Friends in Low Places

OK, so we're on a van ride from Managua to Leon (Nicaragua) with bags of rum and coke in hand. I was already super glad to be with people I know, plus I was speaking loads of English. Honestly for three weeks I was mostly spending my days avoiding conversation at work, just because it was embarrassing to work in a real news room and not be fluent in the language. I mean, I was able to get my job done and do alright, but it was still very challenging. So when me and Seattle folk met up, I talked even more than normal. I was actually starting to lose my voice.

Anyway, the van ride was fun, and when we got to Leon we checked into our hotel. Katie is a nanny for a woman from Leon, and she gave her some money so we could spend a night in a really nice hotel, dubbed as the best in Nicaragua. All old and historic, this place was beautiful. We went in and (I think Blake and I especially, as we had been traveling for a while) were absolutely stuneed. This place was POSH. I felt excitement, unease, guilt, and most of all out of place. And I was nowhere near my dirtiest. When you are more than comfortable staying in hovels, a tent or a hammock every night, going into this place is downright awkward. After a minute, though, I was able to embrace it. We hung out in the room enjoying some music and amenities like a nice bathroom and super cooshy beds. Then we went out looking for a club. I was thankful to have Christina there because she had the Nicaragua guide book and she quickly filled the position of tour guide. I had done that far too much for myself for the last 3 months so her leadership was very welcome. On the other hand, though, I felt more helpless than usual because even after a few days I had no idea how to navigate the town.

The club we went to was one of the more popular ones in Leon, especially for the college students. I had heard Leon is very touristy, but I do not think it can hold a candle to places like Antigua or Granada. In fact we were the only foreigners in the club when we first got in. Now, since high school I have been fairly apprehensive in a club setting where I am expected to dance, but something made me feel more comfortable here. Maybe it was the good company, or knowing that to all the locals, I was just another Chele* they would never see again. So the four of us got our bearings dancing together until the girls moved on to some local guys. At some point a woman we dubbed 'teacher', due to her conservative and mature looks, in the midst of her dancing with another guy started putting her hands all over Blake and I. We didn't really know what to do when she aggressively groped my booty and put her hands in Blakes pockets. Luckily, Blake and I noticed two girls dancing together that kept eyeing us. We discussed the matter, decided they were attractive, and when an overzealous guy pressured them too hard to dance, I motioned them over. They immediately came over and we hit the floor. I got the tall one. Sweet. It was going well for the first song, probably Sean Paul or some other reggaeton, but then the DJ switched to salsa, which I barely know. I think Blake and I both felt extremely nervous. The girls were nice though and got us in the rhythm. I was sure she was unenthusiastic though because all I could do were the basic steps over and over. Quite boring I am sure. On the plus side, the general salsa skills of the other guys in the club were nowhere near what I saw in Guatemala. They knew how to move. So after a couple of uncomfortable songs, Blake and I went for another beer. The girls had seemed interested in us, so we waited for some more reggaeton. Blake went to where the girls were sitting and got super denied for another dance. Why I followed after that, I have no idea, but this girl was down for more dancing. And just my luck, it switched back to Salsa right after we were back on the floor. After a bit more of this, Katie and Christina rescued me and said we were leaving. Very bittersweet. At least there were hot dogs to eat at the plaza before heading back to our hotel.

The next morning we attacked the complimentary breakfast. It was half American half traditional. I loaded up my plate with eggs, bacon (a special treat) cheese, gallo pinto, fresh fruit, fried plantains, and probably a bunch of other stuff. I accomplished my goal of making this worth well more than one meal.

