxers,  a shirt, and my board shorts. I can work with this. I put on a wet pair of boxers, wet shorts, and wet shirt, then I pack everything except for my drawstring backpack and the remaining wet clothes.

I make the shuttle and I am the first person on it. Taking advantage of nature mixed with the internal combustion engine, I open a window at the back of the shuttle and use the wind from the drive to Flores to dry the remaining boxers. We pick up some folks on the way. Again, the Guatemalan women have no idea what to do with me.

Luckily, by the time we get to Flores, the boxers are dry and all I have left are 6 socks, and my board shorts. Oh, and all the clothes I have on.

My shuttle-mates get to watch me drying my socks out the window for the remaining 6 hours to Coban. Our wild careening life threatening shuttle with my wet socks flying as a flag from the window. Heh.

Luckily, everything was dry by the time we got to Lanquin. I have no shame.

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San Ignacio, the Crystal Maiden, and Jack Sparrow

San Ignacio

Near the bus terminal in downtown San Ignacio is an Italian restaurant, amor mio, run by an Italian couple that serves hand-made pasta coupled with made from scratch sauces. They also serve Belikin beer cheaper than anywhere else in the city and a mean cup of coffee. They aren’t open for dinner yet, but one of the owners, Fabio, offers me a table to have a cold beer and sort things out, then leaves me completely alone.

When asked he tells me that there are numerous hotels, explains the street layout, and informs me that there is a hotel that was recently purchased by an American and offers free breakfast and wireless internet.

When I get to Rosa’s Hotel, the owner Tony is asking a bit more than I was looking to pay. However, on looking the room over, it is clean and has hot water. Go back and read that again.

Hot Water.

Just for the record. This is the first I have seen of this in Belize. So I splurge and spend the $25 for my own room, near the wireless hub and warm water with a private bathroom.  It’s almost like heaven. He even provides towels. After a warm shower I am feeling in quite a good mood, so I go back to Amor Mio for dinner.

Maltagliati. The bad cut. This is the name for the leftover pasta bits after an Italian woman has made handmade pasta, the cut are odd shaped, as it is leftover scraps. I know this because the chef knows this.

Maltagliati Bolognese is on the menu for dinner and it is all I could hope for and more. An extremely amiable Dutchman sits down across from me and we spend the evening discussing Amsterdam, windmills, traveling, Belize, etc.

For the third time today, I see a Harry Potter lookalike in an odd purple hat. Now, he is sitting across the restaurant eating dinner. Behind me I can hear an American Tourorist giving us all a bad name and giving Fabio a hard time. U.S.A. yeehaw!

The Dutchman and I eventually finish our repast and head out in search of entertainment. We play some pool and find a gigantic warehouse of a club cranking out techno music at all volumes without a single customer inside, so I give him a high five and head back to the hotel to go to sleep.

The following morning I’m walking over to meet my cave guide for ATM, the cave of the crystal maiden, when the Dutchman pops out of a restaurant called Flayva and yells Buenos dias. There are numerous characters in my caving group, perhaps not as strange as the crotch hunting german or Daniel telling us how simple brain surgery is. There is a quite agreeable boat captain from new England who is all about sustainable living, a lovely brother and sister pair from the U.S.A. and, not surprisingly, the weird purple hat guy.

Eric and Julie are the American siblings, Emil and Poncho are the guides, and Dom is the weird hat guy. Nearly half of the group are old enough or fat enough so as to be a liability for a trip such as this. At the last toilet stop before the cave no one exits the bus to use the restroom, but we take a break anyway. I use the time to get off the bus and walk to the closest farmhouse and talk to a pair of local high school kids about their life. Things are not so different here aside from the distance they travel to go to school. When not in school they inform me that they basically watch tv and hang out in the street. Also, they have a wild looking phone book.

Socks are important in Central America. Emil, our guide, tells Dom to bring his socks several times before he tells Dom to get his damn socks or he isn’t going into the cave.

