All this writing these past weeks have left me with a writer´s cramp. Therefore, I have called in a guest writer all the way from China that small country tucked away down there. Jed has taken to a new sport besides setting the record of doing research in only your boxer shorts. Enjoy.
What I think I'm enjoying most right now in my China life is my burgeoning athletic career. I wake up at 6:15 every morning and go and play Chinese hackysack with this group of grizzled old dudes down in Ditan (temple of the earth) park. I'm pretty F'ing good; modesty be damned.
One of these guys I've been playing with has been talking to me about "Chinese-style wrestling" for the longest time, so a few weekends ago I thought I'd give it a try. Fast forward to today: I have made a terrible mistake. I'm bruised. I'm battered. But I've become the star attraction at the weekly 2-day tournament. Here's how "Chinese-style wrestling" goes down: two dudes, both wearing traditional wrestling vests cinched tightly with cloth belts, square off in a 16ft dirt circle. The key in Chinese wrestling is "fist work;" to get a good hand grip on your opponent. And the objective is simply to throw your opponent to the ground or push him out of the ring. There's no punching, no kicking, it's just pushing and pulling on each other's vests and attempting leg sweeps. It's scored: one point if you both fall, two points if one of you is still standing, and three points if you still have your cigarette clenched between your yellowed, scraggly man-teeth. Arrrgh!
The first time I showed up, the call went out to scour the park in search of a sporting opponent. I was poked and prodded and asked how many push ups I can do. Bear in mind "push up" is a euphemism for sexual prowess in China. We did not know that, Dude. After much mocking about my lowly number, I was paired up against this 55 year old, who was a good 4 inches shorter than me. Seemingly impossible, I know. (midget jokes, ha. ha. . . . ha.) Dude was 160 lbs and all muscle. Our bout, which is scored to 10, lasted about 6 minutes and went something like this:
Jed: Ok. I'm just gonna' play defensive. Let him come to me and use his ....AKH!
Him: Grunt ::sticks leg behind me, shoves me over::
Crowd: ::unconcealed mirth at my defeat::
Repeat 10 times.
I was sore as anything, but laughing stupidly the entire time. It was actually really funny standing up and getting thrown down in this constant repetitive stream. He kept somehow getting inside my guard and just flipping me over his hip. Just stalling and trying to hold the guy off was one of the most grueling exercise experiences I've had in a long time. I did not realize I had muscles in my palm that could seize up. I now have random strangers coming up to me in the park -- and on the street in odd places -- giving me advice about "fist work" and telling me I'll only get better if I practice and listen to my teacher. Gotta' love China.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Banal Tale
It has been weeks since I have shared my experiences with you and for a brief update, we are currently in Mancora, Peru enjoying our (well my) last days of holiday. Usually through the last five months, I have been able give you anecdotes of our experiences that move away from the banal..."then we went here....and then we went there and ate that..." Yet, over the past three weeks, there has been a certain void of anything exciting to mention or relate. So, you´re welcome, I have saved you from certain boredom. Sam and I have come to the end of our holiday road. While living in Mancora, a beach town in Northern Peru, constantly has the holiday vibe, we have come with a mission to set up our life for the next year or beyond. In all honestly, there have been effermeral moments of activity the last three weeks: we went to the championship baseball game of Granada and Esteli in Granada, walking the boardwalk in Guayaquil, doing two land border crossings. However, we were spent, literally with our budget and our spirits and most of the time took time for ourselves. We had seen all that we could. We came to Mancora to get our roots down. Coming to Mancora has been a bit of whirlwind, but has settled down. We have set ourselves up with an awesome family here which is so beneficial for speaking Spanish and feeling like part of the community. The best part is the father Tato, retired only in employment. He has so much energy and is full stories which most of the time, Sam and I can only decipher 40 percent of the story. He ends his story or his advice of the day with, and sometimes in the middle of his speech, with a WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, always. He is full energy and greets us in the morning with a soldier´s "Hello, howare (joined words) you" That is the extent of his english. It is great practice for both of us and a scary insight to how I probably sound to people when I speak English minus the WOOOOOOOOOO at the end. The mother, Maritza, is the care taker and is always too accomodating giving us food when the family eats and helping us with our conversational spanish. She also will speak her mind, but defers to Tato when he gets rolling.
Aside from family life, Sam has been trying to get some semblance of an income which is tough in a small beach town, We have been told it is hard for a foreigner to get a job, yet Sam has already been hired at a bar and then quit two days later. She has now taken up teaching English to a Peruvian kid, who would rather have hot coal pokers stuck in him then learn. More teaching jobs have sprung up thanks to some friends we have met here and Sam will be able to float by hopefully for the next six months or so. She will be primarily working for Technoserve, a volunteer organization, online then doing field work for them in six months. As for me, I am getting more and more excited to start training and get to meet the staff and kids at Mama Cocha. For those of you who dont know, I will be project director of their Mama Cocha/ Early Bird Center here in Mancora for the Kiya Survivors organization: kiyasurvivors.org. I am nervous to begin, but I know that this will be an immense challenge, but an absolutely rewarding one on all levels.
Aside from family life, Sam has been trying to get some semblance of an income which is tough in a small beach town, We have been told it is hard for a foreigner to get a job, yet Sam has already been hired at a bar and then quit two days later. She has now taken up teaching English to a Peruvian kid, who would rather have hot coal pokers stuck in him then learn. More teaching jobs have sprung up thanks to some friends we have met here and Sam will be able to float by hopefully for the next six months or so. She will be primarily working for Technoserve, a volunteer organization, online then doing field work for them in six months. As for me, I am getting more and more excited to start training and get to meet the staff and kids at Mama Cocha. For those of you who dont know, I will be project director of their Mama Cocha/ Early Bird Center here in Mancora for the Kiya Survivors organization: kiyasurvivors.org. I am nervous to begin, but I know that this will be an immense challenge, but an absolutely rewarding one on all levels.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Reflection of Frustrating Things
I looked at Sam last night as Granada's night life swept by us and wondered how we got here and that coming to Granada, let alone Nicaragua, was not even in our plans two weeks ago. We are in the last throes of this five month travel holiday as we are off to Peru so I can start work.
Our Nicaraguan experience started just over the Costa Rican Border in San Juan del Sur. We stayed in San Juan del Sur with my friend Zach Lunin, who has married an unbelievably awesome Nicaraguan woman and has set up a business in reality- http://www.aurorabeachfront.com/ in San Juan and all over Nicaragua. Traveling around town with Zach was something special, because Zach only had one hand on the steering wheel, the other in a continual waving motion to other people he knew. He knew every property 50 kms to the north and to the south. He was the living almanac of property values and ownership of this town and surrounding area. He knows the back stories behind the ownership (some clean, some dirty shrouded in corruption or mystery.) Through this property knowledge we learned about and became interested in the history of Nicaragua. It makes our traveling much easier since we have an understanding of Nicaraguan politics and how they are applied to what is happening in Honduras now. I am reading La Prensa, the historically liberal newspaper of Nicaragua, and their view on the whole situation is quite belligerent, and to an extent, inflamatory. Charicatures of Zelaya in regards to his association with Chavez and the others in his ALBA union are shown daily. They depict that Zelaya is just another cronie in the whole Chavez plan. What's more is that Daniel Ortega, the main leader of the 1979 Sandanista movement and current president, is trying the same card as Zelaya- he is trying to enact a constitutional reform to keep him - or the Sandanista party - in power forever. For many in the country and according to La Prensa, this is unacceptable. It spits in the theory of the true 1979 revolution. One opinion writer poignantly wrote that the Sandanista Revolution was based in throwing out a despot(Somoza- who FDR famosly described as a SOB but he is our SOB) because his corrupt regime had been in power too long. Now, the Sandanistas are going against their own philosphical tenants and trying to entrench themselves in power, which is what, in part, they rebelled against 30 years ago. Whatever romanticism is left with the revolution is now gone. I could go on about the history of brutality, from the US, Somoza and the Sandanistas, but I believe I heard a couple of heads slam against their key board in boredom.
Welcome back, I would suggest before reading further to wipe away the F key that has become stuck to your face after the face plant. After traveling for so long, there seems to be some recurring (and as this title points out, Frustrating Things that are unavoidable when traveling).
I dare you to leave your hotel/hostel without a map and then pick some arbitary business or semi unknown monument and 1) find out where it is 2) see what time it is open. This process is pretty much impossible. As Sam and I have seen, we always get contradictory answers, sometimes with so much conviction a person will tell us the place is closed or doesn't exist when in truth, it does and has been open for a solid 30 years. Some people just have no idea. However Sam and I have devised a full proof plan. One, when we go out, we wear a trench coat and old 1940's newsman hat, when being a detective one has dress for the part. We have an idea where or what block to go to, so we ask shop attendants in the area. The key is not to ask one, but upwards of three to four different people and from their information piece the clues together. Sometimes you call the witness again to give their testimony twice or three times to fully guarantee succes. Often their memory will change depending on the minute so it is better to get concrete answers. For example, our travel computer is dead. Our Hostel told us their is no computer service here. Without getting down, we investigated. It turns out their is one, but a few blocks away. We went to the computer shop in question and it was closed. Seeing that the adjacent shop- a Camera store - was open we went in to inquire further. There are just far too many tourists here for computer repair serivce not to be readily available. The camera lady full of conviction (or frustration that we were ruining her tv time?) told us that there was only stores like that in Managua. Saying thank you and telling her we could be i touch for another statement, we stepped out of the store, looked across the street, and there was a sign that advertised computer services. Again, most of the time it is in the area where you believe the place to be, just keep asking. Part of the problem is that directions in Nicaragua are based on monuments, certain focal points rather than actual street numbers. Suyen, Zach's wife, explained that their address is 10 houses east of the restaurant El Timon. Sounds fun huh? So to find X cafe, you got to turn left at the bagel shop then walk three blocks to the stationary store, and it should be across from Juan, the local hot dog seller, unless it is Tuesday, Wednesday or really any dau fo the week, becuase Juan works when Juan works.
Adding to the confusion is that locals focus on their immediate surroundings, like most of us do when comfortable in a place, and most of the time tourist inquiries and destinations are way out of that surrounding. Ask me how to get to the USS Constitution in Boston and I am in same boat. We have grown accostumed to this minor delay and always make sure we get at least four testimonials from locals before preceeding.
Finally, traveling in a Spanish speaking country presents quite the ironic situation. Obviously everywhere you turn people are speaking Spanish, this is super for building my converstaional skills, but sometimes I want to read a book in Spanish in my own privacy. This is the quandry. Every place we stay only has books in English - most of the time cheesy romantic novels and novels that you question who was reading this book and the value of tv. The few Spanish books that are available are ones lean towards... the battle between Christ and Satan or is God with you? Inspiring reading for some, but I'll pass. It is quite unbelievable to me since a lot of places offer Spanish teaching and books are a super way to learn. What really shocked me was going into a cafe that was also a book store as well in San Juan. This was the most well stocked store I have seen in a while, two huge book shelves two meters long dominated the cafe. Excited by the prospect of getting a good Spanish book, I perused the books.
To fully understand what transpired, I will give you this pertinent ancedote. When I was in Australia, I had the opportunity to go to Tasmania, which is part of Australia and is the island below the mainland. Mainlanders make fun of people from Tasmania for being backwards and behind the times and Tasmanians, for their part, are fiercely proud that they are from Tasmania. When I was there with my mom and our neighbor Jane, we went to a restaurant to enjoy some good italian food. The wine list was given to me and I saw how the different bottles were broken down
Italian
Australian
Tasmanian
Interesting since inherently Tasmanian wine IS Australian wine. Therefore making the menu utterly redundant and full of spite.
This pecularity presented itself again in the book store. The majority of books were in English, however, in a small section there was a shelf dedicated to foreign languages. Failing to find the Spanish section, I asked about where I could find Spanish books thinking there was its own section. Guess what, Spanish books were in foreign language section. Incredulously, I asked why, by the way I asked this question in Spanish, to which I got shrugs and small timid laughter and an answer, again in Spanish, that it is just like that. In this pervese cafe world, Spanish was a foreign language, even though the menu was in Spanish and all the waitresses spoke Spanish and we are in Nicaragua.
My only solution for this problem is to keep looking, put on my detective garb and see if any street hustler is selling Spanish books, possibly like illegal drugs, for a " a good price."
Our Nicaraguan experience started just over the Costa Rican Border in San Juan del Sur. We stayed in San Juan del Sur with my friend Zach Lunin, who has married an unbelievably awesome Nicaraguan woman and has set up a business in reality- http://www.aurorabeachfront.com/ in San Juan and all over Nicaragua. Traveling around town with Zach was something special, because Zach only had one hand on the steering wheel, the other in a continual waving motion to other people he knew. He knew every property 50 kms to the north and to the south. He was the living almanac of property values and ownership of this town and surrounding area. He knows the back stories behind the ownership (some clean, some dirty shrouded in corruption or mystery.) Through this property knowledge we learned about and became interested in the history of Nicaragua. It makes our traveling much easier since we have an understanding of Nicaraguan politics and how they are applied to what is happening in Honduras now. I am reading La Prensa, the historically liberal newspaper of Nicaragua, and their view on the whole situation is quite belligerent, and to an extent, inflamatory. Charicatures of Zelaya in regards to his association with Chavez and the others in his ALBA union are shown daily. They depict that Zelaya is just another cronie in the whole Chavez plan. What's more is that Daniel Ortega, the main leader of the 1979 Sandanista movement and current president, is trying the same card as Zelaya- he is trying to enact a constitutional reform to keep him - or the Sandanista party - in power forever. For many in the country and according to La Prensa, this is unacceptable. It spits in the theory of the true 1979 revolution. One opinion writer poignantly wrote that the Sandanista Revolution was based in throwing out a despot(Somoza- who FDR famosly described as a SOB but he is our SOB) because his corrupt regime had been in power too long. Now, the Sandanistas are going against their own philosphical tenants and trying to entrench themselves in power, which is what, in part, they rebelled against 30 years ago. Whatever romanticism is left with the revolution is now gone. I could go on about the history of brutality, from the US, Somoza and the Sandanistas, but I believe I heard a couple of heads slam against their key board in boredom.
Welcome back, I would suggest before reading further to wipe away the F key that has become stuck to your face after the face plant. After traveling for so long, there seems to be some recurring (and as this title points out, Frustrating Things that are unavoidable when traveling).
I dare you to leave your hotel/hostel without a map and then pick some arbitary business or semi unknown monument and 1) find out where it is 2) see what time it is open. This process is pretty much impossible. As Sam and I have seen, we always get contradictory answers, sometimes with so much conviction a person will tell us the place is closed or doesn't exist when in truth, it does and has been open for a solid 30 years. Some people just have no idea. However Sam and I have devised a full proof plan. One, when we go out, we wear a trench coat and old 1940's newsman hat, when being a detective one has dress for the part. We have an idea where or what block to go to, so we ask shop attendants in the area. The key is not to ask one, but upwards of three to four different people and from their information piece the clues together. Sometimes you call the witness again to give their testimony twice or three times to fully guarantee succes. Often their memory will change depending on the minute so it is better to get concrete answers. For example, our travel computer is dead. Our Hostel told us their is no computer service here. Without getting down, we investigated. It turns out their is one, but a few blocks away. We went to the computer shop in question and it was closed. Seeing that the adjacent shop- a Camera store - was open we went in to inquire further. There are just far too many tourists here for computer repair serivce not to be readily available. The camera lady full of conviction (or frustration that we were ruining her tv time?) told us that there was only stores like that in Managua. Saying thank you and telling her we could be i touch for another statement, we stepped out of the store, looked across the street, and there was a sign that advertised computer services. Again, most of the time it is in the area where you believe the place to be, just keep asking. Part of the problem is that directions in Nicaragua are based on monuments, certain focal points rather than actual street numbers. Suyen, Zach's wife, explained that their address is 10 houses east of the restaurant El Timon. Sounds fun huh? So to find X cafe, you got to turn left at the bagel shop then walk three blocks to the stationary store, and it should be across from Juan, the local hot dog seller, unless it is Tuesday, Wednesday or really any dau fo the week, becuase Juan works when Juan works.