Then we returned back to our proper place in traveler society and checked into a $4/per person guesthouse. After that we headed to the beach nearby, Las Penitas. Only about a 45 minute bus ride, but being Semana Santa, we were unsurprisingly forced to stand. The beach was absolutely awesome. Strong currents, powerful waves made it perfect for body surfing. The intense sun was also welcome after most of my days in Managua were spent in stupid air conditioning. All day Blake and I played like 5 year olds in the surf, making up games like 'hit by a car', where we would let the wave crash right into us as it broke and slam us into shore, or cannonball, crouching up into a ball letting the wave toss us in circles. I can't remember the last time I laughed that much in a day. And swallowing that much sea water was no good for my waning voice. After a few hours of this we scavenged for food down at the crowded end of the beach where throngs of day trippers made the sand barely navigable. As we ate our carne asada and quesillos we caught more attention from locals than I was used to in Central America. I attribute this to being in a place not very frequented by tourists, but in reality it was the two white girls in bikinis. Most places you go, girls will get loads of attention until they are with guys. In Nicaragua, however, the men are bold, and they yelled all sorts of stuff at them. I wasn't sure what to do. The girls seemed to revel in it, but the balls to say that stuff with Blake and I right there just ticked me off. I shot many a dirty glare until I realized it didn't bother the girls and the guys weren't really going to do anything. I just could never imagine yelling 'sexy woman' at all, let alone when they are with two intimidating young bucks such as Blake and I. After the sunset we managed to catch the last bus back to Leon. Now I have thought many times that I have been on the most packed bus of my life, but this one is definitely a contender. We were crammed in the back where two seats had been removed. I got a bit nervous about the girls because we were surrounded by dozens of wasted men. There was some tension, but overall it felt fairly jovial. A few men spoke with us, but not even my Spanish was up to understanding most of the slurring. The guy behind me kept saying the same indecipherable but obviously perverted comments about Christina. I repeatedly told him to shutup but I don't think he could even hear anything he was so drunk. I forced myself between them, and Blake and I made it very apparent that these were 'our' girls. One of the less creepy (and this is relative) was actually able to have a decent conversation with us, but after trying to kiss Katie's hand and getting told off, he was extremely apologetic to Blake and I. We had fibbed that Blake and Katie were married and that Christina and I were dating. It was a fun experience, especially when all the guys cheered for me when I took a swig out of their gutrot liquor. Pretty much the whole ride was chaos, and when it was over I was not disappointed. As Christina stepped out of the back of the bus I saw a young extremely inebriated young guy deliberately reach for Christina's backside. Luckily I forcibly grabbed his arm and pushed it away. He didn't seem to notice, and right after the fact I regretted not just punching. He might have noticed that. Then we were followed for about 5 blocks by two young boys under the age of ten that repeatedly executed the same maneuvers on Katie and Christina. No amount of yelling at them would get them away. I felt ridiculous with 2 kids getting the better of me. I can't hit them and my Spanish wasn't good enough to effectively cuss them out. Maybe I need to spend more time at the soccer games to improve that aspect of my vocabulary. Either way, it makes me worried that this behavior will just get passed on for who knows how long.

That night we were pretty tired, plus we had an 11 oclock curfew at this guesthouse. So we didn't do much except ride a topless bus around the town for about half an hour.

The next morning=Easter!. We had been told mass was at 9, but when we got to the Cathedral (the biggest in Central America I might add) it seemed like people were leaving more than they were entering. 2 Things became apparent: We had missed mass, and Easter Sunday is very different than it is in the states. Basically they have a whole week to celebrate, so Sunday isn't really that much more celebrated than most of the other days. We sat in the pews for a while just taking in the beauty of the cathedral and relaxing. Eventually a young woman with a baby came and sat right in front of us and struck up a conversation. I was less than shocked when she spoke of medical bills for her baby and how expensive they were. Apparently he had been born with 3 testicles and needed to get one removed. Now anywhere other than this setting I would have reacted completely different. However, it was Easter and we were in a church and regardless of the number of testicles on her son, I was not about to send her away. She led us to a market where we bought her a large amount of a very expensive milk formula. She was appreciative, but I couldn't help but notice that this was the exact thing that I did on the other side of the world no more than 2 years ago. In India you can be expected to get all sorts of scams (like in this one the woman just goes back to the shop where the milk formula came from and sells it back for a bit less than you paid). I had witnessed almost none of this activity in Central America so this really threw me off. Either way I couldn't help but think of the bible story when the man helps the homeless guy and it's really Jesus in disguise. And even if she wasn't Jesus, and her son had the correct number of testicles, it was obvious that she was poor and not being victimized by big-business begging like in India. So in the end, I felt fine about what we did. This might have made me seem fairly cold and callous, but I think that is what India can do to you.