The hike is marvelous, truly jungle terrain. The trees are like nothing I have seen. Emil points out chocolate trees and fruit that can be used to start a fire. The entrance to the cave does not disappoint. It’s like something that fell out of an Indiana Jones movie. It is massive, and we enter swimming. Emil confides in us that it is good that our half of the group is all young and relatively fit so we can take the fun and more challenging routes through the cave. We see see plants, bats, crickets, and fish in the cave. Emil does his best to explain the cave formations, but I’m hardly a geologist and I don’t really care.

I am the only one that notices that Emil is not wearing socks. When we are asked to remove our shoes and walk only in our socks through the sacrificial areas littered with skeletons and broken pottery, I ask him why he is barefoot. His answer is what I suspected, but is still a trip to hear.

“I am a Catholic,” he prefaces, “I believe in God. However, these are the gods of my grandmother; old Gods. The spirits here are both benevolent and malevolent. When I walk here, I can feel them. I don’t want you to be affected by them. It would be like… bad karma.”

Shocking.

Aside from that little tidbit, he imparts some interesting statistics. 9/10 of the Mayan people died around 1500 from numerous causes. That equates to about 1/5th of the world’s population at that time; comparable to 1.2 million people today.

The bones are cool, and the rock formations are simply staggering. I imagine myself as a Mayan priest, climbing a half mile underground by torchlight, smoking a bunch of weed and eating mushrooms. This must have been one hell of a religious experience for them.

Steeeeve

On the trip out of the cave, Dom is in front of me a few feet. He turns a corner, then comes right back. Emil, the guide is gone. We are a half mile underground in a cave with numerous routes that may or may not lead out. Dom starts to panic, but I tell him to keep going forward and start leading the way.

Once Emil sees that his group has a new leader and is leaving without him, he materializes from a hole in the wall. His joke didn’t go quite the way he had planned. Nor is it for Dom. He forgot his helmet.

Back on the bus, the siblings, Dom, and I make plans to meet up later for the Superbowl… in Belize.

Unfortunately, no one but me shows up at the proposed time and location. So , I order a bucket of beers, anticipating their arrival, and a big steak dinner because I am already hungry. No one shows. I go for the backup plan in the third quarter; Faya Wata.

Everyone is there. They went to my hotel loking for me after everyone was ridiculously delayed and when I was gone, they went to plan B. Dom definitely comes up with the high card for wild phrases for the evening.

“There is a town in Bolivia where you can buy dynamite, as much as you like. I tell you this as a friend… don’t try to cross the border with it. As you are well aware… I forget things.” ~ Dom on south American jails.

“It sounds like Italian, plus chicken speak. Only, Imagine the chickens are speaking Spanish.” ~ Dom on Argentine Spanish.

“I am shat.” ~ Dom on… well… Dom.

The night ends well and late. I fall asleep on my bed, surrounded by my belongings such as they might be, fully clothed.

3 a.m.

I am jolted awake by my hotel room door crashing open and a mildly attractive latina walking in and giving me the ‘oops’ look. I return her startled stare, as it would be impolite to do otherwise, and she apologizes in English and walks out. I lock the door and go back to sleep.

7 a.m.

I am jolted awake by knocks on the door. Luckily, it is just Harry Potter. I mean Dom. Apparently, I told him to meet me at 7 so we could see Xunantunich. Oh. I remember. We also planned to see Cahal Pech and then go to Guatemala. I’m slow getting packed.
By 10 a.m. we are fed, faxed, and on a bus for Xunantunich. Much the same drill, enter the pass and pay once it is on the way. For $1.50 Belize we get a ride to a dock at a river and a sign saying we are only 1 mile from our goal, but that is not the story here. The story lies in the miles between the city center and Cahal Pech. The story is Jack Sparrow.

