I'm sitting on a beach of white sand. If I stand and begin to walk down the beach, in two and a half hours I will once again find myself at this spot.
This thought astounds me - but it's too hot to test it out. I dare not leave the square patch of shade the thatched umbrella above my head casts on the sand. I reposition myself throughout the day to remain under its protection. Below Fiji's sun, my skin has turned a shade of brown I now longer recognize as my own, and in an effort to both avoid the disgustingly painful looking skin blisters the white tourist seem to develop in hours and respect the local culture, I - like native Fijians - now swim fully clothed.
Mana island in one of the larger islands of Fiji's Mamanuca Island Group and a 90 minute boat ride from Nadi. It supports a village, a resort, two backpacker hostels, a church, and the set of the first Survivor. I went to see it Tuesday, my first full day, and found it eerie and irresponsible.
The tribal council "temple" stands abandoned and someone has decapitated one of the polystyrene statues that guard the entrance. A noose hangs from the base of her neck. The building, which is obviously fake, looks spectacular on my camera and made me remember with sadness the deception inherent in every television program.
The beach, however, is beautiful and has no need for alteration to look untouched and isolated, something to be "survived". From brochures in my hostel, I've learned that one can also visit the island where Tom Hanks filmed Castaway and the one on which the Robinson Crusoe stayed.
I arrived on Monday, December 22nd, and will stay until the 27th, tomorrow. Yesterday, Christmas Day, I stepped onto the beach in front of the hostel and saw a fish so huge I mistook it for the large pig the villagers had bathed with flip flops at high tide Christmas Eve anchored to shore with a rope tied round its tail. I should have known better about the pig - its dying squeals woke me and everyone else in the dormitory just after sunrise that morning. We all lay there quiet, praying simultaneously that it would stop, but for the pig's sake that it wouldn't. It did, and I fell mournfully back to sleep in the dead quiet.
We ate the fish for Christmas dinner. Suli stood behind the table and carved, serving us light or dark meat to preference and then drenching our selection with coconut milk curry. It was delicious. Christmas seemed doubly long, however, as Fiji is four hours behind, but a day ahead of the time in Washington. Crazy right? I called by family at 7am the day after Christmas and they had just finished opening their presents Christmas morning.
The day before Christmas, I snorkeled for the second time in my life. The first time had been the day before with Adam from Alaska oddly enough just off the hostel's shore.
The Fiji islands are encircled by coral reefs that break the Pacific waves and allow the water that reaches the sand to stretch seemingly unbroken toward the horizon and perfectly mirror the sky in the absence of wind.
Adam and I swam to the edge of Mana's innermost reef and spent hours gazing face down at the world below. I was in search of live coral - rare - which I eventually spotted, purple and beautiful. At one point Adam dove and returned holding a starfish that he handed me with pride. I took it with both hands and we bobbed differing on whether it was blue or purple. I say brilliant purple, but the truth as usually lies somewhere in the middle. I let it go and we watched it drift back down to the sea floor where it landed belly up. Adam dove to right it, for which I was glad - after our debate over its color identity, I felt it only right to leave the starfish as unconfused as possible.
My second snorkel outing was a boat trip to sandbank island the following morning. Our guide, Sam, spearfished without success apart from the conch that spit and hissed angrily at him when he finally managed to get it ashore.
Not much live coral there either, and while snorkeling I thought worriedly about how hot the water felt until some new devastatingly beautiful fish passed under me: small schools of brilliant blue, forearm-length puffer fish, stripped parrot fish, and dozens more I can't adequately describe.
Today is Friday, my last full day. It's hot. Throughout the village, families lie dozing together on woven mats full from yesterday's feasting. The tourist lie equally full on towels and sarongs along the beach. By the head of my beach towel lie Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science and The War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts both of which I would highly recommend to the strong-stomached, but for varying reasons. I have no plans but to peruse their pages for the remainder of the day.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Bula!
Bula - Hello! - from Fiji! I made it. After a total of 21 flight ours, two layovers, and more complimentary beverages than I can count, I landed in Nadi, Fiji at 6:07 am the morning of December 17th.
I then proceeded to spend two days sleeping and lounging by the hostel pool. But from the little time that my eyes have spent open, I have observed a beautiful brown-skinned people who smile friendily at you when you pass, men who wear skirts to work and play rugby afterwards, and flowers that grow everywhere - yellow, purple, red, and white - before the green hills slide into the sea. I like it here very much.
I then proceeded to spend two days sleeping and lounging by the hostel pool. But from the little time that my eyes have spent open, I have observed a beautiful brown-skinned people who smile friendily at you when you pass, men who wear skirts to work and play rugby afterwards, and flowers that grow everywhere - yellow, purple, red, and white - before the green hills slide into the sea. I like it here very much.
Buenos Aires
I spent four days in Buenos Aires, and though the city of 13 million buzzes incessantly with human activity, my time there was rather tranquil. I stayed in the apartment of Daniel and Danielle, Brazilians here from Rio while Danielle pursues a masters degree in Education at the University of Buenos Aires. I slept in their spare room and for four days tagged along with them in the easy flow of domestic life. On Friday we attended a Servas gathering, Saturday we visited the Chinese quarter, and Sunday we spent at a birthday party. Though I did touristy things - visited Evita's grave in Cementerio de la Recoleta, saw the mothers march in Plaza de Mayo, shopped in San Telmo's Antiques Fair Sunday morning - my fondest memories of Buenos Aires are the hours we spent around their kitchen table having tea and toast or listening to Daniel play Samba on his guitar.
I left Monday morning, and was rather sad that our time together had ended - it was in their company that I tried Mate for the first time, ate Dulce de leche in all its various forms, and had Havanna's famous alfajores Saturday evening before getting on the subway and heading for home. Though Danielle worried that they will have forever confused my perception of Argentina as a place where people speak Portuguese and play, dance, and sing Samba - Brazilian attributes, not Argentinian - I believe I will be able to remember their distinctions. I will, however, forever think of them - the Brazilian couple who made my stay so sweet - when I think of Argentina.
I left Monday morning, and was rather sad that our time together had ended - it was in their company that I tried Mate for the first time, ate Dulce de leche in all its various forms, and had Havanna's famous alfajores Saturday evening before getting on the subway and heading for home. Though Danielle worried that they will have forever confused my perception of Argentina as a place where people speak Portuguese and play, dance, and sing Samba - Brazilian attributes, not Argentinian - I believe I will be able to remember their distinctions. I will, however, forever think of them - the Brazilian couple who made my stay so sweet - when I think of Argentina.
Climate Change
It's the conversations I remember most. For all my talk of the value of human interaction, this observation still half surprises me. I thought when I sat down to write of climate change images of our natural environment would spring to mind - the supremacy of the Amazon, the harshness of the Pantanal, Glacier Moreno glistening in the summer sun. But it's people I see, in living rooms around the world speaking in their varying accents of our common problem.
The first is Odin, as it should be. Odin with his curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, my last day at Huehuecoyotl. He pulled me into his kitchen, sat me down, and drew me a diagram. It went like this: Under the heading Global Climate Change, a column read Do We Take Action? Yes, No, and a row read Is it Happening? Yes, No. Where Yes and Yes met Odin wrote, Economic Depression as money is rerouted to build a “green” economy. He also wrote this where Yes - We Take Action, and No - It Isn't Happening met. Where No - We Don't Take Action, and Yes - It Is Happening came together Odin scribbled Economic Depression as a result of Ecological Redistribution, Political Disaster, and World Health Crisis... THE END. And finally, where No meets No he put, All's Good.
Dramatically straightforward, I'll admit but he's got a point. Seeing as how the All's Good option is pretty much out, no matter our choice we're headed for an economic hit. We may as well act now, he said. Then he dashed off to finish the electrolysis prototype he would unveil later that evening. It was amazingly simple - air, electricity, water, and some baking soda- and poof, hydrogen gas. These are the kinds of tools we need, Odin said his eyes shining, things to fit specific needs. Rainy season Mexico isn't short on water or the hydroelectricity it produces - why not then make our own gas as well? I can see him so clearly. Just think of the possibilities!
Then there's Sofia Montes of Guatemala. We sat at the dinner table, after a 10pm meal of fried plantains, pureed black beans, and scrambled eggs talking about her work. She's an Environmental Consultant for local businesses.When a business wants to open up, she evaluates their environmental impact and drafts a report of suggestions as to how these impacts might be reduced. She says her line of work is rare in a country who's Ministry of the Environment is charged with the task of enforcing Guatemala's single restriction on solid waste - there are no laws governing air emissions, which explains the cloud of black that chicken buses leave behind. Sofia spoke with disappointment of the US's lack of involvement in international climate legislation. We are a small country, she said, we will sign the legislation that's put to us, but we know that unless the US acts, we will pay the price.
She explained that Guatemala's population lives mainly on the Pacific coast or in the country's mountainous interior. The homes on the hills - like their own, which juts out of a forested rocky slope with the support of exterior pillars - will face serious damage from the increased rainfall stronger Caribbean storms bring, while those on the coast will suffer from the rising sea. Unlike Americans, Guatemalans are not accustomed to moving - nor do they have the means to. She did, however, appreciate Mr. Gore's film.
Of all the "living rooms" Rancho Mastatal's was prettiest, though the conversations were a bit deceptive in terms of obtaining a Costa Rican opinion on climate change, as the founders are Americans. So too were the ones held around the table at the Osa Sea Turtle Conservation Project. Of the seven plus of us, only one was actually from Costa Rica, and as he spoke no English and everybody else did, he didn't say much. Poor Lepo. The science, however, was pretty straightforward: Turtles need beach to lay their eggs on - as sea levels rise they will have fewer places to go; Temperature plays a large role in the life of a hatchling - it determines its gender, length of incubation, and time of emergence. A global change of temperature means trouble for sea turtles, not to mention its effect on ocean currents; And - not exactly related to climate change, but something interesting to know - nesting sea turtles face away from the brightest horizon when laying their eggs. This is supposed to be the sea, but on more developed beaches turtles can become so disoriented by the electric lights that they lay their nests facing the wrong direction. That's not good.
It was in Brazil that I met my first climate change skeptic. Luiz, though a trained engineer, now works in wood. Selling wood -beautiful wood, unlike any I've ever seen before. It comes from the Amazon. Brazilians possess a different view of the Amazon than the rest of the world. Simply put, it's theirs. The vast expanse of forest - the one that takes nine days to cross via boat - is their forest. Theirs to cut down, throw garbage in, pollute... Its not the Amazon - the jungle of a thousand childhood imaginings full of exotic birds and gigantic spiders. It's the woods in their backyard. Brazil has the right to do what it wants with it. He's right. But so are we. Uhhhh... why is this so hard?
Alex would agree with me. Alex was my favorite guide while on my Ecological Expedition in the Pantanal. When asked about climate change, Alex pointed to the sky. The end of November, and still no rain. We used to be able to predict their coming, not anymore. In the background,a news story reported the death of 46 people in the southern part of Brazil, due to flash flooding. Now, we hear of things like this, Alex said.
My last notable climate conversation happened rather unexpectedly. I was sitting of the shore of Lago Argentino watching flamingos when a Frenchman came tromping out of the underbrush. What happened next is a very amusing story, but sufficient to say with in ten minutes the flamingos had gone and we were left discussing the fate of the world. Interestingly enough he sees the economic depression the world now faces as America's chance to retool itself and begin building an automobile industry that isn't centered around consuming 25% of the world's oil. The comment reminded me of Odin's graph and I couldn't help smiling at him and saying, Well, we may as well act now. It's going to hurt economically no matter what.
The first is Odin, as it should be. Odin with his curly brown hair and bright blue eyes, my last day at Huehuecoyotl. He pulled me into his kitchen, sat me down, and drew me a diagram. It went like this: Under the heading Global Climate Change, a column read Do We Take Action? Yes, No, and a row read Is it Happening? Yes, No. Where Yes and Yes met Odin wrote, Economic Depression as money is rerouted to build a “green” economy. He also wrote this where Yes - We Take Action, and No - It Isn't Happening met. Where No - We Don't Take Action, and Yes - It Is Happening came together Odin scribbled Economic Depression as a result of Ecological Redistribution, Political Disaster, and World Health Crisis... THE END. And finally, where No meets No he put, All's Good.
Dramatically straightforward, I'll admit but he's got a point. Seeing as how the All's Good option is pretty much out, no matter our choice we're headed for an economic hit. We may as well act now, he said. Then he dashed off to finish the electrolysis prototype he would unveil later that evening. It was amazingly simple - air, electricity, water, and some baking soda- and poof, hydrogen gas. These are the kinds of tools we need, Odin said his eyes shining, things to fit specific needs. Rainy season Mexico isn't short on water or the hydroelectricity it produces - why not then make our own gas as well? I can see him so clearly. Just think of the possibilities!
Then there's Sofia Montes of Guatemala. We sat at the dinner table, after a 10pm meal of fried plantains, pureed black beans, and scrambled eggs talking about her work. She's an Environmental Consultant for local businesses.When a business wants to open up, she evaluates their environmental impact and drafts a report of suggestions as to how these impacts might be reduced. She says her line of work is rare in a country who's Ministry of the Environment is charged with the task of enforcing Guatemala's single restriction on solid waste - there are no laws governing air emissions, which explains the cloud of black that chicken buses leave behind. Sofia spoke with disappointment of the US's lack of involvement in international climate legislation. We are a small country, she said, we will sign the legislation that's put to us, but we know that unless the US acts, we will pay the price.
She explained that Guatemala's population lives mainly on the Pacific coast or in the country's mountainous interior. The homes on the hills - like their own, which juts out of a forested rocky slope with the support of exterior pillars - will face serious damage from the increased rainfall stronger Caribbean storms bring, while those on the coast will suffer from the rising sea. Unlike Americans, Guatemalans are not accustomed to moving - nor do they have the means to. She did, however, appreciate Mr. Gore's film.
