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!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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.
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