In my short time in Central America I have learned that one can meet some gnarly individuals on the bus. None of my experience has prepared me for this.  Quite possible the most drunk bipedal entity I have ever personally witnessed clambers about our modified schoolbus. Noone says a word, no one even acknowledges the mangle-toothed, snaggle-toothed, rum-bedraggled bastard that stumble-swaggers down the aisle of the bus. There are empty seats all over the place and, in fact, the entire rear half of the bus from Dom back is empty. Passing all the the empty seats before and eschewing the empty area behind, our horrible angel of the Belizean apocalypse swings squarely in to the seat next to Dom. There is a small fortune of gold in his mouth and a large meals worth of food stuck between his teeth.

“hawashacvaggaajabaasa!”

Yup, that’s pretty much it.

The next 20 minutes I will always remember as the day that I almost caught Jack Sparrow. Between the rum and peanuts on his breath, any word he may have been trying to say in English was immediately lost. Spanish was barely  any better.

Suddenly, our new pilgrim yells out, “Yack Sparrow!!!”

And now I see it. The gold teeth. The long straggly hair. The dark circles under the eyes, and god forbid, the pristine hat he suddenly materializes from the bag in his lap. Dom and I are quite literally in the presence of the great Belizean Jack Sparrow.

Jack never says a single usable word to me but is continually giving me the fist bump to soften the blows of his rum addled breath. Dom is clearly uncomfortable and I am milking it for all it’s worth. Asking him every question I can think of in Spanish, then finally falling back to English. Jack probably wouldn’t notice if I were speaking Aramaic.

Soon, Jack has shown us the houses where his grandmother lives, and the house he shares with his mother and father. Next comes the holy grail.

“tengawaokwatrouparawaeionad;klhjdsfsdsdrhietminnbwharblegarble!”

Yes, you heard it here first. Jack Sparrow has four rooms for rent and he would like us to come stay with him. As a gesture of his undying friendship he offers us the peanuts from his pocket. One of them is clearly moldy.

I’m whipping Jack into a frenzy by this point and he is thrilled, going so far as to give me his number. And here it is for you gentle folk. The telephone number of Jack Sparrow. Though if he is not home, remember to leave a message with his parents, Jesus and Amelia.

501-824-4172

God help me. From the lips of that Unholy Saint to the screen of your computer comes the key to greatness. What you choose to do with it is up to you.

Xunantunich was awesome.The mile walk uphill was a bit much, but the ferryman let Dom and I manejar el pollo (crank the wheel to take the ferry across the river) for a small fee. The ruins:  Truly amazing. When we weren’t discussing the merits of just going back to town and staying with Jack Sparrow to see what happens next, we were agog with the impressive sight before us. This is also the first time I have seen park guides armed with M-16s and 12 gauge shotguns.

The walk down the hill was slightly easier. Whistling is widely accepted as a form of communication in Belize. So we whistle to the ferryman and he returns to pick us up and cart us across, happily informing us that the twice-hourly bus left 5 minutes ago. Looks like it’s time to thumb it.

After about 12 unsuccesful attempts at hitchhiking back into san Ignacio, a battered old Nissan wheels to a stop. The driver is Guatemalan and speaks no English, nor apparently do any of the people in the car with him. Dom and I make full capacity and we roll on through the vast new frontier of Bilingual hitchhiking. The driver deposits the first guy at the edge of town, making the backseat much larger and loosening the tongue of the striking looking young woman in the front seat. Within seconds, Dom, the Australian, and this young girl are discussing Visa laws for her to come to Australia. Unfortunately for Dom, we are getting out of the cab before she asks him to marry her.

Dom manages to negotiate a taxi to take us directly to the border of Guatemala for $15 BZD while I grab my bag from Rosa’s hotel and we are off on the next grand adventure, discussing the merits of swinging by Jack Sparrow’s place to bring him with us.
Ultimately, it is decided that Jack will have to wait. As is customary for Belize, we are descended upon by locals before we are even out of the taxi. I swap all my paper BZD, over to Guatemalan Quetzales save the $37.50 BZD needed to pay the border crossing to Guatemala.

The silent feeling of victory and accomplishment that accompanies a new unique stamp in my passport is indescribable. Guatemala is mine.