Of all the "living rooms" Rancho Mastatal's was prettiest, though the conversations were a bit deceptive in terms of obtaining a Costa Rican opinion on climate change, as the founders are Americans. So too were the ones held around the table at the Osa Sea Turtle Conservation Project. Of the seven plus of us, only one was actually from Costa Rica, and as he spoke no English and everybody else did, he didn't say much. Poor Lepo. The science, however, was pretty straightforward: Turtles need beach to lay their eggs on - as sea levels rise they will have fewer places to go; Temperature plays a large role in the life of a hatchling - it determines its gender, length of incubation, and time of emergence. A global change of temperature means trouble for sea turtles, not to mention its effect on ocean currents; And - not exactly related to climate change, but something interesting to know - nesting sea turtles face away from the brightest horizon when laying their eggs. This is supposed to be the sea, but on more developed beaches turtles can become so disoriented by the electric lights that they lay their nests facing the wrong direction. That's not good.
It was in Brazil that I met my first climate change skeptic. Luiz, though a trained engineer, now works in wood. Selling wood -beautiful wood, unlike any I've ever seen before. It comes from the Amazon. Brazilians possess a different view of the Amazon than the rest of the world. Simply put, it's theirs. The vast expanse of forest - the one that takes nine days to cross via boat - is their forest. Theirs to cut down, throw garbage in, pollute... Its not the Amazon - the jungle of a thousand childhood imaginings full of exotic birds and gigantic spiders. It's the woods in their backyard. Brazil has the right to do what it wants with it. He's right. But so are we. Uhhhh... why is this so hard?
Alex would agree with me. Alex was my favorite guide while on my Ecological Expedition in the Pantanal. When asked about climate change, Alex pointed to the sky. The end of November, and still no rain. We used to be able to predict their coming, not anymore. In the background,a news story reported the death of 46 people in the southern part of Brazil, due to flash flooding. Now, we hear of things like this, Alex said.
My last notable climate conversation happened rather unexpectedly. I was sitting of the shore of Lago Argentino watching flamingos when a Frenchman came tromping out of the underbrush. What happened next is a very amusing story, but sufficient to say with in ten minutes the flamingos had gone and we were left discussing the fate of the world. Interestingly enough he sees the economic depression the world now faces as America's chance to retool itself and begin building an automobile industry that isn't centered around consuming 25% of the world's oil. The comment reminded me of Odin's graph and I couldn't help smiling at him and saying, Well, we may as well act now. It's going to hurt economically no matter what.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Glacier Perito Moreno
Two days ago now, I went to see Glacier Perito Moreno the most spectacular - and, admittedly, the most easily accessible - glacier of Argentina's Parque Nacional los Glaciers.
Getting Here: The bus trip from Bariloche was, well... long. South of Argentina's shimmering forested lake district the landscape gives way to Patagonia, which sheltered by the Andes and their rain-shadow to the east stretches out flat, dry, and unbelievably wind-whipped. Though I did occasionally spy a family of Guanaco llamas or a pair of rheas (a type of "Old World ostrich" to quote my guidebook), I spent the majority of the trip gazing maddeningly at what seemed to be the same farm house in the distance.
The afternoon of day two, in an attempt to fix the bus lavatory door, the driver accidentally yanked the handle clean off. Thus, for the remainder of the day we stopped every few hours - as that was the interval at which we encountered vegetation large enough to do ones business behind - for bathroom breaks. "Damas a la izquierda, hombres a la derecha," the driver would say standing arms outstretched in the middle of the road. We forgave him though, when just before sunset he slammed on the breaks, which wasn't that jarring considering that buses can only travel 20 km/hr on the unpaved road that is RT 40, leaped from the bus, and caught an armadillo by the tail. He further redeemed himself by stopping at regular intervals to let us take proper photos of the sunset. I didn't realized how much I missed the display of color and light the sun puts on - around the equator it is always in such a hurry.
I arrived here, a town called El Calafate that serves as the gateway to the parks southern sector, on the morning of Sunday, December 7th - day 3, bus wise. Though surrounded by snow capped mountains, El Calaftae sits on Patagonian sand, meaning that from anywhere in town - save the tree lined center - you can see and walk in a straight path to anywhere else. It does, however, sit on the edge of mineral rich Lago Argentino where flamingos stand one-legged in the baby blue water.
To get to Glacier Perito Moreno one must take a bus from El Calafates station one and a half hours toward the mountains. And there it is - sliding out from its mountainous birthplace, a sheet of ice that rises over 50 meters above the water in jagged teeth a thousand shades of blue. It crackles and speaks under the heat of the summer sun, and once let a piece of ice the size of a condominium come crashing down off its front face into the lake.
In environmental studies classes, they lecture of melting glaciers and sea level rise. Ive always found that difficult to fathom - the sea is a big place. But so is this, this one glacier in Argentina, not Greenland or Antarctica or anywhere "important" like that.
Speaking of climate change, I feel its time for me to do some sharing. This afternoon, I fly to Buenos Aires, and from there, on the 15th of December, to Fiji, meaning that one major portion of my journey is about to conclude. In my next blog, I shall attempt to put to words some of my "findings" on the subject, though I must warn you they are far from conclusions.
Getting Here: The bus trip from Bariloche was, well... long. South of Argentina's shimmering forested lake district the landscape gives way to Patagonia, which sheltered by the Andes and their rain-shadow to the east stretches out flat, dry, and unbelievably wind-whipped. Though I did occasionally spy a family of Guanaco llamas or a pair of rheas (a type of "Old World ostrich" to quote my guidebook), I spent the majority of the trip gazing maddeningly at what seemed to be the same farm house in the distance.
The afternoon of day two, in an attempt to fix the bus lavatory door, the driver accidentally yanked the handle clean off. Thus, for the remainder of the day we stopped every few hours - as that was the interval at which we encountered vegetation large enough to do ones business behind - for bathroom breaks. "Damas a la izquierda, hombres a la derecha," the driver would say standing arms outstretched in the middle of the road. We forgave him though, when just before sunset he slammed on the breaks, which wasn't that jarring considering that buses can only travel 20 km/hr on the unpaved road that is RT 40, leaped from the bus, and caught an armadillo by the tail. He further redeemed himself by stopping at regular intervals to let us take proper photos of the sunset. I didn't realized how much I missed the display of color and light the sun puts on - around the equator it is always in such a hurry.
I arrived here, a town called El Calafate that serves as the gateway to the parks southern sector, on the morning of Sunday, December 7th - day 3, bus wise. Though surrounded by snow capped mountains, El Calaftae sits on Patagonian sand, meaning that from anywhere in town - save the tree lined center - you can see and walk in a straight path to anywhere else. It does, however, sit on the edge of mineral rich Lago Argentino where flamingos stand one-legged in the baby blue water.
To get to Glacier Perito Moreno one must take a bus from El Calafates station one and a half hours toward the mountains. And there it is - sliding out from its mountainous birthplace, a sheet of ice that rises over 50 meters above the water in jagged teeth a thousand shades of blue. It crackles and speaks under the heat of the summer sun, and once let a piece of ice the size of a condominium come crashing down off its front face into the lake.
In environmental studies classes, they lecture of melting glaciers and sea level rise. Ive always found that difficult to fathom - the sea is a big place. But so is this, this one glacier in Argentina, not Greenland or Antarctica or anywhere "important" like that.
Speaking of climate change, I feel its time for me to do some sharing. This afternoon, I fly to Buenos Aires, and from there, on the 15th of December, to Fiji, meaning that one major portion of my journey is about to conclude. In my next blog, I shall attempt to put to words some of my "findings" on the subject, though I must warn you they are far from conclusions.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Bariloche
I have a new favorite word - pancho. I plan to say it whenever possible for the remainder of my time in Argentina for thus far its speaking has resulted in me eating a freshly barbecued sausage slit down the middle and served in a warm bun with salsa picante, all for four pesos or slightly more than one US dollar.
I'm in Bariloche, the principal city of Argentina's Lake District, a region I have named the Pacific Northwests alter ego as it possesses the same kind of natural beauty, racial make up, and friendly laid back feel, but who's people speak Spanish rather than English, drink mate through silver straws rather than Starbucks, and who gather to watch futbol, not football.
The city itself is gorgeous and stretches for over 20 kilometers along a turquoise lake, which though it looks it is not too cold to swim in. Along its central shopping street over a dozen stores sell the chocolates the city is famous for (after limited research, my favorite is the pistachio cream) and in its Parque Central tourists pose for pictures with message carrying St. Bernards. Outside of town, log cabins and alpine architecture line the coniferous waterfront.
I arrived Monday, and Tuesday took the ski lift to the top of Cerro Campanario to get a better look, but after only one drawing left feeling slightly homesick and confused - the drawing rather closely resembled one done near Mt. St. Helens, but in it the trees have new pine cones and the peaks have little snow through the date reads December. Don't pity me - I drown my cares in chocolate ice cream and headed for the beach.
I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early for El Calafates Parque los Glaciers - where the water is too cold to swim. The venture takes two days, and promises an unforgettable better look at the Northwests alter ego, though less chocolate and no beach time. Adios!
I'm in Bariloche, the principal city of Argentina's Lake District, a region I have named the Pacific Northwests alter ego as it possesses the same kind of natural beauty, racial make up, and friendly laid back feel, but who's people speak Spanish rather than English, drink mate through silver straws rather than Starbucks, and who gather to watch futbol, not football.
The city itself is gorgeous and stretches for over 20 kilometers along a turquoise lake, which though it looks it is not too cold to swim in. Along its central shopping street over a dozen stores sell the chocolates the city is famous for (after limited research, my favorite is the pistachio cream) and in its Parque Central tourists pose for pictures with message carrying St. Bernards. Outside of town, log cabins and alpine architecture line the coniferous waterfront.
I arrived Monday, and Tuesday took the ski lift to the top of Cerro Campanario to get a better look, but after only one drawing left feeling slightly homesick and confused - the drawing rather closely resembled one done near Mt. St. Helens, but in it the trees have new pine cones and the peaks have little snow through the date reads December. Don't pity me - I drown my cares in chocolate ice cream and headed for the beach.
I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early for El Calafates Parque los Glaciers - where the water is too cold to swim. The venture takes two days, and promises an unforgettable better look at the Northwests alter ego, though less chocolate and no beach time. Adios!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Buses
Ive travelled from Mexico to Argentina nearly exclusively by bus, and I have some observations to share.
As a general rule, the farther south you travel, the better buses become. As the miles from the United States border grow, buses slowly begin to acquire things - like air conditioning, lavatories, and televisions.
There are of course exceptions to this rule - the most blatant being the Chicken Buses of Guatemala. Though they definitely have all the buses of Central and South America on affordability and character, sitting three plus to a seat for four hours makes them begin to lose their charm and subsequently their superiority to the buses of Mexico.
The introduction of the fold down leg rest - an apparatus I had never seen before - places South American buses firmly ahead of all Central American buses. That and the advent of stopping for meals at buffets.
Thanksgiving day, however, Argentinian buses placed themselves soundly above all others in my opinion. First off, the buses have two stories and seat the majority of the clientele on the top floor, thereby eliminating the primary downside to the bus lavatory - the smell. Secondly, the seats are not regular seats. These seats are the difference in width between a coach seat and a business class seat on an airplane. And finally, the piece de resistance, on Argentinean buses they serve food. Actual, ham and cheese sandwiches food with the beverage of your choice.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
Tonight, I'm taking the night bus from Mendoza to Bariloche and I'm rather looking forward to it.
As a general rule, the farther south you travel, the better buses become. As the miles from the United States border grow, buses slowly begin to acquire things - like air conditioning, lavatories, and televisions.
There are of course exceptions to this rule - the most blatant being the Chicken Buses of Guatemala. Though they definitely have all the buses of Central and South America on affordability and character, sitting three plus to a seat for four hours makes them begin to lose their charm and subsequently their superiority to the buses of Mexico.
The introduction of the fold down leg rest - an apparatus I had never seen before - places South American buses firmly ahead of all Central American buses. That and the advent of stopping for meals at buffets.
Thanksgiving day, however, Argentinian buses placed themselves soundly above all others in my opinion. First off, the buses have two stories and seat the majority of the clientele on the top floor, thereby eliminating the primary downside to the bus lavatory - the smell. Secondly, the seats are not regular seats. These seats are the difference in width between a coach seat and a business class seat on an airplane. And finally, the piece de resistance, on Argentinean buses they serve food. Actual, ham and cheese sandwiches food with the beverage of your choice.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
Tonight, I'm taking the night bus from Mendoza to Bariloche and I'm rather looking forward to it.
The Pantanal
Thursday afternoon, before I climbed off the truck I knew this was going to be good.
There are lots of things I didn't know. The Pantanal is the worlds largest wetland. It covers Brazil's southwestern corner along the borders of Bolivia and Paraguay and provides a habitat for the greatest concentration of animals in the Western Hemisphere. Didn't know that.
Before I left the States, I had read about the Pantanal in guidebooks, and whereas the guidebooks sections on the Brazilian Amazon spoke mostly of the insects on could see in the jungle, the sections on the Pantanal featured large photographs of mammals and birds. So, when deciding where to invest my time in the wilderness I found the choice remarkably easy - mammals and birds over insects any day.
When I arrived in Campo Grande, I signed up for a four day Pantanal trekking tour with a company called Ecological Expeditions. They promised, among other things, horseback riding and piranha fishing, three hot meals a day, and a discount for "roughing it" with their camping option - meaning agreeing to sleep in a hammock rather than a bed.