Adding to the confusion is that locals focus on their immediate surroundings, like most of us do when comfortable in a place, and most of the time tourist inquiries and destinations are way out of that surrounding. Ask me how to get to the USS Constitution in Boston and I am in same boat. We have grown accostumed to this minor delay and always make sure we get at least four testimonials from locals before preceeding.
Finally, traveling in a Spanish speaking country presents quite the ironic situation. Obviously everywhere you turn people are speaking Spanish, this is super for building my converstaional skills, but sometimes I want to read a book in Spanish in my own privacy. This is the quandry. Every place we stay only has books in English - most of the time cheesy romantic novels and novels that you question who was reading this book and the value of tv. The few Spanish books that are available are ones lean towards... the battle between Christ and Satan or is God with you? Inspiring reading for some, but I'll pass. It is quite unbelievable to me since a lot of places offer Spanish teaching and books are a super way to learn. What really shocked me was going into a cafe that was also a book store as well in San Juan. This was the most well stocked store I have seen in a while, two huge book shelves two meters long dominated the cafe. Excited by the prospect of getting a good Spanish book, I perused the books.
To fully understand what transpired, I will give you this pertinent ancedote. When I was in Australia, I had the opportunity to go to Tasmania, which is part of Australia and is the island below the mainland. Mainlanders make fun of people from Tasmania for being backwards and behind the times and Tasmanians, for their part, are fiercely proud that they are from Tasmania. When I was there with my mom and our neighbor Jane, we went to a restaurant to enjoy some good italian food. The wine list was given to me and I saw how the different bottles were broken down
Italian
Australian
Tasmanian
Interesting since inherently Tasmanian wine IS Australian wine. Therefore making the menu utterly redundant and full of spite.
This pecularity presented itself again in the book store. The majority of books were in English, however, in a small section there was a shelf dedicated to foreign languages. Failing to find the Spanish section, I asked about where I could find Spanish books thinking there was its own section. Guess what, Spanish books were in foreign language section. Incredulously, I asked why, by the way I asked this question in Spanish, to which I got shrugs and small timid laughter and an answer, again in Spanish, that it is just like that. In this pervese cafe world, Spanish was a foreign language, even though the menu was in Spanish and all the waitresses spoke Spanish and we are in Nicaragua.
My only solution for this problem is to keep looking, put on my detective garb and see if any street hustler is selling Spanish books, possibly like illegal drugs, for a " a good price."
Monday, July 13, 2009
Mal Pais
I have had a few conversations with people over the last couple of days and some of them (mostly coming from the parental units) have told me that I haven't written a post in awhile. I said I knew, but most of the time I have something to write about; but for the past three weeks, we have just absolutely relaxed. We met up with good friends from Sydney and spent 10 days in Caye Caulker. Basically, that is all that I care to write about the place as all four of us just hated being there. We moved to this beautiful, secluded spot at Mal Pais, Costa Rica. We have been staying here for the past ten days, reading, swimming and relaxing at this house that Sam found on the internet. I highly suggest coming here. The complex is called Casa de Soliel and is run by an ex-pat named Trent whose family is great and being here has been so easy. So there is my perfectly laid out excuse to why I have fallen off the grid. We are moving to Nicaragua tomorrow and staying in San Juan del Sur for the foreseeable future - the idea is to stretch our last pennies as much as possible as well as talk to people in Spanish. Mal Pais is a funny town. The place is a surfer's paradise and people from the states and all over the world come here to lose themselves in the waves and the laid back lifestyle. Here, English is the dominate language and seeing butt cracks from shirtless surfers dudes is the required style and obligatory fashion. If you are into that, welcome home. For us, it is not our scene. Mal Pais and the town next to it, Santa Teresa, are connected by one bumpy dirt road. On it you will find people on quad bikes hauling their surfboards to the next break, and people just randomly going nowhere. The town is less hippie than I expected but still it has all the familiar trappings of a place where reality goes out the window. The town itself is almost fiercely exclusive: tourists are treated as ghosts. The locals, mostly ex pats not Costa Ricans, are wary of others and exude this smugness about the place. It is not an outward explicit attitude, but it is the subtle words, the names they drop or don’t drop that give us an idea that: we are on the outside, dude. The place is gorgeous though and the waves are great. For basically a week, Ben and Andrew have told me that if I wanted to learn to surf, this is the place to do it. Three years I have avoided surfing even though I lived next to the beach. I have never found the idea of surfing in Australia, or in general, to be that enticing. Furthermore, surfing in Australia, to me, represents a bad drunken dare, a heedless, hedonistic affair that the outcome brings you one step closer to death than to personal enjoyment. You have to battle rips, sun, other surfers, monster waves and let's not forget sharks. Even this can happen when you are surfing in Australia: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O55ddcZWCI. I think my favorite story about the death dance surfers have with sharks and the complete apathy of Australians is when a reporter went into a Shark copter- Helicopter that patrols beaches looking for sharks - and during their time in the air, they spotted over 30 sharks in swimming areas. One time the patrolman said, look there is a pod of hammerheads near people, no warning. I mean where do I sign up. Here is a different story, nothing to worry about except for a rip, but if you get pulled out, instead of floating over the side of the world like in Australia, here you have a good chance of being picked up by a boat. Sam and I rented a board that had seen better days. One look at it and I asked the renter if they would pay us six dollars to rent it. It had more holes than the bucket, dear liza, dear liza. Being supremely tight with our money, we got a lesson from my friend Ben, who is an experienced surfer, before he left. On towels, outside of our pool, he showed us the steps: lie down, paddle, arch your back then do this crazy back flip, 18o turn around where your left leg is behind your right. Both of us said, got it, and practiced a couple of times. I must say I had confidence in that I would be able to do this. I am athletic and so is Sam. Our towel boards gave us no trouble and this would be a cinch.
As a pulled myself out of the washing machine that is the ocean here, wiping the sand from every hole and nook in my body, placing my arm back into its appropriate socket and draining my head that brimmed full of salt water, I realized that this would not be that easy. We could walk out into the surf and we were catching the whitewash - the aftermath of the waves as it tumbles towards the shore -, but still the prospects of surfing were grim. My first three attempts left me legless, a face full of salt water and nowhere near surfing. I thought of the towel surfboard and cursed Ben. I was determined to do this. I battled back out to the surf. Waited patiently for the next whitewash. It crashed 4 meters before me. I paddled. I caught the power of the wave, the board started to move, I felt the lift. I did the arch of the back and...... It's funny when you know something is going to hurt. I was powerless to stop it. Maybe because I was destined to hit head first into the water with my arms serenely out to the side. Apparently, I had given up on surfing and was trying my hand at flying. I emerged from the water, wrapped in the leash and laughed at by Sam and the birds in the sky. This time I told myself, take it slow, do the steps. I did the exact same thing as before: waited, waited then got my wave. I paddled and while being propelled forward, I got my feet in the right direction. I stood (wobbled?) up for the first time. Overjoyed with my success I forgot Ben's last piece of advice: stay low and balanced. I was stiff upright and vulnerable. It might have been two seconds before the wave, clearly upset it hadn't put me through the second round of spin, jerked with more energy. My collapse was epic. The surfboard just stopped, I kept going. I tried to bail, but as I did the surfboard moved again like it was magnetized to me. I went down, knee first on the back of the board, then my other leg, then my chest to finally oozed, a broken man, into the shallows. I tried one more time after my success (dumb luck?), but this time I pressed down too hard on the front and water rushed into my face forcing me to go butt over ankles into the water. I clearly had done my time for the day. It was enjoyable, I suppose. I guess I am just going to stick to the surfer's fashion here: Shirtless and all butt cracks.
As a pulled myself out of the washing machine that is the ocean here, wiping the sand from every hole and nook in my body, placing my arm back into its appropriate socket and draining my head that brimmed full of salt water, I realized that this would not be that easy. We could walk out into the surf and we were catching the whitewash - the aftermath of the waves as it tumbles towards the shore -, but still the prospects of surfing were grim. My first three attempts left me legless, a face full of salt water and nowhere near surfing. I thought of the towel surfboard and cursed Ben. I was determined to do this. I battled back out to the surf. Waited patiently for the next whitewash. It crashed 4 meters before me. I paddled. I caught the power of the wave, the board started to move, I felt the lift. I did the arch of the back and...... It's funny when you know something is going to hurt. I was powerless to stop it. Maybe because I was destined to hit head first into the water with my arms serenely out to the side. Apparently, I had given up on surfing and was trying my hand at flying. I emerged from the water, wrapped in the leash and laughed at by Sam and the birds in the sky. This time I told myself, take it slow, do the steps. I did the exact same thing as before: waited, waited then got my wave. I paddled and while being propelled forward, I got my feet in the right direction. I stood (wobbled?) up for the first time. Overjoyed with my success I forgot Ben's last piece of advice: stay low and balanced. I was stiff upright and vulnerable. It might have been two seconds before the wave, clearly upset it hadn't put me through the second round of spin, jerked with more energy. My collapse was epic. The surfboard just stopped, I kept going. I tried to bail, but as I did the surfboard moved again like it was magnetized to me. I went down, knee first on the back of the board, then my other leg, then my chest to finally oozed, a broken man, into the shallows. I tried one more time after my success (dumb luck?), but this time I pressed down too hard on the front and water rushed into my face forcing me to go butt over ankles into the water. I clearly had done my time for the day. It was enjoyable, I suppose. I guess I am just going to stick to the surfer's fashion here: Shirtless and all butt cracks.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Unknown Enigma
I have been here before, yet when I arrived at the boat dock to head off to Caye Caulker, an island 35 minutes away from Belize City, I did not recognize anything. Previously, it had been a rough and tumble dock with this small window to buy tickets to ride the boat. The times were scratched on a chalkboard and you weren't sure if this timetable was followed anymore or it was some relic of how it used it work when the boat service to the island first was conceived. Now, it is a mini mall: fresh tiled floor, kiosks, a circular booth selling tickets- with a computer system- instead of hand written tickets, ac pumping making any polar bear jealous, and various other outer-worldly pleasures. It was strange and made Belize more morass for me than ever before. The change between Belize and Guatemala is stark. One thing it is English speaking, and culturally 15 football fields apart. For the past month, tortillas reigned king, now we are drowned with rum punch. I will self confess, even though I had been to Belize, that is about as much as I knew. I had a similar experience with India, but I had some general knowledge and was up to date on the current events regarding India, but with Belize, I am not sure Belize has been in any current events for the past 5 years: Hurricane brought it on the map as far as I know. Sometimes, I know I can be ignoramus, but this area interests me, yet this nation is hardly mentioned. My lack of knowledge disturbs me sometimes so I investigated. I now present you a little get to know so you won't be bewildered or left in the dark. I feel someone has to know about Belize. Without completely putting you to sleep here are some facts, serious and funny about this enigma of a country in Central America:
1) Belize used to be called British Honduras until its independence in 1973 when it changed to its current name.
2) Guatemala refuses to recognize the sovereignty and Britain is forced to station troops on the border to make sure nothing happens. After doing the land crossing between the two countries, there is no way there could be any semblance of troop movement. The road, if it can be classified as that, is to be polite, under construction. It makes Route 95 in Washington DC, on a Friday, seem quick. There is a massive jungle that, most of the time, laughs at the sun in its futile attempt to break through. Belize would have trouble rallying around the musical rhetoric of Reggae or, Bob Marley, which in turn would make it hard for Guatemala to take over since I am not sure people from Belize would even realize.
3) Go Slow is the unofficial motto. Getting a better picture?
4) Off of the Belize coast is the second largest barrier reef. Incredible from personal experience, but it is in danger from mass tourism.
5) The motto of the country is: "Sub Umbra Florero" Under the shade I flourish. Not the greatest motto when I associate fungus to things that flourish in the shade, but appropriate in this climate, when the slightest movement provokes sweat not unlike playing game seven in a basketball championship.
6) The prime minister is Dean Barrow, recently under fire for marrying his girlfriend in the USA instead of in Belize. However, as a personal accolade, he was the first black prime minister of the nation when he took office in February.
7) Skype, in all its glory, is banned here in Belize. The governmental phone company BTL has come up with a new product- money making scheme to screw over nationals and internationals alike - which is like skype except: it is not free and surprise surprise, no one else in the world has this program on their computer making its value completely neglient. Skype is blocked and one has to use some back door, smokey room program that I am pretty sure the Chinese employ to get internet. The only thing that is guaranteed is that your computer will get something, could be the access to Skype or some virus. But remember Go Slow.
1) Belize used to be called British Honduras until its independence in 1973 when it changed to its current name.
2) Guatemala refuses to recognize the sovereignty and Britain is forced to station troops on the border to make sure nothing happens. After doing the land crossing between the two countries, there is no way there could be any semblance of troop movement. The road, if it can be classified as that, is to be polite, under construction. It makes Route 95 in Washington DC, on a Friday, seem quick. There is a massive jungle that, most of the time, laughs at the sun in its futile attempt to break through. Belize would have trouble rallying around the musical rhetoric of Reggae or, Bob Marley, which in turn would make it hard for Guatemala to take over since I am not sure people from Belize would even realize.
3) Go Slow is the unofficial motto. Getting a better picture?
4) Off of the Belize coast is the second largest barrier reef. Incredible from personal experience, but it is in danger from mass tourism.
5) The motto of the country is: "Sub Umbra Florero" Under the shade I flourish. Not the greatest motto when I associate fungus to things that flourish in the shade, but appropriate in this climate, when the slightest movement provokes sweat not unlike playing game seven in a basketball championship.
6) The prime minister is Dean Barrow, recently under fire for marrying his girlfriend in the USA instead of in Belize. However, as a personal accolade, he was the first black prime minister of the nation when he took office in February.
7) Skype, in all its glory, is banned here in Belize. The governmental phone company BTL has come up with a new product- money making scheme to screw over nationals and internationals alike - which is like skype except: it is not free and surprise surprise, no one else in the world has this program on their computer making its value completely neglient. Skype is blocked and one has to use some back door, smokey room program that I am pretty sure the Chinese employ to get internet. The only thing that is guaranteed is that your computer will get something, could be the access to Skype or some virus. But remember Go Slow.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Looking for some answers
For you all this is my shameless plug blog. I need some help and I would appreciate the help. When you have too much time, El Remate will do that for you, you come up with crazy ideas. Mine is to sell my photos of travel. I have started an awesome new website solely devoted to my pictures: 5rupeesplease.blogspot.com. Have a look and help me out.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
So quiet you can even hear a mouse
We have just completed all of our required sights in Guatemala - we went to Tikal this morning - and now it is just three more days of relaxing in the town of El Remate about 25 Kms outside of Tikal and 25 kms outside of the town Flores. Flores, for those of you geographically challenged is in the Peten Region of Guatemala. It has been a full circle of weather systems as here, jackets and scarfs are replaced by sombreros and no shirts- We went to a restaurant where the entire male family who belonged to the restaurant, three year olds to a 50 year old, were shirtless, so I decided if it is in fashion, then go for it. What is strange is that we expected Flores to be like any town that is basically known for getting to Tikal: McDonalds, shops that only cater to tourists, hawkers and mounting frustration to leave tourists. In one case, even before getting to Flores, Sam had a go at some 20 year olds, because for the entire trip from Coban to Flores they would not stop complaining. After the fifth hour, Sam with steam coming from her ears turns around and says...well if you hate it so much then go home. The heat really makes your nerves fray sometimes. In any case back to Flores, we expected to be packed with tourists, yet we arrived to a city - Flores is actually an island while the main land is Santa Elena - that was completely void of tourists and in most cases paved streets. It slowly was turning into an old western ghost town, I kept turning to Sam telling her we should really get out of dodge. Yet , the more we looked at it, the more we liked it. The town is not overbearing and lacks the over the top tourist feel. Even the muddy causeways in between shops added to the down to earth feel- yes again the pun. As we walked, we got more comfortable, but the persistent question was ¨where is everyone?¨The answer: not here, nor will be. Traveling through Cambodia and India, we saw first hand the devasting effects of the economic crisis and in India´s case from the bombing. A lot of the times, it seemed if Sam and I were alone in towns in India, but it never has felt like this, Agra was filled with people eager to see the Taj. Tikal is the mother of all Mayan Ruins and Flores is the point of travel, but last night as we walked around, I saw restaurants with many tables empty and in some cases, non existent clientele. Restaurants that looked like they could host a banquet and could have once held jovial convival affairs, now limited to one person enjoying a coffee. A part of the problem is a result of the crisis, but the Swine Flu has really hit this place hard. Prensa Libre in May crunched numbers and there has been a dip in international and national travel: http://www.prensalibre.com/pl/2009/marzo/10/300526.html and here http://www.prensalibre.com/pl/2009/mayo/13/313685.html. What it says for those who don´t speak Spanish that people are canceling trips throughout the region; people destined for Mexico and Guatemala cancel the entire trip instead of going to Guatemala and just byspassing Mexico, even though there have been limited cases here and the US would be the most dangerous place to go. At our Spanish school in Xela, Ulew Tinimit, the amount of students is at an all time low. Sam and I were the only two for three weeks. Groups were cancelling without explanation or warning.