We hung out for a while longer in the market then noticed another church service was starting so we went. It is fun how regardless of bad acoustics and weak grasp of Spanish, a Catholic service is still pretty simple to follow if you grew up in the church.

After that it was back to the beach. On the crowded bus about 5 minutes from the beach I heard a commotion on the back of the bus and I looked back to see people trying to disperse. A fight was going on and I heard a couple girls scream, making me think, 'gun!' Luckily it was not the case, but we did see one guy lift himself up on the overhead bar and kick the guy with both feet. The whole thing lasted less than 30 seconds before people managed to shove them out the back door. I am not sure what happened, but I like to think they were able to finish their scrap right there in the street. After that the day carried on in a very similar fashion. More swimming and just enjoying the atmosphere. Just about sunset, we headed back over to catch a bus back, and as expected, it was just as crowded as the day before. Somehow, though, we were all able to score seats right in the middle. Before taking off an obsenely drunk young guy made his way next to us, and I could tell if something was going to go down, it would be him. I was relieved to see him change his mind and stand about 2/3 to the front of the bus. And it didn't take long. About ten minutes into the ride I saw a ripple of movement in front of me. Sure enough, another fight. I could not see much, but I did see a middle aged woman fall. I don't know if she was involved or just fell from all the commotion. Then I heard screams and my heart skipped a beat. Everyone was panicking, children were crying, some people were trying to see, others were ducking in case the worst happened. The bus stopped, but whoever was fighting was still on. I could sense a struggle to get at least one person off the bus, and it took a few minutes. When they were finally thrown out, the bus sped on. Then I heard a bang coming from the back of the bus and girls screamed and everyone ducked. I think it was just a heavy rock he threw at the bus. Then, I think due to traffic, the bus slowed down, followed by more girls screaming. I saw the back door briefly open. This guy was nuts. I don't really know exactly what happened, but people managed to keep him off. I do know that he tried to keep up with us for a while. When it was finally all over all the passengers seemed to just laugh it off, like, oh yeah, just another Easter at the beach. My adrenaline was raging.

On Monday we took a day trip out to San Jacinto a small town outside of Leon with one 100 yard cobblestone street and a billion excited kids. The attraction of this town was the volcanically heated mud pits. When we got off the bus we were greeted by a 10-year-old named Carlos, who offered to be our guide. We started to discuss the price when about 6 other kids came up and surrounded us. I had told him that we will pay 5 Cordoba each. At first he interpreted this to mean we would pay each children 5 Cordoba each, but I quickly cleared things up and that we only wanted one guide. So Carlos led us down the road, and about half the kids followed us. I explained again that we only wanted one guide, but they kept following. When we got to the mud pits all the kids fought for our attention, pointing at things as obvious as 'this is a mudpit, it has mud in it. It is hot'. It was cute, but I knew at the end they would all be expecting payment. I stayed close to Carlos, only listening to him. Was this wrong? Either way, the mud pits were kinda cool, but I had the impression that we might be able to soak in them. Unfortunately they are all boiling. One of the young guides scooped up a load of mud in a bag and affectionately gave it to Katie. We took turns rubbing the mud on our face as war paint and Hitler mustaches. After we got tired of the mudpits, Carlos led us to where we could buy fruit, water and a coconut popsicle thing. Then he told us he wanted to show us the rivers. So we followed him down a long dirt road lined with fruit trees. When we got to the ojocote** tree all the kids climbed high up into the trees and stuffed their pockets with the fruit. Their offerings were more than we could eat. At this point the group now consisted of Carlos, Chele (that's just what they called him because of his lighter skin), Estrella, and two other young boys. When we got to the river, they showed us a small pool above it that ran into the river. They said to only swim in the pool because the river is full of horse and cow poo. They all stripped down to their unders wear and leaped into the pool. At its deepest it was about 3 feet, and about 10 feet by 15 feet. These kids were jumping into it from about 8 feet up. I don't know how they didn't break all their legs. This ended up being one of the highlights of this part of the trip. We played with the kids in the pool for nearly two hours. We had races across the pool, lucha libre matches, the kids found us dozens of rocks to take home as memories and sometimes they just dragged us around the pool by our legs yelling 'coche coche coche!' (car). To me it seemed more like 'rickshaw, rickshaw, rickshaw!' but I don't think they would have understood. When we finally tired of the pool, Carlos decided to take us to 'where they bathe in the river' I didn't really know what this meant, but we followed. He led us down the horse poo river and when we came across a hornets nest on the side of the river. Well, being kids we had to throw rocks at it. After about 5 minutes I nailed it right in the middle and we all turned and sprinted. I was running so fast I didn't notice that I had cut my foot on a rock in horse poo river. And what do you know, now it's kinda infected. The bathing spot was where two pipes, diverting water from somewhere, poured into the river. Young men and teenagers of the town were coming out here to bathe their horses and themselves. And the two white girls bathing with the kids was quite the sight for them. The kids really loved us, but the horse guys just seemed kind of annoyed to share their cleaning area with some tourists. Except for the girls being there, they didn't seem to mind that. The best part of the day though was when we headed out of town to catch the bus and we paid Carlos double what we had agreed upon because he ran immediately to the store and bought an ice cream. It made me glad that he and his family did not have to rely solely on the occasional tourist passing through and for Carlos it seemed more like a fun way to have fun with foreigners and get some pocket change. We also gave the other kids enough to go buy an ice cream, though only two of them did. They all waited at the bus stop with us until it came. Christina gave her journal to the kids to draw or write something. The best was Carlos'. He drew a horse pooping. One of the other kids struggled to sound out the one word he knew in English, hello. I think it came out Alo. Or something like that.