Thursday morning, they loaded us into a van. When it stopped - and I woke up - the landscape had changed. The land was flat, the sky bright blue, and the red soil radiated heat. That's when we got on the truck and started down a dirt road that was arrow straight for as far as I could see. One of our guides said the truck drive would take a couple of hours. We sat on a bench in the back, and pulled our feet in under the shade of the trucks canopy whenever a jolt bounced them out into the scorching sun.
As we drove, the guides would pull the truck over to point out wildlife. I didn't know there are deer in Brazil. Apparently there are several different varieties. We spotted a female whitetail ten minutes in. I also didn't know that the Jaibiru stork - a bird that looks like it could take me in a fight - is both the largest flying bird in Brazil and the symbol of the Pantanal. We saw one feeding after about an hour, when the landscape changed again and gave way to a series of small caiman-filled ponds the truck crossed via wood plank bridge.
My first night in camp seemed strangely reminiscent of my time in the Amazon. The dinner was the same - salad, rice & beans, spaghetti, and meat. The table was segregated into English-speaking and non. And the stars seemed brighter, closer, and dizzyingly out of place when compared to the stars I see at home. I did, however, make quite a lot of friends when I demonstrated what my research had proven to be the most comfortable way to lie in a hammock. Sideways - you have to lie sideways.
The morning of Friday we set off for a boat tour. Back on the truck to get to the river. Into a small motor boat with six others including Alex, our guide. Though rainy season is due to begin in late November, the rains had not yet come. Its good for you - Alex said - because all the animals must remain close to the little water that's left, which makes seeing them easy. Bad for Alex though as the water in the river was so low that he spent a good deal of the three hour tout in the chest-high water pulling out boat out of sand dunes.
What he said about the greater concentration of wildlife seemed to be true. Before we turned to head back to the truck, I had lost count of all the different bird species and the number of caiman we had seen. A capibara had also graced us with his presence. This fact did, however, make Alexs insistence that we swim in the river a little hard to take. Even more so that it was "perfectly safe" despite the presence of caiman, piranhas, and stringrays - another thing I didn't know. There are freshwater stingrays?
I still cant believe I did it. But I did - dived in off the bank into the murky water. If it hadn't have been so nerve-racking I probably would have more enjoyed how cool the water was. It didn't help that as Alex pushed the boat clear of the bank a piranha bit him on the foot.
Horseback riding that afternoon. Why I got the smallest horse I don't know, but Carmelo seemed to have a bit of an inferiority complex. He made a habit out of nipping at the other horses and when given the opportunity to run would take off like a shot. On the home stretch, looked up and saw something pretty amazing. A tree full of Hyacinth macaws. Six of them, deep-dark blue, and gorgeous. The largest macaws there are - that I did know.
Spent Saturday on guided nature walks. I think it goes without saying that the medicinal uses of the Pantanals plants came as new information to me. Coconut water as an eye drop? Interesting. More surprising though was the presence of armadillos. Alex pointed out their burrows near the place he stopped to show us Puma tracks.
Fished for piranha my final morning and enjoyed it. I was rather dangerous to fish beside though, since for a long time I didn't pull hard enough to sink the hook, but hard enough to send yellow-bellied piranha flying onto the river bank. Nothing wakes you up more then having a flesh-eating fish come hurling at you first thing in the morning. I thought it was rather comical, but our guide disagreed and after my third pitch spent ten minutes teaching me how to properly sink the hook. I maintain though that it was my fish throwing that attracted the family of giant river otters to our section of the river. They were really cool to see.
Learned my last lesson in the Pantanal while cleaning our catch. Though you have caught, clubbed, and deprived the fish of water for over an hour, never put your fingers near a piranhas mouth. Luckily, our guide made us wise to this fact before any of our group suffered for our ignorance - but should you ever be in the Pantanal this could be one of the most useful bits of knowledge you gain from the things I didn't know.
There are lots of things I didn't know. The Pantanal is the worlds largest wetland. It covers Brazil's southwestern corner along the borders of Bolivia and Paraguay and provides a habitat for the greatest concentration of animals in the Western Hemisphere. Didn't know that.
Before I left the States, I had read about the Pantanal in guidebooks, and whereas the guidebooks sections on the Brazilian Amazon spoke mostly of the insects on could see in the jungle, the sections on the Pantanal featured large photographs of mammals and birds. So, when deciding where to invest my time in the wilderness I found the choice remarkably easy - mammals and birds over insects any day.
When I arrived in Campo Grande, I signed up for a four day Pantanal trekking tour with a company called Ecological Expeditions. They promised, among other things, horseback riding and piranha fishing, three hot meals a day, and a discount for "roughing it" with their camping option - meaning agreeing to sleep in a hammock rather than a bed.
Thursday morning, they loaded us into a van. When it stopped - and I woke up - the landscape had changed. The land was flat, the sky bright blue, and the red soil radiated heat. That's when we got on the truck and started down a dirt road that was arrow straight for as far as I could see. One of our guides said the truck drive would take a couple of hours. We sat on a bench in the back, and pulled our feet in under the shade of the trucks canopy whenever a jolt bounced them out into the scorching sun.
As we drove, the guides would pull the truck over to point out wildlife. I didn't know there are deer in Brazil. Apparently there are several different varieties. We spotted a female whitetail ten minutes in. I also didn't know that the Jaibiru stork - a bird that looks like it could take me in a fight - is both the largest flying bird in Brazil and the symbol of the Pantanal. We saw one feeding after about an hour, when the landscape changed again and gave way to a series of small caiman-filled ponds the truck crossed via wood plank bridge.
My first night in camp seemed strangely reminiscent of my time in the Amazon. The dinner was the same - salad, rice & beans, spaghetti, and meat. The table was segregated into English-speaking and non. And the stars seemed brighter, closer, and dizzyingly out of place when compared to the stars I see at home. I did, however, make quite a lot of friends when I demonstrated what my research had proven to be the most comfortable way to lie in a hammock. Sideways - you have to lie sideways.
The morning of Friday we set off for a boat tour. Back on the truck to get to the river. Into a small motor boat with six others including Alex, our guide. Though rainy season is due to begin in late November, the rains had not yet come. Its good for you - Alex said - because all the animals must remain close to the little water that's left, which makes seeing them easy. Bad for Alex though as the water in the river was so low that he spent a good deal of the three hour tout in the chest-high water pulling out boat out of sand dunes.
What he said about the greater concentration of wildlife seemed to be true. Before we turned to head back to the truck, I had lost count of all the different bird species and the number of caiman we had seen. A capibara had also graced us with his presence. This fact did, however, make Alexs insistence that we swim in the river a little hard to take. Even more so that it was "perfectly safe" despite the presence of caiman, piranhas, and stringrays - another thing I didn't know. There are freshwater stingrays?
I still cant believe I did it. But I did - dived in off the bank into the murky water. If it hadn't have been so nerve-racking I probably would have more enjoyed how cool the water was. It didn't help that as Alex pushed the boat clear of the bank a piranha bit him on the foot.
Horseback riding that afternoon. Why I got the smallest horse I don't know, but Carmelo seemed to have a bit of an inferiority complex. He made a habit out of nipping at the other horses and when given the opportunity to run would take off like a shot. On the home stretch, looked up and saw something pretty amazing. A tree full of Hyacinth macaws. Six of them, deep-dark blue, and gorgeous. The largest macaws there are - that I did know.
Spent Saturday on guided nature walks. I think it goes without saying that the medicinal uses of the Pantanals plants came as new information to me. Coconut water as an eye drop? Interesting. More surprising though was the presence of armadillos. Alex pointed out their burrows near the place he stopped to show us Puma tracks.
Fished for piranha my final morning and enjoyed it. I was rather dangerous to fish beside though, since for a long time I didn't pull hard enough to sink the hook, but hard enough to send yellow-bellied piranha flying onto the river bank. Nothing wakes you up more then having a flesh-eating fish come hurling at you first thing in the morning. I thought it was rather comical, but our guide disagreed and after my third pitch spent ten minutes teaching me how to properly sink the hook. I maintain though that it was my fish throwing that attracted the family of giant river otters to our section of the river. They were really cool to see.
Learned my last lesson in the Pantanal while cleaning our catch. Though you have caught, clubbed, and deprived the fish of water for over an hour, never put your fingers near a piranhas mouth. Luckily, our guide made us wise to this fact before any of our group suffered for our ignorance - but should you ever be in the Pantanal this could be one of the most useful bits of knowledge you gain from the things I didn't know.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Rio
The beach. My memories of Rio revolve around the beach.
Copacabana my first night. Walked the waves of black and white tile that mirror the curve of sand and spray until I couldn't walk anymore. After 30 hours on the bus, it felt good. It was on this beach that I finally lost my composure to Brazilian fashion. I had done well for weeks - smiled in the face of neon onesies and trained my eyes not to stare at the holes women seemed to cut in their skin-tight clothes. But Friday night on Copacabana I lost it.
I turned to head back toward the hostel and saw a man in what I'd describe as a pair of white "boyshort" underwear jogging - yes, jogging - down the beach. The combination of shock and horror was too much. A grown man out jogging in what I thought to be a pair of very feminine underwear. The laughter spilled out and wouldn't stop. Thank God he was jogging away from me.
My second afternoon, Maramar beach - over an hour by bus from the city proper. I had met my host family under the statue of liberty at Barra Shopping's New York City Center Saturday. Luiz and Leticia Berthold. Barra is said Baha and accurately represents my continued confusion over the Portuguese language. What does รง sound like? I still don't really know.
Sunday, I drove with Luiz to the bike shop where, after the tires were inflated and a new bike chain attached, I was given a bike to pedal to the beach of my choice. Luiz recommend Maramar - an undeveloped stretch over the hill from the gated community that holds his family's home. I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon reading The Kite Runner in between dips in the Atlantic.
On this beach, I also had another memorable encounter with Brazilian fashion. I thought the topless beaches of Spain and France would have prepared me for the thong bikini, but it was still rather weird to be able to truthfully say, "Dude, I can see your butt." There are some places I'd just rather not have sand - though I do now understand why a Brazilian wax is, well, a Brazilian wax.
It rained hard Monday and the sea swelled angry. I was a top Pao de Azucar when it started. Watched the gray haze roll in, then headed for the cable car. By the time I reached the Berthold's, I was soaked from head to toe. Tuesday, frontpages showed pictures of the flooding and workers in orange suites where still sweeping the seaside streets when I pedaled home from Corcovado, where Jesus stood allusive behind the remaining clouds.
Left early Wednesday morning for Campo Grande. Waved goodbye to Leticia after she dropped me at the bus stop and, while the bus into the city hugged the shore, to Rio and its beach.
Copacabana my first night. Walked the waves of black and white tile that mirror the curve of sand and spray until I couldn't walk anymore. After 30 hours on the bus, it felt good. It was on this beach that I finally lost my composure to Brazilian fashion. I had done well for weeks - smiled in the face of neon onesies and trained my eyes not to stare at the holes women seemed to cut in their skin-tight clothes. But Friday night on Copacabana I lost it.
I turned to head back toward the hostel and saw a man in what I'd describe as a pair of white "boyshort" underwear jogging - yes, jogging - down the beach. The combination of shock and horror was too much. A grown man out jogging in what I thought to be a pair of very feminine underwear. The laughter spilled out and wouldn't stop. Thank God he was jogging away from me.
My second afternoon, Maramar beach - over an hour by bus from the city proper. I had met my host family under the statue of liberty at Barra Shopping's New York City Center Saturday. Luiz and Leticia Berthold. Barra is said Baha and accurately represents my continued confusion over the Portuguese language. What does รง sound like? I still don't really know.
Sunday, I drove with Luiz to the bike shop where, after the tires were inflated and a new bike chain attached, I was given a bike to pedal to the beach of my choice. Luiz recommend Maramar - an undeveloped stretch over the hill from the gated community that holds his family's home. I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon reading The Kite Runner in between dips in the Atlantic.
On this beach, I also had another memorable encounter with Brazilian fashion. I thought the topless beaches of Spain and France would have prepared me for the thong bikini, but it was still rather weird to be able to truthfully say, "Dude, I can see your butt." There are some places I'd just rather not have sand - though I do now understand why a Brazilian wax is, well, a Brazilian wax.
It rained hard Monday and the sea swelled angry. I was a top Pao de Azucar when it started. Watched the gray haze roll in, then headed for the cable car. By the time I reached the Berthold's, I was soaked from head to toe. Tuesday, frontpages showed pictures of the flooding and workers in orange suites where still sweeping the seaside streets when I pedaled home from Corcovado, where Jesus stood allusive behind the remaining clouds.
Left early Wednesday morning for Campo Grande. Waved goodbye to Leticia after she dropped me at the bus stop and, while the bus into the city hugged the shore, to Rio and its beach.
Friday, November 21, 2008
A Night in Salvador
To be honest, I was sick in Salvador. I arrived - or rather, Warren and I arrived - on Monday, November 10th via 36 hour bus from Belem. Tuesday was a really good day, but Wednesday until my arrival in Rio Friday is kind of touchy. I slept a lot, spent some quality time with the porcelain piece of furniture, then slept some more. I can, however, tell you of Tuesday.
Warren and I decided to go to the beach - and not just any beach. People in our hostel recommended taking the bus to Arembepe. We did. Stepped off at the last stop made by the bus to Arembepe and turned left at the basketball court. The town has two rows of buildings, and past the one left of the basketball court is the beach.
The Atlantic.
The sand felt like butter - I've never felt sand so soft. We walked past groups of fishermen and a sea turtle conservation project. Throughout the day, families came and went - their kids digging holes to sit in past the tide line and waiting excitedly for the waves to come and flood them out, seeing who could stay seated longest in the neck-high water as it tried to pull them back to sea.