It is sad, last night as I walked home, I passed Tucan restuarant in Flores, a lonely tv shown and no one was in the place. I stopped to bask in the glow of the tv when an eldery woman, the patron, said come in please. I politelty declined giving some terrible excuse and said I was only looking at the tv, she said she knew and said come in anyway. I stared hard at her and had to leave for fear of throwing my wallet to her and then performing a collective sob induced hug for hours.
It is sad, last night as I walked home, I passed Tucan restuarant in Flores, a lonely tv shown and no one was in the place. I stopped to bask in the glow of the tv when an eldery woman, the patron, said come in please. I politelty declined giving some terrible excuse and said I was only looking at the tv, she said she knew and said come in anyway. I stared hard at her and had to leave for fear of throwing my wallet to her and then performing a collective sob induced hug for hours.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Day 2
As a little continuation of Day 1, we learned that Walter and his Dad loved to backpack, which to the rest of the 4 of us seemed a bit odd as according to Jonas, "they didn`t even have backpacks on this trip, just their shoulder bags." We all piled into the town`s warehouse, or storage room which was a concrete floor with a bare cold floor. We all hit the floor and fell asleep.
Day 2:
3:30 am. While we stayed in this storage room, the night turned cold, but at least we would be free from the rain if it did fall. Little did I know, that from eight bodies in this room, the room would turn into a veritable green house. I was awoken by a small drip that splashed on my cheek, then sleeping bag then back to my face. Then all of sudden the dripping spread to other areas of the room. The whole place was one room of condensation. Sam and I moved, then moved again and the water followed us. I was pretty surprised that Stefan didn`t demand that our guide should have provided scuba gear, but he remained motionless with his family on the other side.
4:00 am- Dripping noises now were drowned out (yes the pun) by four of the following things:
1) Roosters having a Banjo-like competition to outdo each other. Roosters outnumbered people in this town 4-1
2) A dog that would not stop barking
3) The van that parked next to our room and beeped and beeped and beeped to awake people going to Xela
4) The rooster crowing right next to our room as if to make fun of us.
I got up, tired of swimming inside and watched the sunrise.
5:30 am Stefan busts into the room after watching the sunrise and demands coffee and tea even though we weren't scheduled to GET UP until 6 . The guide, bewildered, complies and we've already had the day`s first awkward silence even before the sun has a chance to warm the city, which would not take long. I feel young but my legs are stiff and cramped and my ankle is sore, so I continue to do stretches that I have been doing since 4 am.
7:15am We have a huge day of hiking. The first part is through the forest and downhill, then as the guide says Subimos, Subimos, Subimos. (Translation, only tears can get you through this day as we climbed upward for four hours.) I am overjoyed by this prospect and to celebrate I sprain the same ankle again 20 minutes into the trip.
9 am. We make it down to the river after descending some rocks and going through wild coffee fields within the forest. This concluded the easy part and after a 15 minute break we scale a mountain side.
9:45 am At a rest point after moving up a mountain side, Stefan and his merry family, after we have all had a chance to rest, throws the sleeping bag at our guide and tells him that it is his problem and that "I don`t need this at all, I am going to leave it here, you carry it." To score at home, they have not carried any of the food, I am carrying their sleeping mat, the guide is carrying their other sleeping bag and mat and according to Walter they love to backpack. The guide is speechless as are we, but before the guide saddles more weight, Walter steps in a starts to carry the bag, to which Stefan whips around and chastises Walter for doing such an awful thing and demands that the guide carry the bag. I step in and just grab the bag and I give my sleeping mat to Sam. The hiking lines were drawn and the family, completely void of anything, sped up ahead while the rest of us wobbled upwards. For the next two hours we climbed and climbed.
2 pm- 8pm: We make it to Santa Clara, our final spot for the night and collapse in the house. We divide into sane and insane/oblivious rooming areas and begin to unpack. This house has a sauna which is quite typical for the area. A small clay hut, people boil water inside and it becomes extremely hot. The family decides to partake in this ritual. Sam and I begin to play cards, with my back to the hut, but Sam in full sight. The family rumbles out of their room in just towels and I remark that they are probably that family that is "really close." Ten minutes later, Mila emerges from hut, naked, and pours cold water on herself, basically disrespecting all Guatemalan customs of keeping covered up. Guatemala is very strict on showing skin like India. Women can wear shorts, but the more prudent thing is to be covered. Two minutes after Mila has gone, the men plow out, and within plain sight of about everyone, just begin to wash themselves, having a giggling fest and laughing. Sam, holding back the vomit in her mouth is giving me the run down of what is going on. I asked her if she now felt closer them to which she replied, `couldn`t feel farther away.' We all ate dinner with each other, one side ignoring the other, and to answer your question I slept fine with my extra mat, and Sam as well with her extra sleeping bag as padding. Not sure how the family slept with two mats and two sleeping bags, but as I said, they were just that type of family.
Day 3:
5 am: Enjoy an incredible sunrise over Lago de Atitlan and hike to another view point to eat breakfast. All things considered, we have moved closer to Jonas and Helena and will spend the next four days with them in San Pedro. Trying not to speed away from the family, we take the slow approach down the hill. About 300 meters from the bottom, even after carefully repeating to myself take it slow, I look up and magically a hole with some leaves covering it moves into my path. This was the most grandiose fall of the trip. I fell forward, then crumbled and swore. Ankle again, but this time it hurt. I limped the rest of the way down, but luckily by having ankle tendons like a hammock, the pain subsided.
Day 2:
3:30 am. While we stayed in this storage room, the night turned cold, but at least we would be free from the rain if it did fall. Little did I know, that from eight bodies in this room, the room would turn into a veritable green house. I was awoken by a small drip that splashed on my cheek, then sleeping bag then back to my face. Then all of sudden the dripping spread to other areas of the room. The whole place was one room of condensation. Sam and I moved, then moved again and the water followed us. I was pretty surprised that Stefan didn`t demand that our guide should have provided scuba gear, but he remained motionless with his family on the other side.
4:00 am- Dripping noises now were drowned out (yes the pun) by four of the following things:
1) Roosters having a Banjo-like competition to outdo each other. Roosters outnumbered people in this town 4-1
2) A dog that would not stop barking
3) The van that parked next to our room and beeped and beeped and beeped to awake people going to Xela
4) The rooster crowing right next to our room as if to make fun of us.
I got up, tired of swimming inside and watched the sunrise.
5:30 am Stefan busts into the room after watching the sunrise and demands coffee and tea even though we weren't scheduled to GET UP until 6 . The guide, bewildered, complies and we've already had the day`s first awkward silence even before the sun has a chance to warm the city, which would not take long. I feel young but my legs are stiff and cramped and my ankle is sore, so I continue to do stretches that I have been doing since 4 am.
7:15am We have a huge day of hiking. The first part is through the forest and downhill, then as the guide says Subimos, Subimos, Subimos. (Translation, only tears can get you through this day as we climbed upward for four hours.) I am overjoyed by this prospect and to celebrate I sprain the same ankle again 20 minutes into the trip.
9 am. We make it down to the river after descending some rocks and going through wild coffee fields within the forest. This concluded the easy part and after a 15 minute break we scale a mountain side.
9:45 am At a rest point after moving up a mountain side, Stefan and his merry family, after we have all had a chance to rest, throws the sleeping bag at our guide and tells him that it is his problem and that "I don`t need this at all, I am going to leave it here, you carry it." To score at home, they have not carried any of the food, I am carrying their sleeping mat, the guide is carrying their other sleeping bag and mat and according to Walter they love to backpack. The guide is speechless as are we, but before the guide saddles more weight, Walter steps in a starts to carry the bag, to which Stefan whips around and chastises Walter for doing such an awful thing and demands that the guide carry the bag. I step in and just grab the bag and I give my sleeping mat to Sam. The hiking lines were drawn and the family, completely void of anything, sped up ahead while the rest of us wobbled upwards. For the next two hours we climbed and climbed.
2 pm- 8pm: We make it to Santa Clara, our final spot for the night and collapse in the house. We divide into sane and insane/oblivious rooming areas and begin to unpack. This house has a sauna which is quite typical for the area. A small clay hut, people boil water inside and it becomes extremely hot. The family decides to partake in this ritual. Sam and I begin to play cards, with my back to the hut, but Sam in full sight. The family rumbles out of their room in just towels and I remark that they are probably that family that is "really close." Ten minutes later, Mila emerges from hut, naked, and pours cold water on herself, basically disrespecting all Guatemalan customs of keeping covered up. Guatemala is very strict on showing skin like India. Women can wear shorts, but the more prudent thing is to be covered. Two minutes after Mila has gone, the men plow out, and within plain sight of about everyone, just begin to wash themselves, having a giggling fest and laughing. Sam, holding back the vomit in her mouth is giving me the run down of what is going on. I asked her if she now felt closer them to which she replied, `couldn`t feel farther away.' We all ate dinner with each other, one side ignoring the other, and to answer your question I slept fine with my extra mat, and Sam as well with her extra sleeping bag as padding. Not sure how the family slept with two mats and two sleeping bags, but as I said, they were just that type of family.
Day 3:
5 am: Enjoy an incredible sunrise over Lago de Atitlan and hike to another view point to eat breakfast. All things considered, we have moved closer to Jonas and Helena and will spend the next four days with them in San Pedro. Trying not to speed away from the family, we take the slow approach down the hill. About 300 meters from the bottom, even after carefully repeating to myself take it slow, I look up and magically a hole with some leaves covering it moves into my path. This was the most grandiose fall of the trip. I fell forward, then crumbled and swore. Ankle again, but this time it hurt. I limped the rest of the way down, but luckily by having ankle tendons like a hammock, the pain subsided.
Blast from the Past
Before getting to Day 2 here is an old email about my trip in China, a linguistic adventure
Matt and I last night went out to dinner just him and I. Jed went on a date with Jen since he hadnt seen her the whole day. We decided to stick close to our hostel but try and to go to an authentic place for dinner. We had an enormous lunch so the theme for the night was "light." We tried one restaurant but didnt like the menu. We then moved to this other restaurant that had an outdoor area with the Olympics on a big screen tv. By the way, everyone is watching the games. In Shangri-la, at night, all the sounds were the synchronized sounds of the tvs on the same olympic event. In any case, in this huge outdoor area, it was us and the wait staff. They brought us a menu. To fully appreciate what happened next, you must understand Matt and my combined chinese linguistic repertoire consists of:
Bathroom?
a tofu dish
waiter
No MSG please
Thank you
dumplings
I dont want that
So scoring at home, we know two dishes. This proved to be problematic as the menu was in chinese, and they did not have our two dishes that we knew how to say in Chinese. Once this was established, the head chef (an older lady) began explaining things on the menu. She talked like we understood and Matt and I kept putting our hands up as we had no clue what she was detailing. We tried telling her that we wanted her to choose, but this lead to another barrage of explanations by the women. At this point, Matt and I just kept laughing and so did the wait staff. (the older woman was not amused.) I had a great idea to try and draw pictures. So Matt tried to draw a tomato, onion and a pig. Matt has many talents in a lot of areas, art is not one of them. This only confused the lot of waiters now interested in this two crazy foreigners. Finally this sheepish waitress spoke up and said rice. We immediately treated her like she was Shakespeare. Now we had battle going on of who spoke less of the other person's native language. We established that she knew:
Rice
Eggs
some conglomeration of lettuce and potato.
The linguistic royal rumble ensued and to say the least, things were not progressing smoothly. The idea popped into my head to go to the kitchen to have them show us the food. This turned out to be the wrong idea as seeing a kitchen in China does not add to your hunger, more like make you want to high tail it out of there. We were shown things that I am not sure if it walked, got planted, or was put here by aliens. In any case, we ended up wanting rice with eggs. We got rice, fried eggs and some fried potatoes. You must remember that this province is the culinary capital of china and Matt and I were plowing through starch with not a nutritional or tasty spice in sight. We decided that like the potato, we were fried and left. So we went to a tea house. Chengdu is known for its tea houses. Men and women come to these establishments, from the outside they look like restaurants, but all they serve is tea. Mostly people come and pass the time here drinking tea and playing a variety of card games or a game similar to dominos.
We sat down in a tea house and attempted to get beer. Yes, Matt and I went to a tea house for beer. I did not say that it is all cultural and linguistic problems. There are some boneheadedness by us as well. We got blank looks and one waitress handed us a chinese menu. We have had the same look of total inability to understand and no joke her reaction was " ohhhhhhhhh, c'mon" I added the c'mon for effect, but this generally describes how disgusted, frustrated, and the hilarious disdain she had for our lack of chinese. We got tea finally and sat and played cards.
Matt and I last night went out to dinner just him and I. Jed went on a date with Jen since he hadnt seen her the whole day. We decided to stick close to our hostel but try and to go to an authentic place for dinner. We had an enormous lunch so the theme for the night was "light." We tried one restaurant but didnt like the menu. We then moved to this other restaurant that had an outdoor area with the Olympics on a big screen tv. By the way, everyone is watching the games. In Shangri-la, at night, all the sounds were the synchronized sounds of the tvs on the same olympic event. In any case, in this huge outdoor area, it was us and the wait staff. They brought us a menu. To fully appreciate what happened next, you must understand Matt and my combined chinese linguistic repertoire consists of:
Bathroom?
a tofu dish
waiter
No MSG please
Thank you
dumplings
I dont want that
So scoring at home, we know two dishes. This proved to be problematic as the menu was in chinese, and they did not have our two dishes that we knew how to say in Chinese. Once this was established, the head chef (an older lady) began explaining things on the menu. She talked like we understood and Matt and I kept putting our hands up as we had no clue what she was detailing. We tried telling her that we wanted her to choose, but this lead to another barrage of explanations by the women. At this point, Matt and I just kept laughing and so did the wait staff. (the older woman was not amused.) I had a great idea to try and draw pictures. So Matt tried to draw a tomato, onion and a pig. Matt has many talents in a lot of areas, art is not one of them. This only confused the lot of waiters now interested in this two crazy foreigners. Finally this sheepish waitress spoke up and said rice. We immediately treated her like she was Shakespeare. Now we had battle going on of who spoke less of the other person's native language. We established that she knew:
Rice
Eggs
some conglomeration of lettuce and potato.
The linguistic royal rumble ensued and to say the least, things were not progressing smoothly. The idea popped into my head to go to the kitchen to have them show us the food. This turned out to be the wrong idea as seeing a kitchen in China does not add to your hunger, more like make you want to high tail it out of there. We were shown things that I am not sure if it walked, got planted, or was put here by aliens. In any case, we ended up wanting rice with eggs. We got rice, fried eggs and some fried potatoes. You must remember that this province is the culinary capital of china and Matt and I were plowing through starch with not a nutritional or tasty spice in sight. We decided that like the potato, we were fried and left. So we went to a tea house. Chengdu is known for its tea houses. Men and women come to these establishments, from the outside they look like restaurants, but all they serve is tea. Mostly people come and pass the time here drinking tea and playing a variety of card games or a game similar to dominos.