Oh, and real quick. Two highlights of our time in Leon were Katie thinking that all the cheese we were eating came from pig milk, and also messing with Christina and Katie's lack of Spanish skills. I explained to them that because their Spanish is not that good, that they should apologize and tell them that they are embarrassed for their Spanish. What they didn't know is that saying 'estoy embarazada' does not mean I am embarrassed, as you might think. It means 'I am pregnant.' The first time we got them was trying to buy water from a corner store. When they fumbled over the words, I told them to apologize and tell them you are embarrassed. And basically in unison they smiled and said 'I am pregnant' for no apparent reason to the women, who looked confused and in shock. The girls noticed that I couldn't contain my laughter and asked why. I covered by saying that they had said 'embarazado' meaning they are an embarrassed man not woman. This was not true, but nice save Joey. The second time we got them was on the bus ride back from the beach when one of the creepy guys on the bus home was trying to chat with her. Her telling him that she was pregnant seemed to have very little effect on his interest in here.

*Chele is the Nicaraguan slang for light-skinned people, the equivalent of 'guero' in Mexico. It comes from switching the 'ch' and 'l' in the word 'leche' meaning milk.
**Ojocote is the size of a giant grape, and when ripe tastes like a peach, but before ripe is like an apple.

End of the Paper Beginning of the Vacation

Well, I can't believe it, but it's actually coming to an end, so now a brief (yeah right) recap of the last few weeks.

I think I left off midway through La Prensa. I really did not enjoy my first week that much, but then once I got into a rhythm, I really liked it. One of the more interesting things I did was cover a press conference with Daniel Ortega, the president of Nicaragua, and former rebel leader and enemy of America. I also covered some of the conflict going on in La Chureca, Managua's dump. Basically what the issue is is that the community that lives and works there in the dump, about 1500 people, make their living by sorting through the trash looking for recyclables. Or things to sell. It's like really intense dumpster diving, but the result of even more desperate situations than the thrifties that do it in the states. The problem now is that the government employees that collect the trash all through the city have been sorting through the trash and taking all the good stuff. This led the community to block the trucks from coming in. So this was in the paper almost every day. The closest thing that ever resembled a 'human interest piece' at La Prensa. The trucks eventually were diverted to other dumps in towns nearby Managua, I'm sure much to the delight of the communities that live at those dumps. One day I went to the dump and photographed the protesting, another day I went to take pictures of the school in the dump started by a Dutch guy (though the story turned into another story about politics and didn't mention the school, so my photos didn't really work). Another day the residents marched through the streets (making stops in front of both newspapers and other media outlets) and made their way to the Mayor's office and banged on the gates. After the crowd was dispersed, the journalists were let in to speak with the vice mayor. The mayor's quarters were plush with a nice swimming pool and outdoor restaurant to serve all the people involved with the mayor. The contrast between the filthy dump workers and those just inside the gate the churequeros were pounding on was ridiculous. I am not sure what they saw peeping through the seams in the gate made them jealous, or if they just wanted fair access to trash. On another occasion I went out of town to watch the dump trucks come and dump garbage all the way from Managua.