We ate ice cream as we waited for the bus back. After a shower, dinner, and dark, we went out for a walk. Tuesday night in Pelourinho - Salvador's historic district - was supposed to be good. It was. There are a lot of black people in Salvador. Pelourinho means whipping post in Portuguese. The air beat with the sound of drums.
We sat on the steps of a church, watched a man with a green feather in his hat raise a glass of wine to the crowd before blowing his trombone. His band took up the rhythm, the crowd cheered, and women began to dance and sing - braids swaying.
Further down the street a drum troop unlike any I have ever seen. All women and girls. I don't think I could ever move like that. We stood against a building of the narrow street, memorized. Mallets flew, hips swerved, heads snapped. I don't think I could ever move like that. We walked on through hip-hop dancers and street performers, the air still beating.
Warren and I decided to go to the beach - and not just any beach. People in our hostel recommended taking the bus to Arembepe. We did. Stepped off at the last stop made by the bus to Arembepe and turned left at the basketball court. The town has two rows of buildings, and past the one left of the basketball court is the beach.
The Atlantic.
The sand felt like butter - I've never felt sand so soft. We walked past groups of fishermen and a sea turtle conservation project. Throughout the day, families came and went - their kids digging holes to sit in past the tide line and waiting excitedly for the waves to come and flood them out, seeing who could stay seated longest in the neck-high water as it tried to pull them back to sea.
We ate ice cream as we waited for the bus back. After a shower, dinner, and dark, we went out for a walk. Tuesday night in Pelourinho - Salvador's historic district - was supposed to be good. It was. There are a lot of black people in Salvador. Pelourinho means whipping post in Portuguese. The air beat with the sound of drums.
We sat on the steps of a church, watched a man with a green feather in his hat raise a glass of wine to the crowd before blowing his trombone. His band took up the rhythm, the crowd cheered, and women began to dance and sing - braids swaying.
Further down the street a drum troop unlike any I have ever seen. All women and girls. I don't think I could ever move like that. We stood against a building of the narrow street, memorized. Mallets flew, hips swerved, heads snapped. I don't think I could ever move like that. We walked on through hip-hop dancers and street performers, the air still beating.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Time is Money
I'm an American. I come from the land where time is money. At home, I tap my foot in front of the microwave, quadruple-task, and feel guilty when on the rare occasion that I do sit down in front of the television I'm not at least holding something that I could use in the pursuit of productivity - a book, my laptop, etc...
I have traveled the entire length of the Brazilian Amazon by boat. From Manaus, I got on a boat to Belem - where the river meets the Atlantic. The trip was supposed to take five days and four nights. I ended up taking five days and six nights.
From Leticia to Manaus, I had revealed in inaction. Stared for hours at the forest - completely content. By the third hour aboard this boat, my Americanism resurfaced. Before we parted,Conn gave me a book on WWI. I've read it. I've also sang through every Disney movie I've ever seen, written out emails to everyone of my acquaintance, and exhausted the battery of myMP3 player. It's day three.
Last night, while discussing our boredom Warren, a fellow English-speaker from South Africa, and I made an interesting discovery. Of all the people on board, we could identify the tourists not by their appearance or speech, but because the only people reading were Westerners. Warren is reading Don Quixote, the Canadian Wuthering Heights, Me The Western Front 1914-1918, and the Italian his guidebook. We all come from places where - not to America's extreme Warren tells me. He was quite impressed when he boarded the train from Miami to North Carolina two months ago, that everyone without exception held either a laptop or a newspaper - time is money.
The Brazilians seem to have quite a different attitude. The Italian calls them simple people. I can't imagine boarding a boat without something to occupy my time. Even on he first boat I read everyday - not nearly as much as this trip, but everyday. Two weeks into my travels I stopped saying things were better than others in regards to the way the world works or how people in other places see it. I'll leave judgement up to the One able to do it justly. However, if one can make deductions about a country's citizens by observing the behaviors of one boat load of people, I will dare to say that they were never told as children that time is money.
I have traveled the entire length of the Brazilian Amazon by boat. From Manaus, I got on a boat to Belem - where the river meets the Atlantic. The trip was supposed to take five days and four nights. I ended up taking five days and six nights.
From Leticia to Manaus, I had revealed in inaction. Stared for hours at the forest - completely content. By the third hour aboard this boat, my Americanism resurfaced. Before we parted,Conn gave me a book on WWI. I've read it. I've also sang through every Disney movie I've ever seen, written out emails to everyone of my acquaintance, and exhausted the battery of myMP3 player. It's day three.
Last night, while discussing our boredom Warren, a fellow English-speaker from South Africa, and I made an interesting discovery. Of all the people on board, we could identify the tourists not by their appearance or speech, but because the only people reading were Westerners. Warren is reading Don Quixote, the Canadian Wuthering Heights, Me The Western Front 1914-1918, and the Italian his guidebook. We all come from places where - not to America's extreme Warren tells me. He was quite impressed when he boarded the train from Miami to North Carolina two months ago, that everyone without exception held either a laptop or a newspaper - time is money.
The Brazilians seem to have quite a different attitude. The Italian calls them simple people. I can't imagine boarding a boat without something to occupy my time. Even on he first boat I read everyday - not nearly as much as this trip, but everyday. Two weeks into my travels I stopped saying things were better than others in regards to the way the world works or how people in other places see it. I'll leave judgement up to the One able to do it justly. However, if one can make deductions about a country's citizens by observing the behaviors of one boat load of people, I will dare to say that they were never told as children that time is money.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Amazon
It's muggy, but the breeze makes it rather pleasant during both the overcast mornings and the clear, sunny afternoons. The river stretches as wide as the Columbia on either side of the boat I've spent the last three days on.
My Amazon adventure began on Saturday - no, before that. Thursday I flew from Bogota to Leticia, and my time there was just as much as an adventure as my time aboard this vessel.
I landed on a hot afternoon. When the plane dipped below the clouds, I saw it - the Amazon and its rainforest. Trees uninterrupted, like nothing I've ever seen. So vast an expanse of life climate is moved by it - clouds hung up in the branches of towering green. Unreal.
Stepped off the plane and began the task of immigrating. Office number one was next to the airport. Leticia and Tabatinga are the border towns of Colombia and Brazil, respectively. I first got stamped out of Colombia then - after checking in with Gustavoh, the owner of a Letician hostel - I was given a bike to ride to office number two - that of the Federal Police in Tabatinga. There my visa was approved without a problem, and I biked back across the border and, interestingly, an hour in time.
Spent Friday biking with a German boy, Onntej. We walked the grounds of the local university before breaking for pistaccio icecream. Also biked to pick up dinner. Gustavoh lead the way. Fresh fish head to tail, rice, and boiled yucca - a kind of potatoe common to Central and South America.
Early Saturday morning woke to go to the market, where I reached my limit for eating native cuisine. Gustavoh pointed to a bucket. What was inside was moving. Huge larvi. Their fat white bodies riggling behind their black heads. Gustavoh bought some steamed and explained that people ususally do eat them raw. The woman selling them started to laugh - I could no longer hide my disgust. Never in a million years.
Later, I climbed pack and all onto the back of Gustavoh's motorcycle and we drove o the dock. I was heading downriver to Manaus, Brazil - Gustavoh knew the captain, negotiated for my ticket, and helped me string up my hammock on the upper deck. The journey will take three nights and four days.
Thus far, he scenery has been spectacular. Yesterday, I saw the Amazon's freshwater dolphins playng while we were docked at a small town taking on passengers. I had gone ashore and bought an icecream, which I was licking back on board while watching fishermen sell their brightly colored catch when a gray and pink body came leaping out of the water. I turned from the rail and shook Conn - the Irish feller, who's lived in the UD - in his hammock next to mine. We watched the river together until the sun set fire red over the water.
I have no complaints. Meals are served hot and there's always plenty - usually pasta, rice, beans, and meat. The showers are refreshingly cold, the hammocks relaxing, and - for the fist time I can remember - I have purposefully sat and done nothing at all but watch the world pass by. The only unpleasantries are the large winged black beattles that come aboard at night. Those and the police checks where men are arrested for smuggling cocaine.
Today is Monday - the last full day. Tomorrow we pull into Manaus, where Rio Negro meets the Amazon.
My Amazon adventure began on Saturday - no, before that. Thursday I flew from Bogota to Leticia, and my time there was just as much as an adventure as my time aboard this vessel.
I landed on a hot afternoon. When the plane dipped below the clouds, I saw it - the Amazon and its rainforest. Trees uninterrupted, like nothing I've ever seen. So vast an expanse of life climate is moved by it - clouds hung up in the branches of towering green. Unreal.
Stepped off the plane and began the task of immigrating. Office number one was next to the airport. Leticia and Tabatinga are the border towns of Colombia and Brazil, respectively. I first got stamped out of Colombia then - after checking in with Gustavoh, the owner of a Letician hostel - I was given a bike to ride to office number two - that of the Federal Police in Tabatinga. There my visa was approved without a problem, and I biked back across the border and, interestingly, an hour in time.
Spent Friday biking with a German boy, Onntej. We walked the grounds of the local university before breaking for pistaccio icecream. Also biked to pick up dinner. Gustavoh lead the way. Fresh fish head to tail, rice, and boiled yucca - a kind of potatoe common to Central and South America.
Early Saturday morning woke to go to the market, where I reached my limit for eating native cuisine. Gustavoh pointed to a bucket. What was inside was moving. Huge larvi. Their fat white bodies riggling behind their black heads. Gustavoh bought some steamed and explained that people ususally do eat them raw. The woman selling them started to laugh - I could no longer hide my disgust. Never in a million years.
Later, I climbed pack and all onto the back of Gustavoh's motorcycle and we drove o the dock. I was heading downriver to Manaus, Brazil - Gustavoh knew the captain, negotiated for my ticket, and helped me string up my hammock on the upper deck. The journey will take three nights and four days.
Thus far, he scenery has been spectacular. Yesterday, I saw the Amazon's freshwater dolphins playng while we were docked at a small town taking on passengers. I had gone ashore and bought an icecream, which I was licking back on board while watching fishermen sell their brightly colored catch when a gray and pink body came leaping out of the water. I turned from the rail and shook Conn - the Irish feller, who's lived in the UD - in his hammock next to mine. We watched the river together until the sun set fire red over the water.
I have no complaints. Meals are served hot and there's always plenty - usually pasta, rice, beans, and meat. The showers are refreshingly cold, the hammocks relaxing, and - for the fist time I can remember - I have purposefully sat and done nothing at all but watch the world pass by. The only unpleasantries are the large winged black beattles that come aboard at night. Those and the police checks where men are arrested for smuggling cocaine.
Today is Monday - the last full day. Tomorrow we pull into Manaus, where Rio Negro meets the Amazon.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Colombian TV
Well, it´s official - I'm an international film star. It happened on Wednesday. I had been in Bogota for two days - I found it very much to my liking, despite the surprising cold - but hadn't done many tourist activities, so I decided to join some people from my hostel on a free tour of the city´s historic center.
There were four of us - a German girl, Julianna, a Frenchman, and Tom from England. We met at the information center on the corner of Plaza de Bolivar at 2pm. A member of the tourist police dressed to the teeth in formality addressed us and explained that two TV crews would be filming the tour for a local broadcast. Apart from our group, there was only one other tourist - the TV men had us man for man.
It was unnerving. I was having a rough time understanding as it was - the tour was conducted in espanol - without the additional distraction of cameraman number one zooming in for my close-up. Luckily, our entire group spoke English and the tour, for the most part, covered the area our hostel was in, familiar ground, so we soon took to making fun of our predicament. There was lots of time to - the tour lasted two hours. Tom adopted shades and a movie star strut and the Frenchman played it cool, but Julianna and I never really made it through the laughing stage. Just when we through we had it under control we passed a school yard and little boys, thinking we were foreign film stars, started running up and proposing - we lost it.
My interview was also pretty comical. Poor Julianna. I thought I was off the hook - I´m not lying when I say I speak very little Spanish, but the crewmen soon saw that Julianna spoke both Spanish and English. She acted as my interpreter. We almost made it through without laughing - almost. Apparently we air on Saturday morning, neither of us will be around to watch it.
There were four of us - a German girl, Julianna, a Frenchman, and Tom from England. We met at the information center on the corner of Plaza de Bolivar at 2pm. A member of the tourist police dressed to the teeth in formality addressed us and explained that two TV crews would be filming the tour for a local broadcast. Apart from our group, there was only one other tourist - the TV men had us man for man.
It was unnerving. I was having a rough time understanding as it was - the tour was conducted in espanol - without the additional distraction of cameraman number one zooming in for my close-up. Luckily, our entire group spoke English and the tour, for the most part, covered the area our hostel was in, familiar ground, so we soon took to making fun of our predicament. There was lots of time to - the tour lasted two hours. Tom adopted shades and a movie star strut and the Frenchman played it cool, but Julianna and I never really made it through the laughing stage. Just when we through we had it under control we passed a school yard and little boys, thinking we were foreign film stars, started running up and proposing - we lost it.
My interview was also pretty comical. Poor Julianna. I thought I was off the hook - I´m not lying when I say I speak very little Spanish, but the crewmen soon saw that Julianna spoke both Spanish and English. She acted as my interpreter. We almost made it through without laughing - almost. Apparently we air on Saturday morning, neither of us will be around to watch it.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Panama Canal
Yesterday I went to the Panama Canal. I, Brianna Craft, stood at the crossroads of the world's two great oceans. I kind of had a moment - I can't believe I've seen the Panama Canal.