We sat down in a tea house and attempted to get beer. Yes, Matt and I went to a tea house for beer. I did not say that it is all cultural and linguistic problems. There are some boneheadedness by us as well. We got blank looks and one waitress handed us a chinese menu. We have had the same look of total inability to understand and no joke her reaction was " ohhhhhhhhh, c'mon" I added the c'mon for effect, but this generally describes how disgusted, frustrated, and the hilarious disdain she had for our lack of chinese. We got tea finally and sat and played cards.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Hitting the trail part one
We made it after three grueling days of hiking. Since we have been in Xela, Sam has wanted to hike and do some adventure tourism. We climbed the active volcano outside of Antigua, we climbed hills around Xela, but since day one, Sam has had her eyes set on this trek from Xela to Lago de Atitlan. Night and day, day and night, outside of the Spanish that we spoke to each other Sam couldn`t talk about anything different. Lago de Atitlan is a beautiful lake that is surrounded by volcanoes, mountains and country side and it was on our schedule of places to visit after our month in Xela. Instead of taking the two hour car ride to one of the various towns on the lake, we decided to walk. The program was simple, and on paper, looked relatively harmless. Our tour company, Adrenalina, provided sleeping bags, sleeping mats, transport of our stuff to our final destination (San Pedro, or hippy town) and a cold hard house floor to stay in at the various stops along the trip- most of the time, you would camp outside, but since it is the rainy season, you stay with designated families. All you needed was a sturdy back (first area of concern for me) and some serious grit and determination. Always on paper and within your mind, these treks seem easy to accomplish and would be a breeze to complete. However there are a lot of mitigating factors which we did not envision: difficulty of the trail, the largest a·$hole ever created who was in our group, and of course, your own personal fitness. Looking at myself, I felt ready even though our entire active schedule in Xela could be summed up to one time I had to jog home to get a camera and our relatively simple hike up the volcano the weekend before.
In honor of one of my favorite writers, I will create a quasi running diary of the trek from start to finish:
Day 1: 6 a.m.: Adrenalina picked us up early and we were off, we had our clothes for the trip in a separate bag. Nervous, but ready to leave Xela, we silently bumped along as the van went to pick up the rest of the people in our group around Xela. The next people to enter the van were a family of three: Dad, son and girlfriend from Finland. I hate to do this, but the minute I saw Stefan, the father, decked out in what can only be described as new age safari clothing even though there would be no chance of seeing lions, impatiently and angrily looking at his watch as if he had been timing the van, I did not like him. As the trip progressed, he did nothing to ever repair this image, and I would go as far as to say that he reveled in his awfulness. The last people to be picked up was a couple from Denmark, Jonas and Helena, our age, loads of fun and the saving grace of the trip.
7:30 am: Small talk subsided as we arrive at our starting point, we loaded up our rented bags that smell and look like they have seen better days, probably still wet from the previous sweaty person, we are given our food, water and supplies. The four of us load up our bags, while the family is posturing angrily in the background. It turns out they only packed light shoulder bags and could not carry the extra material that was given to them. Their agent had told them that they should only pack day packs and now had nowhere to put the additional cargo. Stefan, understandably angry regarding the poor communication, refuses to carry any of his stuff and only when our guide says that he has to, does, begrudgingly grabbing his water and sleeping bag. However he flat out refuses to carry his mat, and shoves it at the guide; the guide is loaded to the gills. Finally, I take a mat and extra food and so does Jonas and Helena to lighten the load.
9 am: Up hill, and more uphill. What a start, 3 minutes into the trek, although it is a brisk morning, I am drenched in sweat. Not used to the bag, I am moving slower than usual, but feeling fine. Sam is also doing well, but by the end of the first hour, fatigue has set in and I look up to see Sam, still moving along, but looking a bit like a prize fighter after getting knocked in the face, wobbly, but still in the fight. No one is speaking, probably because they are wondering why they choose this trip.
10:00 am: Our first break, here Stefan takes the chance to have a pow wow with our guide, with his girlfriend. He explains that his girlfriend can`t carry the mat, because, she can`t, and our guide must take it. Without any other choice, the guide takes it, but flat out refuses to take the sleeping bag. Stefan, upset that he has to carry the bag in his hand is not happy and trudges off.
I am doing well, sweaty, but enjoying the hike. It is funny hiking, most of the time you are concentrating on walking and not tipping over some side or spraining your ankle and a lot of the actual allure of the trail is lost since, if you look up, without a doubt a root will come and find you or a rock will move into place to break your toe.
Also, when you hike, like running, you have time to think about: nothing. It is magical honestly, however after this start, I realized something more about hiking, you begin to hurt in areas that you didn`t know could hurt you, like my middle toe on my right foot, or a muscle located I think behind my shoulder blade.
10:45: Moving down hill now and with the slick grass and trail from rain and the cooler temperatures, the terrain is precarious. We move downwards on a switch back trail and this is where I struggled. Before we descended, Mila, the girlfriend of Stefan, dropped the sleeping bag and it tumbled downward. Without any reaction from Stefan to go collect the lost sleeping back, everyone watched as it disappeared into the brush. Sam looked up and Mila looked at Sam and said that, ' I am not going to get, we are better off without it anyways.' The guide collected the bag and handed back to Mila, without any thanks, and Stefan just stood upset that this plague had come back.
By the end, I slipped five times, everyone one of them more theatrical than the first. My first one, I looked a like a cow on roller skates, , my right foot slipped; I tried to stabilize with my left, but this was fruitless as I continued downward. In a panic response, I wrenched my body right to compensate, but ultimately spinning and then fell straight backward. My second was immediately after the guide slipped and I was trying to be the hero and let Sam know about the danger zone when I slipped as well. Finally my last was as if I stepped on a banana peel. My right foot went out and there I was falling backwards with my leg straight out, my arms stiff and pointed outwards while my bum shot backwards.
For my encore, just before level ground, I twisted my ankle.
12 pm: we arrive at our first destination for lunch. As it turns out, this is where we would stay the night. Basically for those at home, we had 15 hours to kill. Luckily, the place we were staying had three houses and one shop that made rationing look like a real feast. You took 5 giant steps and you had traversed the town and now were outside of it. We sat down and had our sandwich to which Stefan remarked that this did not constitute lunch; not sure what he was expecting since we were carrying all of his food.
I brought cards with us and Stefan`s son, Walter, played with us. We learned more tidbits about our conquering hero Stefan. He was quite the traveler coming from time in the Congo and had taken Walter on trips to the ever popular family destinations of : Syria, Lebanon and Iran among others. Walter also gave us a bit of the genealogy of his family, Stefan, apparently is trying to outdo some NBA basketball players in amount of kids, Walter has half siblings from: America, Sweden, Estonia, Finland.
Day 2 tomorrow
In honor of one of my favorite writers, I will create a quasi running diary of the trek from start to finish:
Day 1: 6 a.m.: Adrenalina picked us up early and we were off, we had our clothes for the trip in a separate bag. Nervous, but ready to leave Xela, we silently bumped along as the van went to pick up the rest of the people in our group around Xela. The next people to enter the van were a family of three: Dad, son and girlfriend from Finland. I hate to do this, but the minute I saw Stefan, the father, decked out in what can only be described as new age safari clothing even though there would be no chance of seeing lions, impatiently and angrily looking at his watch as if he had been timing the van, I did not like him. As the trip progressed, he did nothing to ever repair this image, and I would go as far as to say that he reveled in his awfulness. The last people to be picked up was a couple from Denmark, Jonas and Helena, our age, loads of fun and the saving grace of the trip.
7:30 am: Small talk subsided as we arrive at our starting point, we loaded up our rented bags that smell and look like they have seen better days, probably still wet from the previous sweaty person, we are given our food, water and supplies. The four of us load up our bags, while the family is posturing angrily in the background. It turns out they only packed light shoulder bags and could not carry the extra material that was given to them. Their agent had told them that they should only pack day packs and now had nowhere to put the additional cargo. Stefan, understandably angry regarding the poor communication, refuses to carry any of his stuff and only when our guide says that he has to, does, begrudgingly grabbing his water and sleeping bag. However he flat out refuses to carry his mat, and shoves it at the guide; the guide is loaded to the gills. Finally, I take a mat and extra food and so does Jonas and Helena to lighten the load.
9 am: Up hill, and more uphill. What a start, 3 minutes into the trek, although it is a brisk morning, I am drenched in sweat. Not used to the bag, I am moving slower than usual, but feeling fine. Sam is also doing well, but by the end of the first hour, fatigue has set in and I look up to see Sam, still moving along, but looking a bit like a prize fighter after getting knocked in the face, wobbly, but still in the fight. No one is speaking, probably because they are wondering why they choose this trip.
10:00 am: Our first break, here Stefan takes the chance to have a pow wow with our guide, with his girlfriend. He explains that his girlfriend can`t carry the mat, because, she can`t, and our guide must take it. Without any other choice, the guide takes it, but flat out refuses to take the sleeping bag. Stefan, upset that he has to carry the bag in his hand is not happy and trudges off.
I am doing well, sweaty, but enjoying the hike. It is funny hiking, most of the time you are concentrating on walking and not tipping over some side or spraining your ankle and a lot of the actual allure of the trail is lost since, if you look up, without a doubt a root will come and find you or a rock will move into place to break your toe.
Also, when you hike, like running, you have time to think about: nothing. It is magical honestly, however after this start, I realized something more about hiking, you begin to hurt in areas that you didn`t know could hurt you, like my middle toe on my right foot, or a muscle located I think behind my shoulder blade.
10:45: Moving down hill now and with the slick grass and trail from rain and the cooler temperatures, the terrain is precarious. We move downwards on a switch back trail and this is where I struggled. Before we descended, Mila, the girlfriend of Stefan, dropped the sleeping bag and it tumbled downward. Without any reaction from Stefan to go collect the lost sleeping back, everyone watched as it disappeared into the brush. Sam looked up and Mila looked at Sam and said that, ' I am not going to get, we are better off without it anyways.' The guide collected the bag and handed back to Mila, without any thanks, and Stefan just stood upset that this plague had come back.
By the end, I slipped five times, everyone one of them more theatrical than the first. My first one, I looked a like a cow on roller skates, , my right foot slipped; I tried to stabilize with my left, but this was fruitless as I continued downward. In a panic response, I wrenched my body right to compensate, but ultimately spinning and then fell straight backward. My second was immediately after the guide slipped and I was trying to be the hero and let Sam know about the danger zone when I slipped as well. Finally my last was as if I stepped on a banana peel. My right foot went out and there I was falling backwards with my leg straight out, my arms stiff and pointed outwards while my bum shot backwards.
For my encore, just before level ground, I twisted my ankle.
12 pm: we arrive at our first destination for lunch. As it turns out, this is where we would stay the night. Basically for those at home, we had 15 hours to kill. Luckily, the place we were staying had three houses and one shop that made rationing look like a real feast. You took 5 giant steps and you had traversed the town and now were outside of it. We sat down and had our sandwich to which Stefan remarked that this did not constitute lunch; not sure what he was expecting since we were carrying all of his food.
I brought cards with us and Stefan`s son, Walter, played with us. We learned more tidbits about our conquering hero Stefan. He was quite the traveler coming from time in the Congo and had taken Walter on trips to the ever popular family destinations of : Syria, Lebanon and Iran among others. Walter also gave us a bit of the genealogy of his family, Stefan, apparently is trying to outdo some NBA basketball players in amount of kids, Walter has half siblings from: America, Sweden, Estonia, Finland.
Day 2 tomorrow
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
one is coming
Hi everyone, I am alive and well. We are in San Pedro on Lago de Atitlan and are relaxing after a hard three day hike from Xela. Tomorrow, or if I can´t peel myself from the hamock, the next day, I will update it in full for your reading enjoyment about the hike. Stay tuned...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Viene El Agua
I stood there with my shovel, tired cold and out of breath. Night was falling, but the noise of water slapping the concrete was still audible. Dark shadows, which took a human shape when a candle was positioned to illuminate an area in need, moved this way and that; these silent shadows hunched over, toiling with their shovels, push brooms worked mechanically ignoring the oncoming darkness, their stoic faces still unchanged even after three hours. I looked around and took stock of the street that I had been walking to and fro for the past three weeks. The seemingly innocuous characteristics, that one takes for granted all rushed to me in grandiose style: the doorways that are halfway blocked by a cement extension coming from the opposite side wall, the elevated front door stop that appeared to be a small mountain impeding anyone from entering a house, save a giant. The excessive amount of push brooms that Mariana, our Guatemalan mother, has within her house when one push broom is bordering on the ostentatious; the U shaped street that we live on, like an old race horse that has seen too many races and saddles; and finally the drain system, the holes seemingly miniscule compared to when I used to catch my heel within is Swiss cheese drain cover. All made sense in that instant alone as I stood there. I felt not unlike Sherlock Holmes, or more like Scooby Doo, in that all these clues, overlooked and insignificant, amounted to the horrible conclusion that it was Mr. Jones, not a flying ghost, the crusty man who looked after the factory that was responsible for haunting the place and scaring all the owner’s business away. It took that one event to finally string everything together.
As I slowly walked back to the house, cursing my back before it actually started to hurt, I thought about how travelling was not unlike what just happened, that sudden understanding. Most of the time, people travel and see their immediate surroundings on the outside whether that is for lack of time, complete rejection, or never become fully absorbed. I have experienced this many times - India – and never had the chance to fully grasp the small life attributes of a culture that open up all the doors into understanding- not necessarily a good thing. I never could pry that door open, sometimes it seemed ajar, but as I closed in, it would slam shut. After yesterday, I believe I have a foot in the door, but still struggling for it not too close. Here in Xela, everything has gone extremely well. I have picked up Spanish and Sam and I have settled into a routine, which is a blessing and a curse. We have stopped asking, probing and investigating what life is like around us, stopped commenting on the small things. Through these questions one can understand better what makes the people and life tick. Although we had done a cursory investigation, we had no interaction, no understanding of where we were: housing, city country, environment until El Agua.
About three weeks ago, I picked up the La Prensa Libre and a two page article caught my attention- the huge photo of an eroded hillside helped as well. Aside from the fact that it reported that Guatemala was bracing its self for winter- I know northern hemisphere, I am still not sure how this affects physics-, it reported that many communities should start preparing their houses for heavy water damage caused by massive amount of rain and poor drainage. The western highlands of Guatemala were extremely susceptible to flash floods, flooding and other types of water damage- along with landslides and falling rocks. I think Guatemala is striving to surpass Australia in earthly things that can kill you- you know, besides the rampant delinquency here
Years of senseless deforestation and imprudence has left the hillsides bare of trees and soil. Furthermore the growing population has added to the danger as human carelessness has contributed to the rise of flooding in major cities and towns. The population at most risk is the poor; with their make shift homes, many on the bare hillsides and mountains, entire squatter populations have been completely wiped out in years past. The geologist, environmentalists warned that this year was no exception and could even prove to cause more damage than ever. Ever inquisitive, I asked my family and teacher about the probability of a calamity like the ones described happening in Xela. They assured me that would not happen here and the problematic areas lay on the outskirts of town or towns away. I filed this away and thought nothing more of it.
We have had serious rain storms since our arrival. Bitter and cold, they have lasted all night, dampening the city and our spirits to even go to the local and have a drink. There have been times when thunder has clapped, lightening has streaked and rain has pelted the ground, but nothing like yesterday.
Alone, Sam was at school, I finished up a Spanish movie and got up to stretch my legs. The morning had been gorgeous. All day it had been sunny, warming even the most hardened people. It seemed as if the sun had banished the clouds to some indiscriminate corner far from Xela and was putting on a show for the whole sky. Around four in the afternoon, the clouds crept in slowly and filled the sky, yet the sky continued to be abnormally bright, even though there was no break in the clouds above us, only in the East. From the tiny frosted window in our room, the light from the day kept seeping in. I took no heed of the environment and moved towards the door to step outside. As I stepped, the sky growled like nothing I have heard before and rain began to fall gently.