On another day of work I got to go out of town to Rivas (we left at 6 AM) to cover a religous festival. A mixture of street fair and church services. Some were entering the church on their knees, and everyone lit candles and received blessings. It was a stretch for me, being the whitest guy around, and getting right in people's faces with my camera while they made their religious pilgrimage. Good experience though. After that, we went over to San Jorge, a popular beach on Lake Nicaragua. Locals were having picnics and drinking beers while fishermen came in with their catches. One guy hanging with the fishermen had a pretty sizable boa around it's neck, probably 5 or 6 feet and much thicker than Bob. He let me hold it for a while, and tried to sell it to me. He offered it for $30, then quickly lowered it to $20. I probably could have gotten it for 10, but I think getting it back would have been tough. Then I realized they are not pets here, and me buying it would mean me cooking and eating it...Interesting, but I think I have too much of a connection to snakes to eat them.

On my second weekend at La Prensa, I was able to get the days off so I could go to Isla de Ometepe. I have mentioned this before. It's the island on Lake Managua made out of two volcanos, one of which erupted in October. This was my first exposure to the touristy side of Nicaragua, and it was very strange. Getting off the ferry in the main village (still quite small) everything was colorful, there were many restaurants with pricier food, foreign-owned guesthouses and jewelry shops. I waited around for a bus and took it about 30 minutes to a beach of which the name has escaped me. Basically, it was a 15 minute walk from where the bus dropped me and the walk there put me back in the rural Nicaragua vibe. Cows languidly made their way down the road with the larger volcano, Concepcion, looming right over them. I had seen the volcanos from the boat on the way in, but nothing compared to being right under them, staring up at all of its volcanoey glory. As I walked with my back to Concepcion, I frequently had to stop, turn around, and just stare at it for a couple more minutes. I really didn't do much here except for relax with the little time I had. I met a couple of interesting Brits, watched the sunset with them and just hung out for a bit. The next morning I went for a walk to a nearby lagoon where I heard some sort of monkey (howler perhaps?) making a real ruckus. And that's about it for Ometepe really. I stopped in San Jorge, the beach on the lake, on the way back as it was the Sunday at the beginning of Semana Santa, basically a week long religious celebration just before Easter. I joined some locals for a couple beers and took one of the last buses back to Managua.

I was delighted to find out at the beginning of my third week at La Prensa, that Semana Santa is taken so seriously, that most of the staff had the whole week off and everyone had Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunda off. Therefore there were no papers for 4 days. This boggled my mind, but I did not complain one bit. It was sad to leave though, especially because I didn't get to say goodbye to all the photographers that had the whole week off. They were a great bunch of people.

And here, my time in Nicaragua takes a drastic turn for the awesome. Blake (friend from Seattle who had been traveling in Costa Rica and Panama for about a month) and his friend Maddie came up and met up with me in Managua on Tuesday of Semana Santa. On Wednesday we tried to go clubbing, but it didn't work. We went to the "Zona Rosa" which is probably the deadest Zona Rosa in Central America and Mexico. We sat at a bar sipping beers for like an hour or two. And we were the only people in the entire place the whole time. We debated the casino nearby or the 'other' club that charged a $5 cover. We opted to head home.