Panama itself seems to be an odd crossing of things. I arrived in the wee hours of Friday morning to Luna's Castle, a fine hostel, in the historic Panama City district of Casco Viejo. Within walking distance are both the Presidential Residence and some of the city's most impoverished slums. When I checked in, I was given a map - you can't walk here, the boy behind the desk said, day or night.
The people are mixed too: 10% of Panama's population is of Chinese descent, indigenous women dress in traditional garb, and many people are what Americans call black, which I find comforting. That and the fact that Panama's official currency is the US Dollar. A glittering sky scrapper-filled city skyline illuminates the bay at night - another testament to the US's influence here. I didn't really realize how recently the canal was turned over to Panamanian control (1999!). Though the rather comical ten minute film they showed at the locks did everything in its power to hail American influence, I wager some serious gringo resentment festers in the hearts of many Panamanians. I'm rather glad I'm mistaken for a local.
Today I jet off to Colombia, for a very brief stay before hopping a river barge down the Amazon into Brazil. Wish me luck!
Panama itself seems to be an odd crossing of things. I arrived in the wee hours of Friday morning to Luna's Castle, a fine hostel, in the historic Panama City district of Casco Viejo. Within walking distance are both the Presidential Residence and some of the city's most impoverished slums. When I checked in, I was given a map - you can't walk here, the boy behind the desk said, day or night.
The people are mixed too: 10% of Panama's population is of Chinese descent, indigenous women dress in traditional garb, and many people are what Americans call black, which I find comforting. That and the fact that Panama's official currency is the US Dollar. A glittering sky scrapper-filled city skyline illuminates the bay at night - another testament to the US's influence here. I didn't really realize how recently the canal was turned over to Panamanian control (1999!). Though the rather comical ten minute film they showed at the locks did everything in its power to hail American influence, I wager some serious gringo resentment festers in the hearts of many Panamanians. I'm rather glad I'm mistaken for a local.
Today I jet off to Colombia, for a very brief stay before hopping a river barge down the Amazon into Brazil. Wish me luck!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Tortugas
I arrived in Rio Oro the morning of Tuesday October 7th by way of colectivo, which I can’t really do justice in English – imagine a large truck with a canvas-covered open back where passengers sit on two benches, one on either side. The colectivo left Puerto Himenez at 6:30am and set off bouncing into the jungle of Costa Rica’s remote Osa Peninsula. The ride took two hours. Vines and banana leaves flung water into the truck back when they hit the canvassed roof, and people held on tight when the truck dipped sharply before crossing a river. At my stop, the driver came behind and lowered the gate. A sign said Escuela Rio Oro. I walked 500 meters toward the sea, and in a building next to the school house was welcomed as an Osa Sea Turtle Conservation Program Volunteer.
I’m scheduled to work a week. The Osa Program’s current aim is to collect data on the sea turtle species that nest on the peninsula, specifically those on the beach near the mouth of Rio Oro.
I must first describe the place. It’s unbelievable. Paradise in its rawest sense. Our base is 100 meters from the point where Rio Oro (Gold River) meets the Pacific Ocean. From our beach, you can see the coastline of Costa Rica’s Corovado National Park – a place National Geographic hails as one of the most biodiversly rich areas in the world. Scarlet macaws fly overhead and squawk all hours of the day, crocodiles live in the lagoons just off the beach where four different species of sea turtles nest at night and wild horses run during the day. It’s like living in a fantasy island safari. Yesterday, I watched an otter as large as the crocodile it was fishing beside play in the river. I’m in awe.
The work is just as awe inspiring. Tuesday afternoon, Greg, a research assistant from Rochester, took me to the beach and showed me how to properly measure a turtle – we made on out of sand – dig and find a nest, and identify the different turtle tracks.
I went on patrol with him and Ivy Wednesday night. We started at 10pm and finished at 2am – crossed Rio Oro and patrolled the three kilometers to the hatchery and back. I’ve seen turtles! We came across two nesting Green Sea Turtles and one Olive Ridley. They’re huge – larger than I imagine – and much more difficult to measure when they’re alive, powerful, and moving. It took all Greg had to keep a Green from returning to the sea so that Ivy could first tag it. The Olive Ridley nest needed relocating – it was too close to the sea – so Greg and Ivy let me dig down and scoop out the 114 leathery, golf ball like eggs and bury them again beyond the vegetation line.
The next day, had afternoon hatchery shift with Adrianna. Three nests had hatched the night before so we had exhumations to do. While scooping out egg shells I felt something move. Three hatchlings had been left behind. You can take them outside and see that they make it to the sea, Adrianna said, watch out for crabs and birds. I set them on the sand and watched them struggle to the water. The cutest things I have ever seen. They whipped the sand out of their eyes with their front flippers and took off. When they reached the water they swam for all they’re worth and disappeared.
My last shift was Friday night hatchery – midnight to 6am. Walked with Devina under a sky that held more stars than I thought possible. Two nests had hatched so we weighed and measured ten from each then set the little guys free – they all made it, there aren’t as many predators at night. Finished work round 3am, then lied out on the beach and watched the lights of a cruise ship slowly make their way toward the Panama Canal – only 50 miles from here by sea. Woke at first light, 5am, and walked back watching the sunrise reflect in the lagoon.
I’m scheduled to work a week. The Osa Program’s current aim is to collect data on the sea turtle species that nest on the peninsula, specifically those on the beach near the mouth of Rio Oro.
I must first describe the place. It’s unbelievable. Paradise in its rawest sense. Our base is 100 meters from the point where Rio Oro (Gold River) meets the Pacific Ocean. From our beach, you can see the coastline of Costa Rica’s Corovado National Park – a place National Geographic hails as one of the most biodiversly rich areas in the world. Scarlet macaws fly overhead and squawk all hours of the day, crocodiles live in the lagoons just off the beach where four different species of sea turtles nest at night and wild horses run during the day. It’s like living in a fantasy island safari. Yesterday, I watched an otter as large as the crocodile it was fishing beside play in the river. I’m in awe.
The work is just as awe inspiring. Tuesday afternoon, Greg, a research assistant from Rochester, took me to the beach and showed me how to properly measure a turtle – we made on out of sand – dig and find a nest, and identify the different turtle tracks.
I went on patrol with him and Ivy Wednesday night. We started at 10pm and finished at 2am – crossed Rio Oro and patrolled the three kilometers to the hatchery and back. I’ve seen turtles! We came across two nesting Green Sea Turtles and one Olive Ridley. They’re huge – larger than I imagine – and much more difficult to measure when they’re alive, powerful, and moving. It took all Greg had to keep a Green from returning to the sea so that Ivy could first tag it. The Olive Ridley nest needed relocating – it was too close to the sea – so Greg and Ivy let me dig down and scoop out the 114 leathery, golf ball like eggs and bury them again beyond the vegetation line.
The next day, had afternoon hatchery shift with Adrianna. Three nests had hatched the night before so we had exhumations to do. While scooping out egg shells I felt something move. Three hatchlings had been left behind. You can take them outside and see that they make it to the sea, Adrianna said, watch out for crabs and birds. I set them on the sand and watched them struggle to the water. The cutest things I have ever seen. They whipped the sand out of their eyes with their front flippers and took off. When they reached the water they swam for all they’re worth and disappeared.
My last shift was Friday night hatchery – midnight to 6am. Walked with Devina under a sky that held more stars than I thought possible. Two nests had hatched so we weighed and measured ten from each then set the little guys free – they all made it, there aren’t as many predators at night. Finished work round 3am, then lied out on the beach and watched the lights of a cruise ship slowly make their way toward the Panama Canal – only 50 miles from here by sea. Woke at first light, 5am, and walked back watching the sunrise reflect in the lagoon.
Rancho Mastatal
Holding hands with eleven strangers, I sat on a wooden bench at a long table. Christmas lights and candles illuminated the outdoor patio where Minestrone and breadsticks steamed on the island behind us. We’re going to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for, Sam explained. I didn’t know where to begin.
I had gotten on a bus at 5:30am that morning – Thursday, the 2nd of October. I would do that twice more before the sun set: Monteverde to San Jose; San Jose to Puriscal; Puriscal to here, a place called Mastatal. I arrived around 5:30pm, just as light was beginning to leave the sky. A girl who introduced herself as Michelle stepped out of a large wooden house that sat behind a garden bordered by a vegetation-laden black wrought iron fence and gate. I took off my shoes and followed her, seeing with each step more of the place I had come to stay – Rancho Mastatal, an American-run environmental learning center two hours from “civilization”.
“Gracias a la Madre. Buon prevenciรณ.” At the table, the meal began. Michelle had finished giving me a tour just in time for dinner. I was to stay for four nights. Though the learning center’s focus is sustainable building, all major projects suspended during the rainy season. Over the course of the next few days however, I would find plenty to occupy my time.
Day 1 – Chocolate in all its various forms
Woke and headed for the main house. The night before, I had been invited to join the group on a tour of a local chocolate plantation. Could life get any better? After breakfast we set off. Walked a kilometer down the gravel road under the morning sun. Turned right at a sign reading The Chocolate Iguana and followed the smell. A young man met us in front of what I assume is his home and sat us down out back around a small table. “This is a cacao fruit.” He held what looked like a fat, lumpy, yellow zucchini in his hand. He split it with a machete and ate a piece of what was inside before passing it around. The cacao beans where incased in a white sack, which has a sweet – almost citrus flavor. The beans are purple when you bite into them.
We followed him through the process. Drying, roasting, shelling, and grinding – tasting all the way. After an hour, we headed to the front porch where a table was set with a platter of warm brownies, a bowl of chocolate spread, and pitchers of chocolate milk. Oh man. Everything contained a higher percentage of chocolate and was less sweet than I’m accustomed to. We added sugar to the chocolate milk because it was simply chocolate – as in ground cacao beans – and milk. Everything was heavy, dark, and delicious. We left giddy, high from indulgence. I bought chocolate mango soap.
Day 2 – Tree houses and the Hooch
Rancho Mastatal has the library of my dreams. Half is good fiction – the kind that keeps you from sleeping while swinging lazily in a hammock on a sunny afternoon. The other half contains every non-fiction book to do with sustainable building you could imagine.
Saturday morning, I chose one of each – You Shall Know Our Velocity by David Eggers and A Builder’s Guide to Tree Houses – and found a hammock of my own.
After lunch, Michelle asked if I’d like to sleep in the hooch – there was an open bed. I had just finished reading about what one was. Packed my bag and climbed up. Untied a mosquito net and tucked the edges under my mattress. Rainforest all around. Careful when peeing off the side Michelle warned, it’s a bit of a drop to the forest floor. The whole structure swayed when someone climbed the ladder, and when I woke in the night it took me a moment to get my bearings – I’m not used to seeing only vegetation – but I really enjoyed my nights in the hooch. I didn’t even fall off the edge.
Day 3 – Waterfalls
Sunday is brunch day at Rancho Mastatal. Pancakes, lots of them, pinapple and papaya, yogurt and granola, tea and crumpets – Scott made them, I think he was missing England because we certainly didn’t need any more bread.
Stuffed full, Sam and I took a walk. We had gone to the waterfall near the main house for a swim the day before and were off to see the larger waterfalls behind the owner’s home.
We hiked all afternoon. Though Sam promised monkeys, the closest we came was the monkey doo he put his hand in when climbing over a log. I thought it was funny – he had pointed it out to me as I crossed – he didn’t share my opinion. There were plenty of poisoned dart frogs though, whose neon color I still can’t get over. We saw two waterfalls, and attempted to swim in one, but after I got pinched by what I pray was a crab underwater we decided to head for home.
Sam, who teaches in Brooklyn in the States, hadn’t left the Ranch in three weeks. The slow pace of life had grown on him, and he was quite happy with that fact. Walking back to the Ranch to eat my last candle-lit dinner and spend my final night in the hooch, I half-wished I could make it mine.
I had gotten on a bus at 5:30am that morning – Thursday, the 2nd of October. I would do that twice more before the sun set: Monteverde to San Jose; San Jose to Puriscal; Puriscal to here, a place called Mastatal. I arrived around 5:30pm, just as light was beginning to leave the sky. A girl who introduced herself as Michelle stepped out of a large wooden house that sat behind a garden bordered by a vegetation-laden black wrought iron fence and gate. I took off my shoes and followed her, seeing with each step more of the place I had come to stay – Rancho Mastatal, an American-run environmental learning center two hours from “civilization”.
“Gracias a la Madre. Buon prevenciรณ.” At the table, the meal began. Michelle had finished giving me a tour just in time for dinner. I was to stay for four nights. Though the learning center’s focus is sustainable building, all major projects suspended during the rainy season. Over the course of the next few days however, I would find plenty to occupy my time.
Day 1 – Chocolate in all its various forms
Woke and headed for the main house. The night before, I had been invited to join the group on a tour of a local chocolate plantation. Could life get any better? After breakfast we set off. Walked a kilometer down the gravel road under the morning sun. Turned right at a sign reading The Chocolate Iguana and followed the smell. A young man met us in front of what I assume is his home and sat us down out back around a small table. “This is a cacao fruit.” He held what looked like a fat, lumpy, yellow zucchini in his hand. He split it with a machete and ate a piece of what was inside before passing it around. The cacao beans where incased in a white sack, which has a sweet – almost citrus flavor. The beans are purple when you bite into them.
We followed him through the process. Drying, roasting, shelling, and grinding – tasting all the way. After an hour, we headed to the front porch where a table was set with a platter of warm brownies, a bowl of chocolate spread, and pitchers of chocolate milk. Oh man. Everything contained a higher percentage of chocolate and was less sweet than I’m accustomed to. We added sugar to the chocolate milk because it was simply chocolate – as in ground cacao beans – and milk. Everything was heavy, dark, and delicious. We left giddy, high from indulgence. I bought chocolate mango soap.