Xela, at such a high altitude, is prone to some violent storms and some serious light shows. This was one of them. The sky grumbled again and lightning flashed, first illuminating the sky then striking over the city. I have heard thunder before, those hot languorous summer days, which on the drop of a hat, turn cold and the clouds turn black and rush together as if there was a candy drop amongst 7 year olds. This was a different beast. Every time thunder sounded, the doors vibrated, and the rumble lasted for longer than it should have. I stood outside in our outdoor courtyard, alarmed and amazed. I have never witnessed anything like this, the sky seemingly angelic yet I knew that there was a battle raging up there like two male tigers over territory. It was then the pounding rain snapped me back to reality. It came in sheets, sideways and fast. Hail accompanied the rain. It was relentless and unending. What seemed like 40 minutes, but in reality were about 15 minutes, the rain bounced on the concrete, rushed all around, pelted the roofs and saturated the city. Slowly the rain dissipated into a light drizzle and it appeared to be not unlike what we have experienced before. Still lost in my thoughts about the power of the earth, I noticed our diminutive mother scurrying about in the courtyard. She seemed anxious and excitable. She stopped at once at the doors- our front door serves as an entrance as well as opening up to allow the car to park in the courtyard- and apprehensively looked out onto the street. I walked over to her with an expression on my face that was complete opposite to Mariana: more awestruck and impressed at the power of the earth. Mariana related a story to me that the house had been flooded and the water level in the courtyard had been around a meter and a half. I was marginally paying attention to the story, and to be honest, did not understand it. I thought it was a good anecdote to the situation; I was more preoccupied by the fierce rumbling above me. Mariana remained there in front statuesque, vigilant, her hands turning over and over each other.
I was caught off guard by Mariana’s question: Can you drive a car? I said of course while staring at the little street outside of house. I had been standing there for about five minutes contemplating whether to go to the school and accompany Sam back to the house. As Mariana spoke, the street transformed into a meerkat colony; only faces, scrunched and timid, peeked quickly to stare down the street then ducking back into their respective houses. Unaware of this odd ritual, I waved at the neighbours like some drunken guy who stumbles in front of a mirror and does not realize that it is his reflection. I thought they also shared in my fascination with the weather and I was more than happy to welcome them to this fraternity. Finally, I shook off my zombie like state and started down the road to get Sam. As I began walking three cars rumbled past me and out of nowhere the familiar sound of a siren, the short frog like croak that is meant to grab people’s attention reverberated in the area where I was walking. As I turned the corner, the Xela police force pickup truck came into view and began blasting words over a loud speaker mounted on top of the car. I couldn’t understand what they were saying -my only Achilles heel in Spanish, I can’t understand anyone with a microphone or loud speaker. Unable to go past the pickup the cars turned around painfully and I attempted to ascertain what was happening, but just received gawks and silence. I walked another five meters and turned right.
In the famous video of the Tsunami, instead of seeing this 30 meter wave, the water comes at a slow pace, but you can tell that it is rising to epic proportions and cover vast amount of lands. I had one of those moments of complete clarity in which I understood how that happens; the street in front of me was slowly filling with this brown liquid not unlike that video. Frozen, I stared at this menacing flood about 1/2 meter high, my concentration broken by the screams of the neighbors above me: YA VIENE EL AGUA- Here Comes the Water. The warning shot out and passed down the street like electricity; it would have made Paul Revere proud. With the spell broken, I turned back to my street. I slowed down about four meters from the house. I was unsure what was going on? What should I do? I looked up; Mariana was screaming, as well as the elderly lady next store- VENGA VENGA VENGA- COME! I slowed down even more, unsure of my next more, subconsciously waiting for instructions in English, and finally the gravity of the situation hit me: the house would be flooded with this brown sludge water. I ran to the elderly lady and entered her house. She sternly told me something in Spanish and moved towards the kitchen. I instinctively followed and then realized my job. I picked up a metal sheet that resembled the door and brought it over to the opening of the door. There I slid the sheet in two grooves located on both sides of the doorway. This sheet was a preventative measure to hold back the water from entering. After completing that task, I clumsily climbed over the sheet, aided by a lot of pushing from the elderly lady, and helped the neighbour across our street slide a wooden board into a groove on the doorway, and finally it made sense, the other groove was located on the cement jut that cut off half of the doorway. It hit me like a ton of bricks, this was not some peculiar design, but served an actual purpose. I turned around and looked right. The brown water, as if sniffing a meal, began in earnest to move onto our street. I was frantically beckoned to our house, where Mariana and I ran around like a chicken without a head, yet controlled and began to throw everything above ground: tables, beds.
Mariana is 50 years old, small, portly her once former jet black hair is greying substantially. Her job is to cook, clean and tend the house. She has housed numerous tourists for the past 15 years and admitted that she needed to do something rather than just watch TV. She decided to house tourists not out of interest of interchange, but to stave off boredom. I asked her if she enjoys it, her answer was tepid and curt: it’s a job. No matter how she perceives us, she has always been extremely accommodating and talkative with us. Our only interaction is when we are eating, so I knew not much about Mariana.
When I came rushing into the house, Mariana had transformed in this militant person with the strength of 1000 elephants. She snatched chairs from the dining room and barked instructions to me to come into the study area. As I helped her with chairs, she bolted past me and was already lifting a couch as I breathlessly stumbled in. She commanded me to put the couch on the chair and then swung around and threw an arm chair on the desk. Before my back had a chance to protest the weight I was lifting, she out the door into another bedroom, pleading for me to follow her. This time she had one side of the bed held and was ordering me to place chairs underneath the legs. She looked like a pizza dough maker and I could have sworn she was going to swirl and toss this bed above her. Once that task was completed, she whizzed by me and went for the door, the water now about ankle height. I puffed into view and she told me, get the car. I asked where the keys were and she told me in the ignition already. I took three large steps and tore open the door. I looked down and, to my horror, saw the car was a manual. At this point, Mariana’s voice was cracking imploring me to start the car and get it out.
There are times when I can say I am proud of my actions in times of stress, this, I am sad to report, was not one of those days. My mind racing, my heart pumping, the shrill cries from Mariana to get the car out made the situation extremely tense. The car stalled, or better said, I tried to start the car with both feet firmly pressing the brake. I fumbled with the keys again and tried to turn it on. Nothing. I tried again to no avail; finally I remembered you need to have the clutch down. It growled and vibrated. I threw the stick into the reverse position and turned my head. I looked at my destination with resolve and hit the gas.
I am pretty sure I moved about two inches before it stalled again and then rolled forward from were it was originally parked. I tried again, slower with more dramatic attention to the clutch. This time the car backed up, but my line out resembled a six year old trying to stay within the lines while coloring. I almost hit the open doors and had the car a sixty degree angle on the street. The street itself is more than 2 meters wide and if I backed up too hard, I would hit the wall of the house behind us. I panicked to be honest. The car stalled and there I was looking like Austin Powers, almost trapped as the water filled up the street. My response was to take the bull by the horn and slowly ease my way out. That was the plan, but I stalled four more times, each one more emphatic than the previous one. However every jerk of the stalled car actually benefited me as it bucked forward and backwards the way I needed it to. My leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably, but determined not to be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I gunned it backwards up on the slim sidewalk and then threw the stick into first gear, and lurched forward. Overcome with relief, I was moving forward, I had done it. However, I forgot to keep driving and in my triumphant state the car stalled once again. I probably set the record, and not the good one, in driving no more than 12 meters in 25 minutes from house to other street. The car bucked and heaved to the end of the street where, I turned the keys over to the recently arrived Juan- husband of Mariana. I raced back to the house the water now pooling before Mariana’s house since that area was the lowest point. I waded through the sludge and got into the house. Water was seeping underneath the door and rushing to the drain in the courtyard. We waited anxiously, praying that the drain inside the house wouldn’t clog. I ran upstairs to the open air second floor. I looked down the water was now a meter high and when the people are no more than a meter high that is quite high.
The scene below me looked unreal. A group of neighbors pants rolled up were frantically trying to unclog the drain below them with picks, push brooms and shovels. It looked like a team of witches brewing this magic, rancid stew. Their work was paying off; water had hit its apex and was slowing receding little by little.
What remains is just dust and mud caked streets. All the frantic sweeping and team work helped to avoid any further damages. Everyone on the street pitched in. There are still remnants of the flood so as not to allow anyone to forget, the water stains on the walls, the random patches of wet mud that I have slipped on. The last time this happened is unclear, some say two years some say one year. Whenever there is a disagreement, you know that this is serious event in people’s life, a real fear. It is almost as if people are trying to push the memory away, and deny when it happened so they won’t remember, keeping the date hazy as to keep the memory hazy. I know I won’t forget, but I also know that walking around is different. I feel closer to Xela than ever.
As I slowly walked back to the house, cursing my back before it actually started to hurt, I thought about how travelling was not unlike what just happened, that sudden understanding. Most of the time, people travel and see their immediate surroundings on the outside whether that is for lack of time, complete rejection, or never become fully absorbed. I have experienced this many times - India – and never had the chance to fully grasp the small life attributes of a culture that open up all the doors into understanding- not necessarily a good thing. I never could pry that door open, sometimes it seemed ajar, but as I closed in, it would slam shut. After yesterday, I believe I have a foot in the door, but still struggling for it not too close. Here in Xela, everything has gone extremely well. I have picked up Spanish and Sam and I have settled into a routine, which is a blessing and a curse. We have stopped asking, probing and investigating what life is like around us, stopped commenting on the small things. Through these questions one can understand better what makes the people and life tick. Although we had done a cursory investigation, we had no interaction, no understanding of where we were: housing, city country, environment until El Agua.
About three weeks ago, I picked up the La Prensa Libre and a two page article caught my attention- the huge photo of an eroded hillside helped as well. Aside from the fact that it reported that Guatemala was bracing its self for winter- I know northern hemisphere, I am still not sure how this affects physics-, it reported that many communities should start preparing their houses for heavy water damage caused by massive amount of rain and poor drainage. The western highlands of Guatemala were extremely susceptible to flash floods, flooding and other types of water damage- along with landslides and falling rocks. I think Guatemala is striving to surpass Australia in earthly things that can kill you- you know, besides the rampant delinquency here
Years of senseless deforestation and imprudence has left the hillsides bare of trees and soil. Furthermore the growing population has added to the danger as human carelessness has contributed to the rise of flooding in major cities and towns. The population at most risk is the poor; with their make shift homes, many on the bare hillsides and mountains, entire squatter populations have been completely wiped out in years past. The geologist, environmentalists warned that this year was no exception and could even prove to cause more damage than ever. Ever inquisitive, I asked my family and teacher about the probability of a calamity like the ones described happening in Xela. They assured me that would not happen here and the problematic areas lay on the outskirts of town or towns away. I filed this away and thought nothing more of it.
We have had serious rain storms since our arrival. Bitter and cold, they have lasted all night, dampening the city and our spirits to even go to the local and have a drink. There have been times when thunder has clapped, lightening has streaked and rain has pelted the ground, but nothing like yesterday.
Alone, Sam was at school, I finished up a Spanish movie and got up to stretch my legs. The morning had been gorgeous. All day it had been sunny, warming even the most hardened people. It seemed as if the sun had banished the clouds to some indiscriminate corner far from Xela and was putting on a show for the whole sky. Around four in the afternoon, the clouds crept in slowly and filled the sky, yet the sky continued to be abnormally bright, even though there was no break in the clouds above us, only in the East. From the tiny frosted window in our room, the light from the day kept seeping in. I took no heed of the environment and moved towards the door to step outside. As I stepped, the sky growled like nothing I have heard before and rain began to fall gently.
Xela, at such a high altitude, is prone to some violent storms and some serious light shows. This was one of them. The sky grumbled again and lightning flashed, first illuminating the sky then striking over the city. I have heard thunder before, those hot languorous summer days, which on the drop of a hat, turn cold and the clouds turn black and rush together as if there was a candy drop amongst 7 year olds. This was a different beast. Every time thunder sounded, the doors vibrated, and the rumble lasted for longer than it should have. I stood outside in our outdoor courtyard, alarmed and amazed. I have never witnessed anything like this, the sky seemingly angelic yet I knew that there was a battle raging up there like two male tigers over territory. It was then the pounding rain snapped me back to reality. It came in sheets, sideways and fast. Hail accompanied the rain. It was relentless and unending. What seemed like 40 minutes, but in reality were about 15 minutes, the rain bounced on the concrete, rushed all around, pelted the roofs and saturated the city. Slowly the rain dissipated into a light drizzle and it appeared to be not unlike what we have experienced before. Still lost in my thoughts about the power of the earth, I noticed our diminutive mother scurrying about in the courtyard. She seemed anxious and excitable. She stopped at once at the doors- our front door serves as an entrance as well as opening up to allow the car to park in the courtyard- and apprehensively looked out onto the street. I walked over to her with an expression on my face that was complete opposite to Mariana: more awestruck and impressed at the power of the earth. Mariana related a story to me that the house had been flooded and the water level in the courtyard had been around a meter and a half. I was marginally paying attention to the story, and to be honest, did not understand it. I thought it was a good anecdote to the situation; I was more preoccupied by the fierce rumbling above me. Mariana remained there in front statuesque, vigilant, her hands turning over and over each other.
I was caught off guard by Mariana’s question: Can you drive a car? I said of course while staring at the little street outside of house. I had been standing there for about five minutes contemplating whether to go to the school and accompany Sam back to the house. As Mariana spoke, the street transformed into a meerkat colony; only faces, scrunched and timid, peeked quickly to stare down the street then ducking back into their respective houses. Unaware of this odd ritual, I waved at the neighbours like some drunken guy who stumbles in front of a mirror and does not realize that it is his reflection. I thought they also shared in my fascination with the weather and I was more than happy to welcome them to this fraternity. Finally, I shook off my zombie like state and started down the road to get Sam. As I began walking three cars rumbled past me and out of nowhere the familiar sound of a siren, the short frog like croak that is meant to grab people’s attention reverberated in the area where I was walking. As I turned the corner, the Xela police force pickup truck came into view and began blasting words over a loud speaker mounted on top of the car. I couldn’t understand what they were saying -my only Achilles heel in Spanish, I can’t understand anyone with a microphone or loud speaker. Unable to go past the pickup the cars turned around painfully and I attempted to ascertain what was happening, but just received gawks and silence. I walked another five meters and turned right.
In the famous video of the Tsunami, instead of seeing this 30 meter wave, the water comes at a slow pace, but you can tell that it is rising to epic proportions and cover vast amount of lands. I had one of those moments of complete clarity in which I understood how that happens; the street in front of me was slowly filling with this brown liquid not unlike that video. Frozen, I stared at this menacing flood about 1/2 meter high, my concentration broken by the screams of the neighbors above me: YA VIENE EL AGUA- Here Comes the Water. The warning shot out and passed down the street like electricity; it would have made Paul Revere proud. With the spell broken, I turned back to my street. I slowed down about four meters from the house. I was unsure what was going on? What should I do? I looked up; Mariana was screaming, as well as the elderly lady next store- VENGA VENGA VENGA- COME! I slowed down even more, unsure of my next more, subconsciously waiting for instructions in English, and finally the gravity of the situation hit me: the house would be flooded with this brown sludge water. I ran to the elderly lady and entered her house. She sternly told me something in Spanish and moved towards the kitchen. I instinctively followed and then realized my job. I picked up a metal sheet that resembled the door and brought it over to the opening of the door. There I slid the sheet in two grooves located on both sides of the doorway. This sheet was a preventative measure to hold back the water from entering. After completing that task, I clumsily climbed over the sheet, aided by a lot of pushing from the elderly lady, and helped the neighbour across our street slide a wooden board into a groove on the doorway, and finally it made sense, the other groove was located on the cement jut that cut off half of the doorway. It hit me like a ton of bricks, this was not some peculiar design, but served an actual purpose. I turned around and looked right. The brown water, as if sniffing a meal, began in earnest to move onto our street. I was frantically beckoned to our house, where Mariana and I ran around like a chicken without a head, yet controlled and began to throw everything above ground: tables, beds.