Day 2 – Tree houses and the Hooch
Rancho Mastatal has the library of my dreams. Half is good fiction – the kind that keeps you from sleeping while swinging lazily in a hammock on a sunny afternoon. The other half contains every non-fiction book to do with sustainable building you could imagine.
Saturday morning, I chose one of each – You Shall Know Our Velocity by David Eggers and A Builder’s Guide to Tree Houses – and found a hammock of my own.
After lunch, Michelle asked if I’d like to sleep in the hooch – there was an open bed. I had just finished reading about what one was. Packed my bag and climbed up. Untied a mosquito net and tucked the edges under my mattress. Rainforest all around. Careful when peeing off the side Michelle warned, it’s a bit of a drop to the forest floor. The whole structure swayed when someone climbed the ladder, and when I woke in the night it took me a moment to get my bearings – I’m not used to seeing only vegetation – but I really enjoyed my nights in the hooch. I didn’t even fall off the edge.
Day 3 – Waterfalls
Sunday is brunch day at Rancho Mastatal. Pancakes, lots of them, pinapple and papaya, yogurt and granola, tea and crumpets – Scott made them, I think he was missing England because we certainly didn’t need any more bread.
Stuffed full, Sam and I took a walk. We had gone to the waterfall near the main house for a swim the day before and were off to see the larger waterfalls behind the owner’s home.
We hiked all afternoon. Though Sam promised monkeys, the closest we came was the monkey doo he put his hand in when climbing over a log. I thought it was funny – he had pointed it out to me as I crossed – he didn’t share my opinion. There were plenty of poisoned dart frogs though, whose neon color I still can’t get over. We saw two waterfalls, and attempted to swim in one, but after I got pinched by what I pray was a crab underwater we decided to head for home.
Sam, who teaches in Brooklyn in the States, hadn’t left the Ranch in three weeks. The slow pace of life had grown on him, and he was quite happy with that fact. Walking back to the Ranch to eat my last candle-lit dinner and spend my final night in the hooch, I half-wished I could make it mine.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Esta Bien
Just writing to let all who worry know that I'm fine. I'm currently waiting for the truck that will take me back to the Costa Rican beach where I started working with sea turtles yesterday. I plan on writing some pretty hearty blogs while doing my hatchery shift tomorrow and will post them as soon as possible.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monteverde
Sunday night, I arrived in Costa Rica, and Monday afternoon I got on a bus to Monteverde. The bus left San Jose at two thirty. Around six, just after the sun went down, we got stuck. It's rainy season, the roads are wet and - going up to the cloud rainforest for whichMonteverde is known - they are also unpaved.
The engine groaned and the wheels spun. Everybody out. Hombres (those who spoke Spanish anyway - which was rather comical because the largest of them were German tourists) pushed, while mujeres (I'm so glad I am a woman) walked up the hill, turned, and watched. The men prevailed, and within thirty minutes we were on our way.
This morning, after a gorgeous breakfast prepared and served to me at my $6 a night hostel (how cool is that!), I took a canopy tour. A zip line canopy tour. I'm so hooked. Me, threeAustrian guys, and our guides zipped through the trees. We stopped to take pictures of a family of howler monkeys and the largest butterflies I've ever seen - they glimmer brilliant blue against the forest floor. The tour included a Tarzan swing, which isn't for the faint of heart - the guy before me screamed like a girl. I jumped off backwards. Tomorrow, I plan to visit a butterfly garden and see if I can spot a three-toed sloth. Megusta Costa Rica!
The engine groaned and the wheels spun. Everybody out. Hombres (those who spoke Spanish anyway - which was rather comical because the largest of them were German tourists) pushed, while mujeres (I'm so glad I am a woman) walked up the hill, turned, and watched. The men prevailed, and within thirty minutes we were on our way.
This morning, after a gorgeous breakfast prepared and served to me at my $6 a night hostel (how cool is that!), I took a canopy tour. A zip line canopy tour. I'm so hooked. Me, threeAustrian guys, and our guides zipped through the trees. We stopped to take pictures of a family of howler monkeys and the largest butterflies I've ever seen - they glimmer brilliant blue against the forest floor. The tour included a Tarzan swing, which isn't for the faint of heart - the guy before me screamed like a girl. I jumped off backwards. Tomorrow, I plan to visit a butterfly garden and see if I can spot a three-toed sloth. Megusta Costa Rica!
Arriba Los Pobre Del Mundo
I didn't like Nicaragua. I left three days after I arrived. Nothing happened - nothing big. I cannot fully explain the reason for my dislike. It just didn't fit. Like choosing a college - some fit you and some don't. Nicaragua didn't.
Nicaragua's civil war lasted 7 years. It shows. I stayed in Granada, the capital city of one of the rival factions. They say it's beautiful and parts of it are - but it's a facade. Parque Central, la Merced, and el Catedral give way to tin-roofed shacks and the mango tree lined street that connects them to dirt roads. Off the main drag, the taxis and buses become bicycles carrying entire families and horses starved thin sweating under a heavy sun. There's a harshness behind people's eyes and everyone is selling something.
I watched a funeral procession on Friday. The living burying the dead. They walked behind black horses pulling a coffin covered in bright flowers. In the same square, I watched the motorcade Saturday as the sun went down. Arriba Los Pobre Del Mundo - policemen, women and children, flags divided red and black. It was from this square that I watched the boys play baseball the day I arrived, and where, Saturday night, I decided to leave.
Nicaragua's civil war lasted 7 years. It shows. I stayed in Granada, the capital city of one of the rival factions. They say it's beautiful and parts of it are - but it's a facade. Parque Central, la Merced, and el Catedral give way to tin-roofed shacks and the mango tree lined street that connects them to dirt roads. Off the main drag, the taxis and buses become bicycles carrying entire families and horses starved thin sweating under a heavy sun. There's a harshness behind people's eyes and everyone is selling something.
I watched a funeral procession on Friday. The living burying the dead. They walked behind black horses pulling a coffin covered in bright flowers. In the same square, I watched the motorcade Saturday as the sun went down. Arriba Los Pobre Del Mundo - policemen, women and children, flags divided red and black. It was from this square that I watched the boys play baseball the day I arrived, and where, Saturday night, I decided to leave.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Nicaragua
I'm in Nicaragua. I'm sitting in a park of ruins watching some kids play baseball across the street. They're pretty good - knobby kneed boys making dust clouds as they slide into the pile of rocks that makes first. I'm in Granada, to be precise. After my unexpected day in Panajachel, I got on the bus - the first day to El Salvador, the second through Honduras and to here, Nicaragua.
An Unexpected Day
I had planned to leave Panajachel Tuesday morning. I went to a shuttle station and, utilizing all the Spanish knowledge I possess, found out that my plan was flawed - I would not make my connecting bus on time.
So - I had a day. My guidebooks mentioned a nature reserve that makes a good day trip. I went back to my hotel, paid for another night, changed clothes, and set off.
The walk took nearly thirty minutes - follow the lake past the water front resorts of the rich and head into the jungle. A carved sign, two peacocks, and a canvassed roof, and there it was - the Atitlan Reserva Natural.
Stepped to the information counter. Would I like a zip line tour? Oh my sweat Jesus. For $23, I spent the morning zip lining in and above the misty canopy and the afternoon hiking a trail composed of hanging bridges. I saw spider monkeys, was suspended over a fifty foot waterfall, and watched a Mayan woman tend the crazy looking caterpillars of the reserve´s butterfly garden. The only other tourists I saw were the two Australian girls who finished the zip line tour as I started. The whole experience was so surreal.
So - I had a day. My guidebooks mentioned a nature reserve that makes a good day trip. I went back to my hotel, paid for another night, changed clothes, and set off.
The walk took nearly thirty minutes - follow the lake past the water front resorts of the rich and head into the jungle. A carved sign, two peacocks, and a canvassed roof, and there it was - the Atitlan Reserva Natural.
Stepped to the information counter. Would I like a zip line tour? Oh my sweat Jesus. For $23, I spent the morning zip lining in and above the misty canopy and the afternoon hiking a trail composed of hanging bridges. I saw spider monkeys, was suspended over a fifty foot waterfall, and watched a Mayan woman tend the crazy looking caterpillars of the reserve´s butterfly garden. The only other tourists I saw were the two Australian girls who finished the zip line tour as I started. The whole experience was so surreal.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Lake Atitlan
On Saturday afternoon, after my final Spanish lesson I boarded - you guessed it - a chicken bus and headed for Panajachel. Panajachel is a city beside a lake.
My guidebooks described Lake Atitlan as picturesque. They´re accurate. Saturday evening I sat on its banks watching clouds roll in over the volcanoes that surround the tranquil water. Today, Monday, I took a boat to the town of San Marcos across the way. Sunday I ran into some Spanish school boys who said they had spent the day swimming there and they had the sunburns to prove it. The water is clear and shines turquious in the afternoon sun, but is a touch too cold for my blood. I contented myself with just dangling my feet in the water as I whiled away the afternoon on a nearly deserted beach watching fishermen bob up and down in little wooden boats.
Tomorrow, I'm off to Nicaragua. The journey will take two days via Tica Bus. I pray that the border crossings go smoothly.
My guidebooks described Lake Atitlan as picturesque. They´re accurate. Saturday evening I sat on its banks watching clouds roll in over the volcanoes that surround the tranquil water. Today, Monday, I took a boat to the town of San Marcos across the way. Sunday I ran into some Spanish school boys who said they had spent the day swimming there and they had the sunburns to prove it. The water is clear and shines turquious in the afternoon sun, but is a touch too cold for my blood. I contented myself with just dangling my feet in the water as I whiled away the afternoon on a nearly deserted beach watching fishermen bob up and down in little wooden boats.
Tomorrow, I'm off to Nicaragua. The journey will take two days via Tica Bus. I pray that the border crossings go smoothly.
The Chicken Bus
I am queen of the Chicken Bus. Ok, thats an all out lie, but I can truthfully say that I do have some Chicken Bus experience under my belt.
First, the particulars. Chicken buses, as I stated before, are retired US school buses that have been given a makeover and everyday zip through the narrow streets of Guatemalan cities. They are the main form of public transportation. Most are painted bright colors, have their destination written graffiti style across the front, and somewhere somehow display the Guatemalan flag and the cross of Jesus Christ. All emit a black cloud of Lord-knows-what when they take off and have a driver that believes the more you honk the horn, the better.
When boarding a chicken bus it is important to remember that no bus is ever considered full. Like when you were a kindergartner, people sit three to a seat, but instead of holding baby-dolls on their laps, the people hold real children. Around the people seated, people line the aisle standing. Its especially comical when the school Bus Rules are still posted inside - number three is no standing while the bus is in motion.
The handling of luggage on chicken buses is also an interesting phenomenon. Most, my pack included, are hoisted up and strapped to the top of the bus. This in-itself is an impressive feat, let alone that its done while the bus is still in motion. It is satisfying to know though that I can, while jogging, take off my pack, lift it to a man clinging to the side, and jump aboard. Some things are allowed inside the bus however. Though I have not seen it with my own eyes, when I asked Aura why the buses were called Chicken buses she simply said, "Because you can take your chicken on the bus."
I have ridden a total of eight chicken buses, and each time I get a little better at it. I no longer have any inhibitions about sitting practically on top of the person next to me, not do I still question wether the young man deemed with the task of collecting bus fare will be able to make it through the hoard of people to the back of the bus. The speed at which a school bus can travel continues to amaze me though.
First, the particulars. Chicken buses, as I stated before, are retired US school buses that have been given a makeover and everyday zip through the narrow streets of Guatemalan cities. They are the main form of public transportation. Most are painted bright colors, have their destination written graffiti style across the front, and somewhere somehow display the Guatemalan flag and the cross of Jesus Christ. All emit a black cloud of Lord-knows-what when they take off and have a driver that believes the more you honk the horn, the better.
When boarding a chicken bus it is important to remember that no bus is ever considered full. Like when you were a kindergartner, people sit three to a seat, but instead of holding baby-dolls on their laps, the people hold real children. Around the people seated, people line the aisle standing. Its especially comical when the school Bus Rules are still posted inside - number three is no standing while the bus is in motion.
The handling of luggage on chicken buses is also an interesting phenomenon. Most, my pack included, are hoisted up and strapped to the top of the bus. This in-itself is an impressive feat, let alone that its done while the bus is still in motion. It is satisfying to know though that I can, while jogging, take off my pack, lift it to a man clinging to the side, and jump aboard. Some things are allowed inside the bus however. Though I have not seen it with my own eyes, when I asked Aura why the buses were called Chicken buses she simply said, "Because you can take your chicken on the bus."
I have ridden a total of eight chicken buses, and each time I get a little better at it. I no longer have any inhibitions about sitting practically on top of the person next to me, not do I still question wether the young man deemed with the task of collecting bus fare will be able to make it through the hoard of people to the back of the bus. The speed at which a school bus can travel continues to amaze me though.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Pictures!!!
That´s right, I set up my own Flickr account and everything. I apologize to all you artistic types - photography was never one of my strong points. They´re below my profile. Check em out.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Volcan Pacaya
Yesterday I climbed a volcano. It was so cool.
It had rained all morning. I was scheduled to climb at 2:00pm. My host mother told me to be careful while I waited out front for the shuttle.
The drive took over an hour through jungle turns - up and up and up. When we got off, kids were pushing recycled walking sticks and renting out their horses. We followed our guide to a fork in the path. With the little Spanish I know, I was able to discern, "This way is easy, but there is less lava - This way is difficult, but there is more lava." Our group, who's majority consisted of American young people, simply chanted "Lava. Lava. Lava." I joined in.
An hour later, we could see it. Volcan Pacaya. It looked like Mount Doom - molten lava ran out its side, jagged rock littered its base, and its top steamed. Our guide demonstrated how to ski down the slope of loose volcanic stone so we could begin the climb to the peak. It wasn't difficult, but some guys got carried away and ended up going head over heels. They were OK - but a bit bloody. Volcanic rock is sharp.
Only a twenty minute trek to go, we stopped for a photo op. I've never seen anything like it. From our vantage point you could see the peaks of three other volcanoes rising through the clouds and steam against the setting sun. Below were green hills and the lights of small towns. Unreal.
We climbed to where the rock glowed red. I was afraid. You could hear the molten rock beneath, feel its heat, and see its glare. Our guide kept telling us to be careful - to only walk where others had walked, and showed us where to step. I made it to the river, where Donald, a civil engineer from Nevada, set his walking stick ablaze and our guide lit a cigarette. It was something to see alright, but I was ready to get off.
Descended through the rain with lightening overhead. The sun had set. With flashlights we followed the trail down the mountain, back to the shuttle. I arrived soaked and hungry, but still in awe.
"You´ll never get that close to lava again," Donald said. "Here, they don't have lawyers."
It had rained all morning. I was scheduled to climb at 2:00pm. My host mother told me to be careful while I waited out front for the shuttle.
The drive took over an hour through jungle turns - up and up and up. When we got off, kids were pushing recycled walking sticks and renting out their horses. We followed our guide to a fork in the path. With the little Spanish I know, I was able to discern, "This way is easy, but there is less lava - This way is difficult, but there is more lava." Our group, who's majority consisted of American young people, simply chanted "Lava. Lava. Lava." I joined in.
An hour later, we could see it. Volcan Pacaya. It looked like Mount Doom - molten lava ran out its side, jagged rock littered its base, and its top steamed. Our guide demonstrated how to ski down the slope of loose volcanic stone so we could begin the climb to the peak. It wasn't difficult, but some guys got carried away and ended up going head over heels. They were OK - but a bit bloody. Volcanic rock is sharp.
Only a twenty minute trek to go, we stopped for a photo op. I've never seen anything like it. From our vantage point you could see the peaks of three other volcanoes rising through the clouds and steam against the setting sun. Below were green hills and the lights of small towns. Unreal.
We climbed to where the rock glowed red. I was afraid. You could hear the molten rock beneath, feel its heat, and see its glare. Our guide kept telling us to be careful - to only walk where others had walked, and showed us where to step. I made it to the river, where Donald, a civil engineer from Nevada, set his walking stick ablaze and our guide lit a cigarette. It was something to see alright, but I was ready to get off.
Descended through the rain with lightening overhead. The sun had set. With flashlights we followed the trail down the mountain, back to the shuttle. I arrived soaked and hungry, but still in awe.
"You´ll never get that close to lava again," Donald said. "Here, they don't have lawyers."
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Independence
Guatemala celebrates its Independence from Spain on September 15th.
For the past three days, people have flooded the streets of Antigua - the former capital city. Every morning, afternoon, and evening school groups from all over the country paraded through the streets. Some wore costumes, some were paired in what seemed to be akin to prom king and queen, and most featured a marching band. Some were better than others. The best were heavy on the xylophone and had members that kicked, spun, and ducked in unison. Groups of children ran the streets carrying torches that looked to be made of nothing more than a stick, a tin can, and some lighter fluid. And on Sunday night an impressive firework display exploded over Parque Central. I watched with some new-found Spanish school friends as we licked ice cream that doesn't hold a candle to gelato, but is good in its own right. Pina Colada is my favorite flavor thus far.
Spanish school is going well. Although I have trouble confusing Spanish verbs with Italian ones - which sometimes works, but most often only earns me disapproving looks from my teacher - I can now order with confidence at restaurants, properly inform a bus driver that I need to get off, and introduce myself. Other than that, I've been working on conquering my fear of large bugs, been personally introduced to Central American machismo, and tomorrow plan to climb a volcano.
For the past three days, people have flooded the streets of Antigua - the former capital city. Every morning, afternoon, and evening school groups from all over the country paraded through the streets. Some wore costumes, some were paired in what seemed to be akin to prom king and queen, and most featured a marching band. Some were better than others. The best were heavy on the xylophone and had members that kicked, spun, and ducked in unison. Groups of children ran the streets carrying torches that looked to be made of nothing more than a stick, a tin can, and some lighter fluid. And on Sunday night an impressive firework display exploded over Parque Central. I watched with some new-found Spanish school friends as we licked ice cream that doesn't hold a candle to gelato, but is good in its own right. Pina Colada is my favorite flavor thus far.
Spanish school is going well. Although I have trouble confusing Spanish verbs with Italian ones - which sometimes works, but most often only earns me disapproving looks from my teacher - I can now order with confidence at restaurants, properly inform a bus driver that I need to get off, and introduce myself. Other than that, I've been working on conquering my fear of large bugs, been personally introduced to Central American machismo, and tomorrow plan to climb a volcano.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Colors
Antigua is a town of colors. My bedroom has white walls, save one. Painted on the wall next to my bed are gray hills around a lake of blue sky.
For lunch today, Beatrice, my host mom, served a delicious meal. Three piles - white, orange, and green covered in red sauce. Hot tortillas too, of course.
Along our street houses stand baby blue, tangerine, and red. Banana tree leaves and purple flowers outstretch their courtyards and, wrapping around the tiled roofs, contrast with the multicolored facades.
Everywhere Mayan women wear embroidered clothes. Bright patterns against brown skin. Wraparound skirts tied with hand sewn belts, babies in colorful slings, and always a bundle balanced atop a headdress.
Above the houses are green hills. Some surround gray volcanoes. At night, fireworks flash purple - Independence is on the 15th.
Tomorrow I have my second Spanish lesson. Last time my teacher, Aura, wore a red shirt and drank coffee from a blue mug. When she laughs she shows all her teeth.
For now, I sit at my desk covered with a stripped clothe watching the sun go down on Antigua, a town of colors.
For lunch today, Beatrice, my host mom, served a delicious meal. Three piles - white, orange, and green covered in red sauce. Hot tortillas too, of course.
Along our street houses stand baby blue, tangerine, and red. Banana tree leaves and purple flowers outstretch their courtyards and, wrapping around the tiled roofs, contrast with the multicolored facades.
Everywhere Mayan women wear embroidered clothes. Bright patterns against brown skin. Wraparound skirts tied with hand sewn belts, babies in colorful slings, and always a bundle balanced atop a headdress.
Above the houses are green hills. Some surround gray volcanoes. At night, fireworks flash purple - Independence is on the 15th.
Tomorrow I have my second Spanish lesson. Last time my teacher, Aura, wore a red shirt and drank coffee from a blue mug. When she laughs she shows all her teeth.
For now, I sit at my desk covered with a stripped clothe watching the sun go down on Antigua, a town of colors.
Spanish School
After two nights in the capital, it was time to leave. I had told the Montes' I planned to head to Antigua - a town known for its colonial architecture, volcanoes, and Spanish schools. My destination turned out to be all I planned that day. Everything else just kind of happened.
Jose knew I wanted to go to Antigua. So Thursday morning we got in the car and drove. I expected a bus station. In Mexico, if you want to go somewhere you go to the bus station. Speaking Spanish isn't necessary - you just go to the big building with all the buses parked out back. Jose pulled over at a gas station and walked to the side of the road.
Before I had taken my pack out of the car, he had flagged down a chicken bus - a retired US school bus with a paint job - and I was being jostled on board.
An hour later, still marveling at the speed and agility I never thought capable of a school bus, I was following the flow of people through a crowded market - pack and all. I was lost, and I looked it. A man asked me if I spoke Spanish in Spanish. Nope. Ingles? Si.
He had been a Spanish professor in Massachusetts for three years and ran a Spanish school four blocks down. I decided to check it out. For $30 a day, I could have a five hour private Spanish lesson and stay with a local family for the next ten days. I thought it over, decided I was tired of communicating with hand gestures, and signed up.
So, here's to Spanish school.
Jose knew I wanted to go to Antigua. So Thursday morning we got in the car and drove. I expected a bus station. In Mexico, if you want to go somewhere you go to the bus station. Speaking Spanish isn't necessary - you just go to the big building with all the buses parked out back. Jose pulled over at a gas station and walked to the side of the road.
Before I had taken my pack out of the car, he had flagged down a chicken bus - a retired US school bus with a paint job - and I was being jostled on board.
An hour later, still marveling at the speed and agility I never thought capable of a school bus, I was following the flow of people through a crowded market - pack and all. I was lost, and I looked it. A man asked me if I spoke Spanish in Spanish. Nope. Ingles? Si.
He had been a Spanish professor in Massachusetts for three years and ran a Spanish school four blocks down. I decided to check it out. For $30 a day, I could have a five hour private Spanish lesson and stay with a local family for the next ten days. I thought it over, decided I was tired of communicating with hand gestures, and signed up.
So, here's to Spanish school.
The Road to Guatemala
On Monday, I left for Guatemala. From Oaxaca it´s a nineteen hour journey by bus. I broke the trip in Tapachula, a border town, where after having spent a restless night on board I splurged and paid a whopping $18 for a room in a hotel. I spent the day frolicking in privacy and watching movies in English on my very own TV.
At 7:00am, Tica Bus set off. I wasn't prepared for the border. But with some help I made it through. On board they played really horrible Sylvester Stallone movies. Six hours worth. Why they were in English I don't know, but wish they hadn´t been.
My guidebooks describe Guatemala City as big, dirty, and dangerous - and, well, that sums it up pretty accurately. Fortunately, I had requested to stay with what turned out to be a Godsend of a host family.
Their names are Jose and Sofia Montes, and they have two children - a boy of seven and a girl, three. They live in a gorgeous house a 30 minute drive from the city. Jose picked me up at the Tica Bus terminal. He was a very welcome sight.
At 7:00am, Tica Bus set off. I wasn't prepared for the border. But with some help I made it through. On board they played really horrible Sylvester Stallone movies. Six hours worth. Why they were in English I don't know, but wish they hadn´t been.
My guidebooks describe Guatemala City as big, dirty, and dangerous - and, well, that sums it up pretty accurately. Fortunately, I had requested to stay with what turned out to be a Godsend of a host family.
Their names are Jose and Sofia Montes, and they have two children - a boy of seven and a girl, three. They live in a gorgeous house a 30 minute drive from the city. Jose picked me up at the Tica Bus terminal. He was a very welcome sight.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Oaxaca
Oaxaca (six hours south of Mexico City by overnight bus) is known for two things: chocolate, the kind you drink, and mole, a very complicated paste made from over twenty ingredients, including chocolate.
So, the whole not speaking Spanish thing makes life interesting. The essentials are fine - everyone understands I need a place to sleep, something to eat, and I have to go to the bathroom - but asking for/purchasing things in an open market is kind of beyond my skillty.
I told myself I had to try them both. The chocolate was no problem. You can smell it while you walk down the street, and in the stores they give you samples of everything. Just match the label to what you like best and purchase - simple and delicious.
The mole was a different story. First off, its a paste that's meant to be put on/cooked with something. Oaxaca is known for its mole tamales. They mentioned them several times in my guidebook.
I had almost given up hope. I went to the vendors the guidebook recommended, but they weren't there - it had rained all day. It was my last morning. I went to the front desk of my hostel to ask about checkout. The wife of the man who owned the place - a very animated woman, who enjoyed speaking to me in broken English - told me it was at 11 am, but I could store my pack all day for 30 pesos. I thanked her, and headed for the door, which must have confused her because she asked where I was going. I rubbed my stomach, and before I could say supermarket we were out the door. You like tamales?
I hustled after her as she wound her way through the crowded market. She didn't look back until she found a woman sitting against a wall handing different colored steaming sacks to a small crowd of people. When it was my guides turn, she looked at me expectantly. Mole was all I could think to say. She ordered. Somewhere in the exchange, I ended up with two dulce tamales and one mole negro.
I skipped all the way back to the hostel, my prize buried beneath layers of corn husk. The dulce ones were dulce indeed - checkered red with a raisin in each. The mole is difficult to describe - it had chicken/meat in it, that I know for sure. They were both wonderful.
So, the whole not speaking Spanish thing makes life interesting. The essentials are fine - everyone understands I need a place to sleep, something to eat, and I have to go to the bathroom - but asking for/purchasing things in an open market is kind of beyond my skillty.
I told myself I had to try them both. The chocolate was no problem. You can smell it while you walk down the street, and in the stores they give you samples of everything. Just match the label to what you like best and purchase - simple and delicious.
The mole was a different story. First off, its a paste that's meant to be put on/cooked with something. Oaxaca is known for its mole tamales. They mentioned them several times in my guidebook.
I had almost given up hope. I went to the vendors the guidebook recommended, but they weren't there - it had rained all day. It was my last morning. I went to the front desk of my hostel to ask about checkout. The wife of the man who owned the place - a very animated woman, who enjoyed speaking to me in broken English - told me it was at 11 am, but I could store my pack all day for 30 pesos. I thanked her, and headed for the door, which must have confused her because she asked where I was going. I rubbed my stomach, and before I could say supermarket we were out the door. You like tamales?
I hustled after her as she wound her way through the crowded market. She didn't look back until she found a woman sitting against a wall handing different colored steaming sacks to a small crowd of people. When it was my guides turn, she looked at me expectantly. Mole was all I could think to say. She ordered. Somewhere in the exchange, I ended up with two dulce tamales and one mole negro.
I skipped all the way back to the hostel, my prize buried beneath layers of corn husk. The dulce ones were dulce indeed - checkered red with a raisin in each. The mole is difficult to describe - it had chicken/meat in it, that I know for sure. They were both wonderful.