Mariana is 50 years old, small, portly her once former jet black hair is greying substantially. Her job is to cook, clean and tend the house. She has housed numerous tourists for the past 15 years and admitted that she needed to do something rather than just watch TV. She decided to house tourists not out of interest of interchange, but to stave off boredom. I asked her if she enjoys it, her answer was tepid and curt: it’s a job. No matter how she perceives us, she has always been extremely accommodating and talkative with us. Our only interaction is when we are eating, so I knew not much about Mariana.
When I came rushing into the house, Mariana had transformed in this militant person with the strength of 1000 elephants. She snatched chairs from the dining room and barked instructions to me to come into the study area. As I helped her with chairs, she bolted past me and was already lifting a couch as I breathlessly stumbled in. She commanded me to put the couch on the chair and then swung around and threw an arm chair on the desk. Before my back had a chance to protest the weight I was lifting, she out the door into another bedroom, pleading for me to follow her. This time she had one side of the bed held and was ordering me to place chairs underneath the legs. She looked like a pizza dough maker and I could have sworn she was going to swirl and toss this bed above her. Once that task was completed, she whizzed by me and went for the door, the water now about ankle height. I puffed into view and she told me, get the car. I asked where the keys were and she told me in the ignition already. I took three large steps and tore open the door. I looked down and, to my horror, saw the car was a manual. At this point, Mariana’s voice was cracking imploring me to start the car and get it out.
There are times when I can say I am proud of my actions in times of stress, this, I am sad to report, was not one of those days. My mind racing, my heart pumping, the shrill cries from Mariana to get the car out made the situation extremely tense. The car stalled, or better said, I tried to start the car with both feet firmly pressing the brake. I fumbled with the keys again and tried to turn it on. Nothing. I tried again to no avail; finally I remembered you need to have the clutch down. It growled and vibrated. I threw the stick into the reverse position and turned my head. I looked at my destination with resolve and hit the gas.
I am pretty sure I moved about two inches before it stalled again and then rolled forward from were it was originally parked. I tried again, slower with more dramatic attention to the clutch. This time the car backed up, but my line out resembled a six year old trying to stay within the lines while coloring. I almost hit the open doors and had the car a sixty degree angle on the street. The street itself is more than 2 meters wide and if I backed up too hard, I would hit the wall of the house behind us. I panicked to be honest. The car stalled and there I was looking like Austin Powers, almost trapped as the water filled up the street. My response was to take the bull by the horn and slowly ease my way out. That was the plan, but I stalled four more times, each one more emphatic than the previous one. However every jerk of the stalled car actually benefited me as it bucked forward and backwards the way I needed it to. My leg was bouncing up and down uncontrollably, but determined not to be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, I gunned it backwards up on the slim sidewalk and then threw the stick into first gear, and lurched forward. Overcome with relief, I was moving forward, I had done it. However, I forgot to keep driving and in my triumphant state the car stalled once again. I probably set the record, and not the good one, in driving no more than 12 meters in 25 minutes from house to other street. The car bucked and heaved to the end of the street where, I turned the keys over to the recently arrived Juan- husband of Mariana. I raced back to the house the water now pooling before Mariana’s house since that area was the lowest point. I waded through the sludge and got into the house. Water was seeping underneath the door and rushing to the drain in the courtyard. We waited anxiously, praying that the drain inside the house wouldn’t clog. I ran upstairs to the open air second floor. I looked down the water was now a meter high and when the people are no more than a meter high that is quite high.
The scene below me looked unreal. A group of neighbors pants rolled up were frantically trying to unclog the drain below them with picks, push brooms and shovels. It looked like a team of witches brewing this magic, rancid stew. Their work was paying off; water had hit its apex and was slowing receding little by little.
What remains is just dust and mud caked streets. All the frantic sweeping and team work helped to avoid any further damages. Everyone on the street pitched in. There are still remnants of the flood so as not to allow anyone to forget, the water stains on the walls, the random patches of wet mud that I have slipped on. The last time this happened is unclear, some say two years some say one year. Whenever there is a disagreement, you know that this is serious event in people’s life, a real fear. It is almost as if people are trying to push the memory away, and deny when it happened so they won’t remember, keeping the date hazy as to keep the memory hazy. I know I won’t forget, but I also know that walking around is different. I feel closer to Xela than ever.
Friday, May 22, 2009
20 days...No make that 1 day since last earthquake
Sometimes it is nice to be around an Australian. They have not had the opportunity, in some cases, to experience some earthly delights such as: Snow, Squirrels and now and Earthquakes- more like a tremor, but still counts. Not to say I am some experienced seismologist with my own portable Richter scale, but I have experienced one - Virginia no less- before as well as in Chile, where they occur everyday.
We were at home, playing a game when the whole place started vibrating, not unlike one of those coin operate beds in a hotel of ill repute- or in some cases not much different than the places we have stayed in during the course of our travel. It took us some time to figure out what was going. Sam, smiling warily was astonished. It lasted for 30 to 40 seconds and after it was all said and done, it felt like we had just stepped off a boat or trampoline. No one panicked in the house and our Guatemalan mother just kept cooking. Turns out it was a 5.0 on the Richter scale, but only a 2.0 in Xela. However, it was felt, according to the papers, all through Guatemala. Kinda makes you appreciate what you are walking on.
There you have Xela, predictable, mysterious and down right confusing. No one was at all nervous, most didn´t even feel the tremor, and life continued forward. That is the general conscious here in Xela.
It is a city not that unfamiliar to me since it contains all the familiar symptoms of a deeply religious city within a religious country: Shops on Sunday are closed, bolted and deserted. Xela really practices as God does and rests on Sunday. Lots go to the church, but mostly, as we what we have perceived, go to the local chicken restaurants (think KFC style, but in Spanish) scattered around town. I have asked, why chicken on Sundays?, which I have received these less than satisfactory answers: Because, no one has time to eat chicken during the week, I don´t know, smiles.
Another familiar symptom of a religious place is that every third word implies or has the connatotation to the Divine. Every third word is a reference to God, Christ, or something to that matter. We bought bread today and on the bag was oration to God. I guess even buying bread, you are performing some type of penance. Cars have stickers across their windshields, bumpers, seat coverings all displaying some type of message that God or Christ is doing something to guide them or come back. Apparently, the more pizazz and ornate ( or shall I just call it tacky) the more Jesus is with you.
Finally, the one area that brings so much amusement to me is young teenage relationships. Bound to cultural values, lack of privacy and religion, teenagers come up with some hilarious places to show their affection: at the entrance of front doors, in the bushes of some park, in between two cars with the bumpers of each practically kissing the teenagers as they kissed each other- I guess the missed the taste of braces, or my personal favorite from last night, underneath the counter while I was trying to return a pepsi bottle. While not as bad as the repressed release of the Chilean long embrace- interlocutors would hug for 45 minutes while simultaneously kiss, procreate, start a family right here on the train platform, and grow old together- it still has the same feeling.
Aside from the typical linguistic differences that anyone will find within cultures that are separate but speak the same language. For example US English to Australian. There are some peculiarities here that stand out:
They say Buen Provecho- Enjoy, in English in reference to food- yet they say it after the food has been served. In traditional Spanish buen provecho is something a waiter would say when he has handed out all the plates and is wishing you good tidings with your beans and tortillas. Yet here, it is at the end, confusing to say the least. My inquires to the derivation of the saying has proved fruitless- I am prety sure the answer can be located next to the chicken quandary.
In traditional Spanish, we learned that Coche means Car. Again here there is a different meaning, Carro= Car and Coche= Pig. This could have some hilarious, but embarrassing consequences. This why learning outside of school is so important, book Spanish sometimes has no bearing on real life.
There are more phrases, verbs and collocations, but I chalk these up to regional dialect. However they still prove to be my undoing sometimes.
We were at home, playing a game when the whole place started vibrating, not unlike one of those coin operate beds in a hotel of ill repute- or in some cases not much different than the places we have stayed in during the course of our travel. It took us some time to figure out what was going. Sam, smiling warily was astonished. It lasted for 30 to 40 seconds and after it was all said and done, it felt like we had just stepped off a boat or trampoline. No one panicked in the house and our Guatemalan mother just kept cooking. Turns out it was a 5.0 on the Richter scale, but only a 2.0 in Xela. However, it was felt, according to the papers, all through Guatemala. Kinda makes you appreciate what you are walking on.
There you have Xela, predictable, mysterious and down right confusing. No one was at all nervous, most didn´t even feel the tremor, and life continued forward. That is the general conscious here in Xela.
It is a city not that unfamiliar to me since it contains all the familiar symptoms of a deeply religious city within a religious country: Shops on Sunday are closed, bolted and deserted. Xela really practices as God does and rests on Sunday. Lots go to the church, but mostly, as we what we have perceived, go to the local chicken restaurants (think KFC style, but in Spanish) scattered around town. I have asked, why chicken on Sundays?, which I have received these less than satisfactory answers: Because, no one has time to eat chicken during the week, I don´t know, smiles.
Another familiar symptom of a religious place is that every third word implies or has the connatotation to the Divine. Every third word is a reference to God, Christ, or something to that matter. We bought bread today and on the bag was oration to God. I guess even buying bread, you are performing some type of penance. Cars have stickers across their windshields, bumpers, seat coverings all displaying some type of message that God or Christ is doing something to guide them or come back. Apparently, the more pizazz and ornate ( or shall I just call it tacky) the more Jesus is with you.
Finally, the one area that brings so much amusement to me is young teenage relationships. Bound to cultural values, lack of privacy and religion, teenagers come up with some hilarious places to show their affection: at the entrance of front doors, in the bushes of some park, in between two cars with the bumpers of each practically kissing the teenagers as they kissed each other- I guess the missed the taste of braces, or my personal favorite from last night, underneath the counter while I was trying to return a pepsi bottle. While not as bad as the repressed release of the Chilean long embrace- interlocutors would hug for 45 minutes while simultaneously kiss, procreate, start a family right here on the train platform, and grow old together- it still has the same feeling.
Aside from the typical linguistic differences that anyone will find within cultures that are separate but speak the same language. For example US English to Australian. There are some peculiarities here that stand out:
They say Buen Provecho- Enjoy, in English in reference to food- yet they say it after the food has been served. In traditional Spanish buen provecho is something a waiter would say when he has handed out all the plates and is wishing you good tidings with your beans and tortillas. Yet here, it is at the end, confusing to say the least. My inquires to the derivation of the saying has proved fruitless- I am prety sure the answer can be located next to the chicken quandary.
In traditional Spanish, we learned that Coche means Car. Again here there is a different meaning, Carro= Car and Coche= Pig. This could have some hilarious, but embarrassing consequences. This why learning outside of school is so important, book Spanish sometimes has no bearing on real life.
There are more phrases, verbs and collocations, but I chalk these up to regional dialect. However they still prove to be my undoing sometimes.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Excorsizing the Demons
Time to buckle down really. It still has been bit of a process for me as talking in Spanish right now is as much fun as a red hot poker in the eye. I am really drudging up some really bad habits and paying for the "Spanish Sins"of the past. The last couple of days has seen my mood osicilate from complete happiness to complete rejection; not from Spanish, but complete antipathy felt towards myself. Yesterday afternoon, after an absolutely exhausting afternoon of activities trying to perfect my speech- I speak like one of those machines in thriller movies where the protagonist is on the conveyor belt and in front of him/her is this huge blade chopping mangled pieces of whatever, sometimes the pieces come out looking spectacular but most of the time, they pass through just as mangled except in two parts. This the long winded example represents my speech in Spanish. I am not talking about trying to have a philisophical debate over who came first the chicken or the egg and how this relates to modern society. I am struggling with trying to form a good oral synopsis of a story I just read. I realize things will take time, and I am looking forward to the break through. As I sat on the bed, while Sam studied I took stock of my Spanish experience thus far and had a bit of a laugh. One can only move forward by coming grips with the past. Here is what I remember from my past 14 years of on and off studying:
6th grade: Three days a week. The only real memory is when Mr. Price, an over jubilant teacher, brought in clothes to demonstrate visually clothes in Spanish. However failing to recognize that he was dealing with boy students, recently fresh from the cafeteria, brought in a pair of pantyhose and let the party begin. One of my classmates, threw the panty hose on his head, similar to a robber who had just finished robbing a store, and shouted all over the class room: pantimedias! pantimedias To the consternation of the teacher, and the unrelenting joy for the juveniles in class, this was the maxium comedy anyone could ever do.
What I learned 6th grade: Robbers should rob a store screaming pantimedias and no one would not gladly hand over the money. Grade B-
7th Grade: More practice on vocabulary, ser and estar and yadda yadda. I am pretty sure Spanish ranked about 122938484 on my things to concentrate on right after girls. What I learned: how to avoid doing Spanish Homework: Grade B
8th Grade: The one thing that the boys talked about besides sports, Mrs. Theraught?? She was indescribable, just an absolute heaven sent woman for eager prepubscent- or since I had started to shave, pubscent boys. She wore loose clothing (baby on the way), had an ample bosom, and made everyone feel like they could speak Spanish like a natural . It is here that my attraction, in every sense of that word, started in Spanish. Spanish could hook me this teacher then I was in hands down. I have never been a part of anything so strange as to see a classroom completely speechless for 35 minutes- at least on the boys side. In the most stereotypical movie scene, I believe Mr. T had, at least, at least 5-7 boys coming voluntarilty in for extra help- myself included. I have never learned so much and had so much jealousy at the same time. Things learned in Spanish class: Anything Mrs. T said, ella es guapa, te quiero. Grade: who cares I was in Mrs. T's class
9th grade: So began the awkward years of high school and my Spanish mirrored this adjustment. Floating off dreams of Mrs. T, I believed that beautiful women would teach Spanish and it was only a matter of time that I had wet slicked back hair, a wispy moustache, a cigarette attached to my lip and tight clothing. However, Mrs. Cross dashed any dreams of this Rico Suave- the bowl cut didn't help either. Her teaching style rigid and boring, her attitude rigid and boring and her classroom rigid and boring. I struggled to reclaim my enchantment and, completely dashed and distraught, I had to get a tutor for Spanish. The tutor helped me immensely as did the new skinny craze that swooped into Boston at that time: Pedro Martinez. The Globe printed stories in Spanish whenever he pitched and once again I was hooked. Little by little my Spanish improved. In a weird way, I saw Spanish a mathmatical equation that could be mastered by discerning hints in tests- this practice would be a god send and my ultimate damnation in the end. What is even funnier is that I saw Math as a jumble of numbers that made no sense and never could pick out the clues for the solution. What I learned in class: tests can be studied like Math, Ser and Estar Grade: B
10th grade Spanish: I had sports to concentrate on. I applied my new skills at excelling at tests which kept me afloat. Unfortunately, I hit the stage where I needed to impress girls and make a name for myself. What better place that the less than structure class atmosphere that is Spanish teaching. Mrs. Rodriguez felt my and my friend's full assault at actively trying to disrupt her class. I am pretty sure she dreaded class with Adam and I. We went out of our way to make life miserable for her. When she read the attendence for the day, she paused at Adam's name, expressing a face of pure hatred and the same when my name was called. I got extremely sick for 3 weeks and missed class, I heard that Mrs. Rodriguez threw numerous fiestas in my absence. Also, I remember distinctly when my grade was in doubt at the end of the year and she pulled me aside and said "You did well on the test, but you barely scrapped to a B-" I don't think she realized that would make my summer. I whooped and struted out of class like a conquering hero. This embodied my Spanish, just average baby. Things I learned: Steps to make a young teacher develop a anxious twitch.