Friday, September 5, 2008
The Stairs
The time had come for me to leave Huehuecoyotl. I woke bright and early Thursday morning - again to the sound of roosters - packed my bag, and set off for Odin´s house to pay my fare and bid him farewell.
On route, I said good morning to Olivier, Florence, and Gabriel - the lovely French family who had spent the night in Odin´s studio. Gabriel, who will be one on Monday, waved to me as I followed Odin to his house. Though I had planned to head to Mexico City early and get a jump on the six hour bus trip to Oaxaca, after discussing my plans with Odin we decided it would be best to take the overnight bus, meaning I didn´t need to arrive in Mexico City till late.
Not really wanting to spend another day at Huehuecoyotl - it´s lovely, but rainy season doesn´t hold much activity - I doodled back towards Odin´s studio. After asking after my plans, Olivier, who was standing out front, invited me to join his family for the day. They planned to spend it in Tepozltan before heading back to Mexico City around 6:30.
It worked out perfectly, I rode with them down to Tepozltan, where we stored our stuff and headed for the market. Olivier, who spoke to his wife in French, talked to me in English, and addressed everyone else in Spanish, walked me through the menu and ordered for us at a "restaurant" that Florence told me was excellent - they had eaten there the day before. I had a quesadilla with cactus - Oh just you wait, throughout the course of the day I also drank cactus, tried crickets, and discovered that I love quesadillas con papa (potatoes) with cheese, cream, and salsa verde.
After lunch we set off to see Tepozltan´s pyramid, which legend has it is often visited by UFOs. Olivier said the trek would take an hour. To be honest, I didn´t think anything of it - I´m young, semi-active - I´d be fine. Lord have Mercy! Sorry to bust out a LOTR reference, but you remember that sceen where Gollum leads Frodo and Sam into Mordor by way of the secret stair? Yeah. I kept waiting for my butter knife to glow blue and Shelob to appear. We climbed 1,800 meters. I reached the top soaked and out of breath - how Olivier did it carrying a baby and a backpack is beyond me.
The pyramid itself is quiet nice - it was very tranquil up in the misty forest - no UFO sightings though. We left for Mexico City that evening and Florence and Olivier graciously let me shower in their hotel room before I caught the night bus. Now, Friday morning, I plan on moving in only the horizontal direction for the rest of the day.
On route, I said good morning to Olivier, Florence, and Gabriel - the lovely French family who had spent the night in Odin´s studio. Gabriel, who will be one on Monday, waved to me as I followed Odin to his house. Though I had planned to head to Mexico City early and get a jump on the six hour bus trip to Oaxaca, after discussing my plans with Odin we decided it would be best to take the overnight bus, meaning I didn´t need to arrive in Mexico City till late.
Not really wanting to spend another day at Huehuecoyotl - it´s lovely, but rainy season doesn´t hold much activity - I doodled back towards Odin´s studio. After asking after my plans, Olivier, who was standing out front, invited me to join his family for the day. They planned to spend it in Tepozltan before heading back to Mexico City around 6:30.
It worked out perfectly, I rode with them down to Tepozltan, where we stored our stuff and headed for the market. Olivier, who spoke to his wife in French, talked to me in English, and addressed everyone else in Spanish, walked me through the menu and ordered for us at a "restaurant" that Florence told me was excellent - they had eaten there the day before. I had a quesadilla with cactus - Oh just you wait, throughout the course of the day I also drank cactus, tried crickets, and discovered that I love quesadillas con papa (potatoes) with cheese, cream, and salsa verde.
After lunch we set off to see Tepozltan´s pyramid, which legend has it is often visited by UFOs. Olivier said the trek would take an hour. To be honest, I didn´t think anything of it - I´m young, semi-active - I´d be fine. Lord have Mercy! Sorry to bust out a LOTR reference, but you remember that sceen where Gollum leads Frodo and Sam into Mordor by way of the secret stair? Yeah. I kept waiting for my butter knife to glow blue and Shelob to appear. We climbed 1,800 meters. I reached the top soaked and out of breath - how Olivier did it carrying a baby and a backpack is beyond me.
The pyramid itself is quiet nice - it was very tranquil up in the misty forest - no UFO sightings though. We left for Mexico City that evening and Florence and Olivier graciously let me shower in their hotel room before I caught the night bus. Now, Friday morning, I plan on moving in only the horizontal direction for the rest of the day.
Thunder in the Night
I had underestimated the rainy season.
It started around 7:30pm. I was in the community theater cornrowing my hair with a mirror I had borrowed from Odin´s son. It was getting too dark to see - odd for 7:30. It came in a hurry - rain, flash, and answer louder than a cannon. I jumped in my chair. Clutching the mirror to my side, I ran out, around, and up the stairs to the open dormitory I was to sleep in. I turned on the compact fluorescents hanging beneath the three Japanese lamps, told myself it would pass quickly, and started braiding once again.
It didn´t.
The thunder kept me jumping until 10:30, when I gave up hope of waiting for it to pass, donned my rain jacket, put my toothbrush, soap, and toilet paper in a plastic bag and made a mad dash to the dry toilet. Having only a fly screen between the pot and someone´s garden is an experience in itself, going in a thunderstorm was exhilarating to say the least. I needn't have bothered with the face soap - by the time I reached the toilet water was dripping from my chin and the outdoor sink seemed rather redundant. Deciding my teeth would forgive me, I dashed back up the stairs, my little flashlight illuminating the path when the lightening ceased and made it inside soaked through.
The storm continued well into the night. I could still see lightening flashes when I closed my eyes around one. When I woke this morning - to a rooster believe it or not - the sun shown on a lush green landscape. Rainy season indeed.
It started around 7:30pm. I was in the community theater cornrowing my hair with a mirror I had borrowed from Odin´s son. It was getting too dark to see - odd for 7:30. It came in a hurry - rain, flash, and answer louder than a cannon. I jumped in my chair. Clutching the mirror to my side, I ran out, around, and up the stairs to the open dormitory I was to sleep in. I turned on the compact fluorescents hanging beneath the three Japanese lamps, told myself it would pass quickly, and started braiding once again.
It didn´t.
The thunder kept me jumping until 10:30, when I gave up hope of waiting for it to pass, donned my rain jacket, put my toothbrush, soap, and toilet paper in a plastic bag and made a mad dash to the dry toilet. Having only a fly screen between the pot and someone´s garden is an experience in itself, going in a thunderstorm was exhilarating to say the least. I needn't have bothered with the face soap - by the time I reached the toilet water was dripping from my chin and the outdoor sink seemed rather redundant. Deciding my teeth would forgive me, I dashed back up the stairs, my little flashlight illuminating the path when the lightening ceased and made it inside soaked through.
The storm continued well into the night. I could still see lightening flashes when I closed my eyes around one. When I woke this morning - to a rooster believe it or not - the sun shown on a lush green landscape. Rainy season indeed.
Polar Opposites
Tuesday morning I packed my bulging backpack, bid my wonderful Mexico City hosts farewell, and boarded a bus bound for the small town of Tepozltan. The hour and a half passed quickly, I spent much of it marveling at the Mexican countryside, which is greener than I ever imagined it could be, and watching/singing quietly along with the movie Hairspray, which was playing on the bus´s entertainment system. I had done research on an Ecovillage called Huehuecoyotl, and had been given instructions from the man who responded to my request to stay to take a taxi from the Tepozltan bus stop. The taxi driver looked quizzically at the address before we set off, but assured me he knew the place. We drove, and drove, and drove, and after I asked how much farther we drove some more. Finally, we pulled up to a very stylish green wroth iron gate that in its curves formed the word Huehuecoyotl. We passed through and up a slight hill to find several yellow masonry, red shingled houses picturesquely nestled into the base of a mountain (not the type with snow, think along the lines of a large shear rock.)
A man with curly brown hair and blue eyes stepped down from a patio and greeted me. His name is Odin Ruz, he had responded to my email. You´ve come during the rainy season - nothing much is happening, he explained as he showed me to the dormitory. Afterwards we sat on his patio and had a long conversation about the ecovillage´s history, what it´s doing to educate people about sustainability, who its residents are, and how it works. When we finished he looked at me tranquilly and said - well, you´re free to walk about the gardens and ask any questions you wish of the residents, most of which should be home. Other than that, there´s a path that leads up into the mountains. So, enjoy. - If I needed anything he would be at his studio.
I spent the day wandering through gardens, climbing the mountain, and watching hummingbirds and the largest butterflies I´ve ever seen pollinate flowering trees. The only sounds I heard were the chirping of birds and the barking of dogs. Mexico City has a population of 24 million. This is quite different.
For more info about Huehuecoyotl check it out at www.huehuecoyotl.net.
A man with curly brown hair and blue eyes stepped down from a patio and greeted me. His name is Odin Ruz, he had responded to my email. You´ve come during the rainy season - nothing much is happening, he explained as he showed me to the dormitory. Afterwards we sat on his patio and had a long conversation about the ecovillage´s history, what it´s doing to educate people about sustainability, who its residents are, and how it works. When we finished he looked at me tranquilly and said - well, you´re free to walk about the gardens and ask any questions you wish of the residents, most of which should be home. Other than that, there´s a path that leads up into the mountains. So, enjoy. - If I needed anything he would be at his studio.
I spent the day wandering through gardens, climbing the mountain, and watching hummingbirds and the largest butterflies I´ve ever seen pollinate flowering trees. The only sounds I heard were the chirping of birds and the barking of dogs. Mexico City has a population of 24 million. This is quite different.
For more info about Huehuecoyotl check it out at www.huehuecoyotl.net.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Mexico for Security
We marched in the rain. Mexican rain though, not the kind you are thinking of. Not the slow sustained Northwest drizzle I am so accustomed to. This kind comes in big angry drops after the lightning nearly every afternoon, but lasts only for a moment. The street vendors start selling blue plastic ponchos. I think it´s kind of funny.
Mexico for Security. A march of citizens dressed in white one million strong streamed toward the Circulo. The wife of my host had teared up explaining why. Horrible things – the fourteen-year-old son of a long-time friend gone, taken rather, two years he´s been missing. The protesters clap a slow triplet and chant Meh-he-co! Policemen in their finest array line the streets. Hector tells me this is an important day. That I am lucky to be here, to see the city in such a way. I´ve never seen so many people.
Mexico for Security. A march of citizens dressed in white one million strong streamed toward the Circulo. The wife of my host had teared up explaining why. Horrible things – the fourteen-year-old son of a long-time friend gone, taken rather, two years he´s been missing. The protesters clap a slow triplet and chant Meh-he-co! Policemen in their finest array line the streets. Hector tells me this is an important day. That I am lucky to be here, to see the city in such a way. I´ve never seen so many people.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Safe in Mexico City!
Well I`m here. Sorry about `, but I can`t find the apostrophe key on this keyboard. At this very moment I`m preparing to go meet my first host family, which grieves me slightly because it means I will be leaving the cleanest, nicest, cheapest hostel I´ve ever stayed in. Coyote Flaco Backpackers, should you ever be in Mexico City.
Yesterday I ventured to Teotihuacan, and along the way learned my first important travel lesson – one should know the value of the local currency. Not that I´m blaming anyone, but the whole misadventure began when, still in the United States, I called my bank to inform them I would be using my debit card abroad. The teller very politely informed me that my request for foreign travel would take two business days to process. That´s fair right? Fairness aside, this information proved problematic, for I had waited until the day before I left to call. But I sucked it up – got some pesos in the Phoenix Airport and decided they would just have to last until Saturday. Well, they didn`t – only I didn`t know that until I stepped through the gates of Teotihuacan and realized that after admission I hadn`t enough pesos to pay the bus fair back to Mexico City. I had been confusing the amount of zeros used in USDs and pesos for the past couple of days, it just seemed a bummer that this confusion would come to a head while sitting atop the Pyramid of the Sun (which is magnificent by the way – steep, but magnificent).
So there I was walking along the Avenue of the Vendors, excuse me the Avenue of the Dead, estimating how long it would take me to walk the hour bus trip back to the capital, when I heard a set of familiar accents behind me. They went to Georgetown and where happy to trade me the $3 for 30 pesos I would need for a bus ticket back. I had to reframe from hugging them as we parted in front of the Pyramid of the Moon.
I visited an ATM this morning, had no problems, and vow to never be without again.
Yesterday I ventured to Teotihuacan, and along the way learned my first important travel lesson – one should know the value of the local currency. Not that I´m blaming anyone, but the whole misadventure began when, still in the United States, I called my bank to inform them I would be using my debit card abroad. The teller very politely informed me that my request for foreign travel would take two business days to process. That´s fair right? Fairness aside, this information proved problematic, for I had waited until the day before I left to call. But I sucked it up – got some pesos in the Phoenix Airport and decided they would just have to last until Saturday. Well, they didn`t – only I didn`t know that until I stepped through the gates of Teotihuacan and realized that after admission I hadn`t enough pesos to pay the bus fair back to Mexico City. I had been confusing the amount of zeros used in USDs and pesos for the past couple of days, it just seemed a bummer that this confusion would come to a head while sitting atop the Pyramid of the Sun (which is magnificent by the way – steep, but magnificent).
So there I was walking along the Avenue of the Vendors, excuse me the Avenue of the Dead, estimating how long it would take me to walk the hour bus trip back to the capital, when I heard a set of familiar accents behind me. They went to Georgetown and where happy to trade me the $3 for 30 pesos I would need for a bus ticket back. I had to reframe from hugging them as we parted in front of the Pyramid of the Moon.
I visited an ATM this morning, had no problems, and vow to never be without again.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Countdown to Thursday!
That's right, I setoff on my quest Thursday the 28th. I leave Portland in the wee hours of the morning and arrive in Mexico City at 4:00pm. After two months of reading guidebooks, applying for visas, and daydreaming, I'm ready. Here goes!
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