11th Grade- Mrs. Timberlake's class was more of the same except my shenangins were accepted and almost nurtured. She would allow me to talk and be an idiot, if it was in Spanish. She was almost too nice to a fault and I never really payed attention to Spanish only that we played fun, and I can't stress this enough, competitive games. One time during a game, I dove over her desk to slap an answer on the board to win the game for my team. Spanish had turn into some bizarre gym and acting class. Things I learned: How not to knock over the Teacher's cup while sprawling out for the synomim for casa. Grade B+
12th- until Junior of College: More of the same with more classes on literature and even less talking. As I matured???? I tried to take Spanish more seriously, but I never gave it a real shot. I still kept the secret formula of taking tests guarded in my brain so I could excel when needed. It wasn't until Chile when, out of the confines of the classroom, that I began to understand Spanish and enjoy it; up until then, I could get by and to some degree, until this very moment. I have adquired certain phrases, vocabulary and tenses, but never have I had the audicity to really speak and live. I have made numerous attempts at Spanish, proving to myself that I can speak it, but I have, deep down felt like a fraud. Now, I am addressing this premordial feeling head on and I am ready for the challenge. I have matured????? to realize the importance of Spanish in my life and I want to come to grips with it. Excorsize those demons, throw off those pantimedias from my head and actually prove to myself that I know Spanish.
6th grade: Three days a week. The only real memory is when Mr. Price, an over jubilant teacher, brought in clothes to demonstrate visually clothes in Spanish. However failing to recognize that he was dealing with boy students, recently fresh from the cafeteria, brought in a pair of pantyhose and let the party begin. One of my classmates, threw the panty hose on his head, similar to a robber who had just finished robbing a store, and shouted all over the class room: pantimedias! pantimedias To the consternation of the teacher, and the unrelenting joy for the juveniles in class, this was the maxium comedy anyone could ever do.
What I learned 6th grade: Robbers should rob a store screaming pantimedias and no one would not gladly hand over the money. Grade B-
7th Grade: More practice on vocabulary, ser and estar and yadda yadda. I am pretty sure Spanish ranked about 122938484 on my things to concentrate on right after girls. What I learned: how to avoid doing Spanish Homework: Grade B
8th Grade: The one thing that the boys talked about besides sports, Mrs. Theraught?? She was indescribable, just an absolute heaven sent woman for eager prepubscent- or since I had started to shave, pubscent boys. She wore loose clothing (baby on the way), had an ample bosom, and made everyone feel like they could speak Spanish like a natural . It is here that my attraction, in every sense of that word, started in Spanish. Spanish could hook me this teacher then I was in hands down. I have never been a part of anything so strange as to see a classroom completely speechless for 35 minutes- at least on the boys side. In the most stereotypical movie scene, I believe Mr. T had, at least, at least 5-7 boys coming voluntarilty in for extra help- myself included. I have never learned so much and had so much jealousy at the same time. Things learned in Spanish class: Anything Mrs. T said, ella es guapa, te quiero. Grade: who cares I was in Mrs. T's class
9th grade: So began the awkward years of high school and my Spanish mirrored this adjustment. Floating off dreams of Mrs. T, I believed that beautiful women would teach Spanish and it was only a matter of time that I had wet slicked back hair, a wispy moustache, a cigarette attached to my lip and tight clothing. However, Mrs. Cross dashed any dreams of this Rico Suave- the bowl cut didn't help either. Her teaching style rigid and boring, her attitude rigid and boring and her classroom rigid and boring. I struggled to reclaim my enchantment and, completely dashed and distraught, I had to get a tutor for Spanish. The tutor helped me immensely as did the new skinny craze that swooped into Boston at that time: Pedro Martinez. The Globe printed stories in Spanish whenever he pitched and once again I was hooked. Little by little my Spanish improved. In a weird way, I saw Spanish a mathmatical equation that could be mastered by discerning hints in tests- this practice would be a god send and my ultimate damnation in the end. What is even funnier is that I saw Math as a jumble of numbers that made no sense and never could pick out the clues for the solution. What I learned in class: tests can be studied like Math, Ser and Estar Grade: B
10th grade Spanish: I had sports to concentrate on. I applied my new skills at excelling at tests which kept me afloat. Unfortunately, I hit the stage where I needed to impress girls and make a name for myself. What better place that the less than structure class atmosphere that is Spanish teaching. Mrs. Rodriguez felt my and my friend's full assault at actively trying to disrupt her class. I am pretty sure she dreaded class with Adam and I. We went out of our way to make life miserable for her. When she read the attendence for the day, she paused at Adam's name, expressing a face of pure hatred and the same when my name was called. I got extremely sick for 3 weeks and missed class, I heard that Mrs. Rodriguez threw numerous fiestas in my absence. Also, I remember distinctly when my grade was in doubt at the end of the year and she pulled me aside and said "You did well on the test, but you barely scrapped to a B-" I don't think she realized that would make my summer. I whooped and struted out of class like a conquering hero. This embodied my Spanish, just average baby. Things I learned: Steps to make a young teacher develop a anxious twitch.
11th Grade- Mrs. Timberlake's class was more of the same except my shenangins were accepted and almost nurtured. She would allow me to talk and be an idiot, if it was in Spanish. She was almost too nice to a fault and I never really payed attention to Spanish only that we played fun, and I can't stress this enough, competitive games. One time during a game, I dove over her desk to slap an answer on the board to win the game for my team. Spanish had turn into some bizarre gym and acting class. Things I learned: How not to knock over the Teacher's cup while sprawling out for the synomim for casa. Grade B+
12th- until Junior of College: More of the same with more classes on literature and even less talking. As I matured???? I tried to take Spanish more seriously, but I never gave it a real shot. I still kept the secret formula of taking tests guarded in my brain so I could excel when needed. It wasn't until Chile when, out of the confines of the classroom, that I began to understand Spanish and enjoy it; up until then, I could get by and to some degree, until this very moment. I have adquired certain phrases, vocabulary and tenses, but never have I had the audicity to really speak and live. I have made numerous attempts at Spanish, proving to myself that I can speak it, but I have, deep down felt like a fraud. Now, I am addressing this premordial feeling head on and I am ready for the challenge. I have matured????? to realize the importance of Spanish in my life and I want to come to grips with it. Excorsize those demons, throw off those pantimedias from my head and actually prove to myself that I know Spanish.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Rain, on time and so very cold
It has been a week here in Xela and, after a week, there are some things that are constant: The Rain and the Freezing Cold. The mornings are clear and somewhat warm, but one would be a fool to be duped into believing that this will last. As soon as it turns ten, the clouds are herded in like cattle above Xela, and the once inviting puffy clouds turn a more sinister color of dark grey and sometimes even black. At actually 3:17 p.m., - but who is counting? - the rains begin with gusto. The whole town is overrun by wetness and the city turns into a mountainside aquatic park. With the rain comes the ever present chill that stings your face and body. Queztaltenango, or Xela, continues to function as if there is nothing happening. People move about without jackets, ducking underneath different awnings ever so often when the rain mercifully lightens. The whole process of living in these conditions is truly indicative of this city: a relaxed, wet and quiet place. Last Friday, Xela celebrated its 485th year as a city without much fanfare or pomp and circumstance. There was a band and a large flag, but as the rain pounded the city at night, everything turned to normal. There was no BBQ's, or fireworks, or drunken students spilling out on the streets singing the national anthem off key- only the sound of splashing and groans from Sam and I as we stepped into another recently formed river along the street. Everyone tells us that Xela is the quietest, big city in Guatemala- the reverse of the tourist slogan of Reno, Nevada: The biggest small city. Its name is derived from Mayan as “the place where- you'll never guess- the Quetzal bird, native in Guatemala was in abundance. Its only real acclaim came in 1920 when it built the first electric train system in Latin America. Unfortunately, it lasted only for 3 years as the cold- how could they miss that aspect, I have been here a week and I know it’s cold here- deformed and bent the tracks making it unsafe for travel- seems a bit weird when the busses I have been travelling on are pretty much in the "unsafe category" as well, yet they still run. Only in the 50's when some non-descript international conference came to Xela did it gain any international relevance and since then it has quietly grown into an economic and urbanized city. The old city is filled with travellers, who as the travel guides all explained are hardened travellers looking to learn Spanish. Cafes outnumber bars here and often they are filled with travellers with notebooks, computers and pens studying hard. Along with schools there are dozens of volunteer companies advertising trips and opportunities to help communities.
There are two means of finding out what is going on in Xela: the free print Xelawho and Xelapages.com. What is hilarious about Xelawho is this publication has a multitude of advertisements from different bars and clubs informing people that there are dance classes at 7:30 or a movie showing at 8. What I love about travelling is that, on paper, everything should happen at 7:30, but we all know that that is far from the truth. We have arrived at a couple of bars wanting to take free salsa classes that have been advertised as starting at 9 pm, but the classes have to be scheduled in advance and at 9 pm the club has a 15 Quetzal cover. So in order to counteract this goof on our part, we tried to go to another bar that advertised salsa classes at 7 pm on Saturday. We went early to make sure there was no cover or hidden aspect. We arrived at 6:15 and the place was shut. At 7:15 the doors opened and the proprietor told us the classes didn't begin until 9:30: Bars 2, Gringos 0. As through most of my travels, if you arrive on time to an event, it has 1) already happened; 2) cancelled without any warning; or 3) the people who are working in the establishment have no idea what you are talking about. If you try and outsmart the system by arriving early what usually happens is 1) the people who work there have no idea what you are talking about; 2) the event is the day after tomorrow in another location where you must give the secret code just to get in;- even it is not a guarantee that the event is happening or the person has any idea what you are talking about; and 3) blank stares of incomprehension. It makes life so much more worthwhile, I feel like a gumshoe detective.
While getting to know Xela has been great; this place is the perfect place to learn. The real reason to be here is to learn Spanish. For me, this has been a monumental task as my situation in learning Spanish mirrors Sam's time in meditation. The main idea behind Sam's meditation was to draw out all the past problems, stress and hardships of life and allow them an avenue to come to the surface and disappear; and this is what is happening with my Spanish. All my bad pronunciations, - although to be fair, I have a hard time pronouncing words in English- incorrect tenses and general lack ability to speak have all come to a head. My teacher is great; she has tailored the class to revolve around reading and speaking: topics can be on anything. My lack of spoken Spanish was apparent from the get go and it has been quite frustrating to some degree. I have all of these verbs, words, and phrases all swirling in my head, but I have never had the chance to use them- mostly out of complete fear of speaking. Now I hope they will all disappear after a few weeks. I am writing and speaking as much as possible to combat the years of bad habits.
As for Sam, it has been an overwhelming experience, but an exciting one as well. She has been inundated with verbs, words, vocabulary, phrases all of it in such a short time period. Her head hurts, but she is determined to get through it. Ever the competitive person, she has made it here duty to be passable by next week. She loves this new opportunity to use her brain in new and exciting ways, but in general, there is a feeling of frustration as many times she can't understand what is going on or be able to have a conversation in the manner she is accustomed to. I have told her, that this is all part of the process as I went through the same experience in Chile, but all the same, it still is tough. She is diligently doing homework and we have focused on learning then looking to travel; which is what most travellers’ do on the weekend.
There are two means of finding out what is going on in Xela: the free print Xelawho and Xelapages.com. What is hilarious about Xelawho is this publication has a multitude of advertisements from different bars and clubs informing people that there are dance classes at 7:30 or a movie showing at 8. What I love about travelling is that, on paper, everything should happen at 7:30, but we all know that that is far from the truth. We have arrived at a couple of bars wanting to take free salsa classes that have been advertised as starting at 9 pm, but the classes have to be scheduled in advance and at 9 pm the club has a 15 Quetzal cover. So in order to counteract this goof on our part, we tried to go to another bar that advertised salsa classes at 7 pm on Saturday. We went early to make sure there was no cover or hidden aspect. We arrived at 6:15 and the place was shut. At 7:15 the doors opened and the proprietor told us the classes didn't begin until 9:30: Bars 2, Gringos 0. As through most of my travels, if you arrive on time to an event, it has 1) already happened; 2) cancelled without any warning; or 3) the people who are working in the establishment have no idea what you are talking about. If you try and outsmart the system by arriving early what usually happens is 1) the people who work there have no idea what you are talking about; 2) the event is the day after tomorrow in another location where you must give the secret code just to get in;- even it is not a guarantee that the event is happening or the person has any idea what you are talking about; and 3) blank stares of incomprehension. It makes life so much more worthwhile, I feel like a gumshoe detective.
While getting to know Xela has been great; this place is the perfect place to learn. The real reason to be here is to learn Spanish. For me, this has been a monumental task as my situation in learning Spanish mirrors Sam's time in meditation. The main idea behind Sam's meditation was to draw out all the past problems, stress and hardships of life and allow them an avenue to come to the surface and disappear; and this is what is happening with my Spanish. All my bad pronunciations, - although to be fair, I have a hard time pronouncing words in English- incorrect tenses and general lack ability to speak have all come to a head. My teacher is great; she has tailored the class to revolve around reading and speaking: topics can be on anything. My lack of spoken Spanish was apparent from the get go and it has been quite frustrating to some degree. I have all of these verbs, words, and phrases all swirling in my head, but I have never had the chance to use them- mostly out of complete fear of speaking. Now I hope they will all disappear after a few weeks. I am writing and speaking as much as possible to combat the years of bad habits.
As for Sam, it has been an overwhelming experience, but an exciting one as well. She has been inundated with verbs, words, vocabulary, phrases all of it in such a short time period. Her head hurts, but she is determined to get through it. Ever the competitive person, she has made it here duty to be passable by next week. She loves this new opportunity to use her brain in new and exciting ways, but in general, there is a feeling of frustration as many times she can't understand what is going on or be able to have a conversation in the manner she is accustomed to. I have told her, that this is all part of the process as I went through the same experience in Chile, but all the same, it still is tough. She is diligently doing homework and we have focused on learning then looking to travel; which is what most travellers’ do on the weekend.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Nothing they can do
A quick note to begin this blog, I apologize for the numerous errors in the last blog, mostly spelling. I hope it didn´t detract from the blog too much. I would use the excuse that my spell checker did not work, and honestly, who wants to use that obsolete apparatus called the brain to check over mistakes, I got Spanish to learn. I will make sure, for this time and in the future, to review the blog so you can enjoy with relative ease.
Moving forward, life has been surprisingly easy. We have settled into a routine already, but not too rigid of a schedule that we can´t enjoy some impetuousness. For example, our school, like the other schools, offers activities in the afternoon, whether visiting a nearby pueblo or watching a movie, there is no limit to the activities. Even during scheduled class, we have the opportunity to culturally learn as we can visit these same pueblos, or watch the same movies during class if we so please. Yesterday for our morning session, my teacher, Sam´s teacher and the both of us went to a market, which sold animals by the dozen: little pigs, done. Cows, how many? ducks, chickens, just quack when you want me to stop. Everything, literally, under the sun was available. We are going to an even bigger market, el mercado de San Fransisco, on Friday, which supposedly makes this last market look like a petting zoo.
Yesterday, the plan revolved around a visit to a cooperative of women, survivors of violence, who sew and sell a variety of materials. However there happened to be a lecture by a professor about the Guatemalan politics starting from 1944 till now so we postponed our visit to hear the lecture.
Guatemala is a scary place no doubt. Everyday there are numerous articles which report brutal murders, assaults, indiscriminate violence, and robberies everyday. There seems to be no end to the violence or any justice for the families of the deceased. There is rampant apathy, refusal and a lack of state control over the actions of its citizens. Take for instance, students in Guatemala city are begging for more police presence in and around their university, because there are limitless attacks on students returning home at night. Guess what the response was from the police: students should stop chatting after class and head straight for home. Besides drinking and occasional studying, isn´t chatting after class about god knows what, the most important component of being a student, especially when you don´t live oncampus? Students have proposed a plan for thier safety, but falls on deaf ears. This encapsulates the feeling here. There is no remedy for the crime.The really sad component or outcome of this is the sentiments of the people. They have become accustomed to it.
The professor touched on the history of Guatemala: the brutal existence of United Fruit Company, the repression, persecution without means, the civil war and now, the lack of control. He blames the government for the continuance of lawlessness. He added that, " basically, anarchy reigns in the country and we are worse off than during the civil war." A civil war that had limitless atrocities and killings. Just merely looking at the newspaper, I am forced to agree. This professor, who repeatedly said, "what can we do?, nothing," gave Guatemala a bleak outlook. What made this lecture even more powerful were the events that have transpired this week. A lawyer was gunned down on the streets, and apparently, his murder can be traced to the president, his wife, and a few other people who hold high positions within the government. I have seen pictures of Alvaro Colom. He resembles the guy who had his head dunked in a toilet in school rather than a cold blooded person, but this is Guatemala. My teacher, the professor all expressed sadness, but this is something they are used to. It is really painful to see this resignation in the people, so accustomed to senseless violence. It is sad to hear that my teacher´s brother was right in front of a man who was murdered on a bus for not handing over his phone, yet he was not affected afterwards or as Miriam said to me " what he can do?" Most people carry only what is necessary here, again this is a generalization, but it is proving to be true. Finally, as I later learned, the professor was part of the guerrilla against the government in the 80´s, yet he stood before us, demonstrating so much passion in relating this history to wide-eyed students- but there was so much sadness and depression in his voice. He repeated those same tired lines of the people, what can we do? How can we believe in the State when even the president doesn´t respect it. This is coming from a man, who clearly fought for a purpose, and a belief, yet now seems rudderless when it comes to the present situation.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Enter Stage 1 of Culture Shock
This place is great. We have settled into our house, city and school with ease. Xela is the perfect town to learn Spanish as this city exudes real life Guatemala. I am the first one to admit though that I, as well as Sam, are smack dab in the first stage of culture shock: everything is so new and exciting, nothing can ever go wrong, we want to live here forever. While I understand that our emotions will oscillate over the coming weeks between elation and down right frustration, so far so good. I think a lot factors into us feeling so comfortable from the get go. The most salient factor has to be that I can passably speak Spanish. Also, as much as I struggled with India, getting around presents much less of a challenge. Now, our bus ride from Guatemala City to Xela mirrored our travels in India: inexplicable stops that could be classified as a vacation for some, people hawking food, drinks and other services, and the picking up of people in random areas. But, in general, there was no headache. Also, looking around the city, there is an air of familiarity to the stores, services and other buildings, allowing for a sense of comfort. However, I am trying not to get ahead of myself, because I know things could ( and probably will) turn somewhat sour over the coming weeks. Yet I am reaping the benefits of traveling through India just two months ago; the level of patience coming from me is awe inspiring.
The sleepy city of Xela (Sam asked her teacher where do people go out on Friday and her teacher responded, home) sits in a valley surrounded by hulking hills and mountains. The air is always fresh and the low lying clouds seem to gravitate towards you as you walk. We are currently at 7,000 feet, but we have felt no ill effects of altitude sickness. Just like India, there are explosions of color everywhere mostly emanating from the people who walk around. Buildings shine with pastel colors that would make any fraternity brother envious. The sidewalks are tiny little steps of elevated cement that offer the slightest bit of protection from the oncoming traffic. The streets themselves, some cobbled, some level, are just wide enough to fit a mouse on a moped yet cars whiz by you with absolute indifference to the situation.
We think of ourselves as worldly travelers, but I feel we missed the memo on the temperature- or just made a gross oversight. The mornings and nights are chilly and I packed only one sweatshirt. I was under the impression that Guatemala was hot; the images of steamy jungles were my preconceived notion. It is anything but steamy here. Luckily, I have spied some cheap discount clothing stores to buy some more warmth. As we have learned, there are only two seasons here: The rainy season is here or it has past. There is no division of seasons really. One is really warm the one, which we are in, is extremely cold. Apparently defies all hemispheric laws and is actually in the winter season. Northern hemisphere, next to boiling Mexico, yet the only thing boiling here is the tea to keep me warm.
Guatemala current situation is not unlike the rest of the world right now. The government is immensely preoccupied with the flu. Only in the airport have we seen masks, but the population on the streets is quite devoid of them. According to Prensa Libre, the main newspaper of Guate, even though there has been one reported case in Guatemala, the government has taken advance action and suspended all public gatherings until June. There are concerns over public transportation as this is one of the main areas- due to overcrowding- where the flu can spread. The government has rebuked any ideas of shutting down services since they do not want to paralyze the city any further. They are only asking people to take precautions while traveling: if someone is sneezing, the government is imploring people to be a good citizen and avoid public transport.
Here in Xela, the precautions are no different. All gatherings have been suspended until June. There was a scare over the flu when three children went to a hospital showing signs of the flu, but were immediately released without receiving the proper attention- some drunk woman trumped their situation. Realizing the gravity of the whole situation, the doctors rethought their decision to let the boys be walking angels of death and spent the entire afternoon looking for the boys. They eventually found them and I am happy to report they are not carriers. Pandemic avoided.
This is us so far, living the surreal life in Xela, exit stage two of culture shock.
The sleepy city of Xela (Sam asked her teacher where do people go out on Friday and her teacher responded, home) sits in a valley surrounded by hulking hills and mountains. The air is always fresh and the low lying clouds seem to gravitate towards you as you walk. We are currently at 7,000 feet, but we have felt no ill effects of altitude sickness. Just like India, there are explosions of color everywhere mostly emanating from the people who walk around. Buildings shine with pastel colors that would make any fraternity brother envious. The sidewalks are tiny little steps of elevated cement that offer the slightest bit of protection from the oncoming traffic. The streets themselves, some cobbled, some level, are just wide enough to fit a mouse on a moped yet cars whiz by you with absolute indifference to the situation.
We think of ourselves as worldly travelers, but I feel we missed the memo on the temperature- or just made a gross oversight. The mornings and nights are chilly and I packed only one sweatshirt. I was under the impression that Guatemala was hot; the images of steamy jungles were my preconceived notion. It is anything but steamy here. Luckily, I have spied some cheap discount clothing stores to buy some more warmth. As we have learned, there are only two seasons here: The rainy season is here or it has past. There is no division of seasons really. One is really warm the one, which we are in, is extremely cold. Apparently defies all hemispheric laws and is actually in the winter season. Northern hemisphere, next to boiling Mexico, yet the only thing boiling here is the tea to keep me warm.
Guatemala current situation is not unlike the rest of the world right now. The government is immensely preoccupied with the flu. Only in the airport have we seen masks, but the population on the streets is quite devoid of them. According to Prensa Libre, the main newspaper of Guate, even though there has been one reported case in Guatemala, the government has taken advance action and suspended all public gatherings until June. There are concerns over public transportation as this is one of the main areas- due to overcrowding- where the flu can spread. The government has rebuked any ideas of shutting down services since they do not want to paralyze the city any further. They are only asking people to take precautions while traveling: if someone is sneezing, the government is imploring people to be a good citizen and avoid public transport.
Here in Xela, the precautions are no different. All gatherings have been suspended until June. There was a scare over the flu when three children went to a hospital showing signs of the flu, but were immediately released without receiving the proper attention- some drunk woman trumped their situation. Realizing the gravity of the whole situation, the doctors rethought their decision to let the boys be walking angels of death and spent the entire afternoon looking for the boys. They eventually found them and I am happy to report they are not carriers. Pandemic avoided.
This is us so far, living the surreal life in Xela, exit stage two of culture shock.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
According to the game plan?
Today is the day for travel. A clear, sunny day here in San Diego symbolizes our feelings to get back on the road again. The road up to this point has not been so smooth and there has been some seriously frazzled nerves on all sides about going to Guatemala. From the beginning, Guatemala has represented the culmination/beginning (if that is all possible) of this odyssey. It is in Guatemala where our itinerary ends on page three of three. We have crossed out Cambodia, India, the States and have that final inked destination squarely in our sights. For these last three weeks, or for those scoring at home, closer to a month, Guatemala has been just that: an inked destination, only tangible within those crumpled sheets of paper. Over the last month, we have answered people's questions, made concerned people feel more at ease that, yes, there is direction to our travels and fought off individuals with stern, taught faces, conspicuously dressed in lab coats holding Sam and my size straight jackets. Guatemala was the perfect conversation starter and finisher: everyone understands that this is an exotic destination and wishes us well, but no one truly knows the country at all; this included the two of us. On the outer shell, we were convinced about Guatemala and demonstrated a certain determined bravado. Deep down however, there was this void that led to a false sense of conviction. We had been so caught up in catching up, enjoying an absolutely incredible wedding and re-charging our batteries that Guatemala remained almost as a myth, a self sustained ignorance, of where we were actually going. To a degree this ignorance propelled our false sense of bravado; we have adamantly adhered to the philosophy that we have no deadlines, no schedule and refuse to install a system and just go with the flow. Yet, we still did not learn from our mistakes from the past. We were under prepared for India and the same goes for Guatemala. We failed to do our due diligence, proper research into the country. Once we sat down and truly researched traveler's experiences from Lonely Planet's throne tree forum, other informational blogs and sites, and both the Australian and US state travel websites Guatemala became more than just a typed word on paper: it became, honestly, scary. The crime and safety section of both governmental websites was a rap sheet longer than Al Capone's record. Worries, anxieties, hide-under-your-bed actions gripped the both of us intensely. Every conversation and thought seemed to circulate around our safety. This is what happens when any country, not just Guatemala, exists as writing and within the depths of imagination. We oscillated between sticking to the "plan" to scrapping it (no, the US or Australia ever entered the conversation of possible alternative destinations, sorry) to spend time in Panama, Costa Rica. However, the beauty of research is that the process of investigation uncovers facts to help draw an informed conclusion (at least one hopes). In our case, after hours of reading websites and books, we deliberated the negatives and positives and came to the conclusion that Guatemala was not to miss. We feel better prepared now by delaying our intial flight to tonight and understand the risks associated with traveling there, but again if we heeded most negative advisories, we would never leave home. Guatemala now has taken a much more ominous characteristic, but the fact remains, it still is just an ink destination that is begging for us to go experience it.
With that said, our language program has eased some of the fears and has been instrumental in solidifying our intentions to go learn Spanish there. We have chosen Ulew Tinimit school in Quetzaltenango or locally known as "Xela"- (Shey-la) and their director is a lovely woman- at least electronically- who has enthusiastically answered all of our questions and growing concerns. Ulew Tinimit was a top for choice going into the language school sweepstakes, but it was immediately tipped to this school by her first email. We had sent out numerous enquiries about the availability of two people enrolling in their respective programs for next week; some have a cap of students per week. We received some emails back, all in English. Our first correspondence with Ulew was an email that was a combination of English, numerical equations and a series of unidentifiable blots, but one thing was certain, it was not English (coincidentally, I believe that is how I write in Spanish right now). This meant to us that they were serious about learning Spanish and that English would be an unwelcome guest during our learning process. We have blocked out a minimum of three weeks, but that could change depending on the situation.
It is funny, most of the traveling writing- including yours truly- I have encountered are obviously geared towards being in the country or looking back at the time spent in the country. However, an area that I feel is neglected in writing is pre-travel or the day-before emotions. This notion can be applied to traveling anywhere: local, national or international. For me, I am not nervous about safety issues- while they do reside in the back of my mind- I am more concerned over the apparent lack of a future game plan. It is all unpredictable. This is the most unnerving or exciting thing about going somewhere, the fear of the unknown. Even going for a weekend to NYC, there are elements that are out of your control: how you will feel on Saturday? (I am venturing hung over if NYC is in the example) Where will you relax? How will events transpire? This has positive and negative connotations, but still are unknown. Even NYC, while familiar can conjure up surpises around every corner.
I was up last night for three hours, in a fitful state of mind. I kept turning over future events, attempting to create situations that I could encounter, or just hashing out practical and inane questions, which swirled above my head: What will I eat? How is our host family going to be? Will I experience a high level of culture shock? Where will I cut my toenails? Do zoo animals know they are zoo animals? No matter where I travel, the night before is always restless. I feel that this is an integral part of my traveling process, much greater than the first week of travel. It always allows me to come to grips with the situation and facilitates in my understanding that these fears, emotions are a natural progression and outcome to a change in scenery. I don't try to answer the questions- of course zoo animals know their predicament, why would they look so bored?- I let them come to me, hover impatiently in my mind then slowly dissipate. If you get caught up, then you will be anxious. I allow all of those fantasies, nightmares, hyperbolic situations to permeate my brain of what Guatemala will be like, because, this instant, that is what Guatemala is to me: a Frankenstein creation, rigid and fantastical, but ultimately looking to enter reality. In time, obviously, my experiences will deconstruct my bolt-necked Guatemala image or, in some cases, strengthen my preconceived notions. As for now, in Hitchian Guatemala, I see internal and external struggles- we are back to insanely frustrating world of transport where going from A to B takes you to point C, then back to A with a brief unschedule stop at 567, then bears right to hit S. After waiting at S for the driver to sip his never ending cup of coffee we limp to B after seven hours.-, small , colorful beautiful people who are going to be why everyone raves about going to Guatemala in the first place.
With that said, our language program has eased some of the fears and has been instrumental in solidifying our intentions to go learn Spanish there. We have chosen Ulew Tinimit school in Quetzaltenango or locally known as "Xela"- (Shey-la) and their director is a lovely woman- at least electronically- who has enthusiastically answered all of our questions and growing concerns. Ulew Tinimit was a top for choice going into the language school sweepstakes, but it was immediately tipped to this school by her first email. We had sent out numerous enquiries about the availability of two people enrolling in their respective programs for next week; some have a cap of students per week. We received some emails back, all in English. Our first correspondence with Ulew was an email that was a combination of English, numerical equations and a series of unidentifiable blots, but one thing was certain, it was not English (coincidentally, I believe that is how I write in Spanish right now). This meant to us that they were serious about learning Spanish and that English would be an unwelcome guest during our learning process. We have blocked out a minimum of three weeks, but that could change depending on the situation.
It is funny, most of the traveling writing- including yours truly- I have encountered are obviously geared towards being in the country or looking back at the time spent in the country. However, an area that I feel is neglected in writing is pre-travel or the day-before emotions. This notion can be applied to traveling anywhere: local, national or international. For me, I am not nervous about safety issues- while they do reside in the back of my mind- I am more concerned over the apparent lack of a future game plan. It is all unpredictable. This is the most unnerving or exciting thing about going somewhere, the fear of the unknown. Even going for a weekend to NYC, there are elements that are out of your control: how you will feel on Saturday? (I am venturing hung over if NYC is in the example) Where will you relax? How will events transpire? This has positive and negative connotations, but still are unknown. Even NYC, while familiar can conjure up surpises around every corner.
I was up last night for three hours, in a fitful state of mind. I kept turning over future events, attempting to create situations that I could encounter, or just hashing out practical and inane questions, which swirled above my head: What will I eat? How is our host family going to be? Will I experience a high level of culture shock? Where will I cut my toenails? Do zoo animals know they are zoo animals? No matter where I travel, the night before is always restless. I feel that this is an integral part of my traveling process, much greater than the first week of travel. It always allows me to come to grips with the situation and facilitates in my understanding that these fears, emotions are a natural progression and outcome to a change in scenery. I don't try to answer the questions- of course zoo animals know their predicament, why would they look so bored?- I let them come to me, hover impatiently in my mind then slowly dissipate. If you get caught up, then you will be anxious. I allow all of those fantasies, nightmares, hyperbolic situations to permeate my brain of what Guatemala will be like, because, this instant, that is what Guatemala is to me: a Frankenstein creation, rigid and fantastical, but ultimately looking to enter reality. In time, obviously, my experiences will deconstruct my bolt-necked Guatemala image or, in some cases, strengthen my preconceived notions. As for now, in Hitchian Guatemala, I see internal and external struggles- we are back to insanely frustrating world of transport where going from A to B takes you to point C, then back to A with a brief unschedule stop at 567, then bears right to hit S. After waiting at S for the driver to sip his never ending cup of coffee we limp to B after seven hours.-, small , colorful beautiful people who are going to be why everyone raves about going to Guatemala in the first place.
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