The next day I took them to some Markets to find certain things. First we went to Mercado Oriental, described by boss at La Prensa as a cancer that won't stop growing. The most dangerous market in the city, and the largest (rumored) in Central America. Word on the street is that you can get an AK-47 there for $50. But that's not what we wanted. We wanted mortars. The huge bombs that shoot out of the tubes and make a simple bang, far surpassing the radness of M-80's. Unfortunately Semana Santa had closed much of the market, including mortar dealers. Then we tried to find some iguana, but this was unfindable as well. We wandered a bit more and found ourselves in a piece of market that seemed suspiciously dead. As we wondered why everything was specifically shut down, Maddie started to buy plantain chips from a guy walking buy. She gave him a C$20 for a C$2 bag, and he said he didn't want to get change because it is the dangerous area of the market. He told us to follow him. This means that a) he is a nice guy looking out for us and himself or b) he is proving his point of the danger, and taking us into a dark corner of the market where is friend would rob us. Luckily it was the former. And as we walked through the deserted area of the market (he explained that nobody could sell stuff in this area because they would just get robbed) I felt for the first time a sense of uneasiness in Managua. The people that passed us gave us looks that warned that we were on their turf. Their abundance of tattoos and heavy chains didn't help reassure me either. He eventually led us to safety where we got our change and chips, and even a bus to the next market. I knew that you could buy iguana at Mercado Huembe, so I was excited about this. The plan was to either keep it as a pet (I had been looking into the paper work on bringing one home) or keeping it for a few days and then eating it for an easter feast. To our disappointment, this market was even more dead and iguana-freeer.

Katie came in from Seattle that night which was fun. We went to a local dive and drank liters of beer while the locals utilized the jukebox to play a ridiculous mix of traditional latin music and cheesy American music (i.e. the Final Countdown) singing loudly to all of them. They were good people. Then we saw a sign with the name of a soup I had never heard of. Blake guessed that the carved iguana might mean that it is iguana soup. I asked, and he was right. However, they only make it on Saturdays. We would be long gone by then. So the church continued.

Friday morning we went out to Pochomil, the closest beach to Managua. The day consisted of swimming with hundreds of local vacationers, eating ice cream, eating Katie's cheezy plantains while she wasn't looking, eating Maddie's leftover huge fish, drinking bags of water, listening to roaming live musicians, listening to blasting reggaeton out of cheap speakers, and general jubilation. Then the stress came. The final ingredient for the recipe of ridiculous, Christina, was arriving in Managua at 6:30, and it was already 4:00. We had a 1.5 or 2 hour bus ride back to the city to get her and the line for the bus was at least 100 meters long. We were not getting on...but wait. There is no such thing as a full Nicaraguan bus, so while some of the line got on, most of them waited for the next bus so they could actually get a seat on the bus. So we had to stand, but at least we could make it in time. This was the beginning of my realization that the more people involved in the traveling, the more stress there is. Until then I had been entirely on my own, and on my own schedule. I was responsible for my well-being and that was it. Now things get exponentially more complicated. But that's the fun of it right? So we got in Managua with just enough time for me to go get my laundry (which had only been soaked in water, not cleaned or dried) and for Katie to go pick up Christina at the airport. The plan was for all of us to meet at the bus station with just enough time to catch the last collectivo van to Leon. We all arrived at the same time, but the problem was that the vans don't leave unless they are full or they get the cost of what it would be if it was full. There was only one woman waiting in addition to us. So we discussed our options and all decided to pony up the $8 or so to get going with this. And thus starts the party van. We bought some cokes in bags and busted out our Ron Plata, Nicaragua's budget rum. And we had drinks all the way to Leon. I will leave this entry on this note, because the rest of the trip just gets ridonculous.

Workin Man

So here I am in Managua. I have now spent more time here than any place on this trip. Well, except for Mexico City, but that will change in just a day or two I think. It is interesting to be settled down for a minute, and I am enjoying the routine I have gotten in (I know that doesn't sound like me, but it is really fun to find your niche in a foreign country.) I must say though, that I have been disappointed in Managua. I was looking forward to staying in a big scary central American City. But despite the million person population, it does not feel like a big city. It feels more like a huge expanse of neighborhood. There is no city center since they did not rebuild it after the 72 earthquake. Therefore, it is very spread out and there is not as much centralized street vending. I made the mistake today at work by being truthful about how I feel about Managua. I basically said just what I said right here, and that I liked the city center of Guatemala City, and how it felt a bit more edgy and dangerous. There aren't really gangs here, and it feels perfectly safe to me (though every single local, like everywhere, warns of how dangerous it is for foreigners. I usually just blow that off, not because I am naiive, but because if I live in fear, the experience is lost.) I have found some food around where I am living that is pretty good, but nothing all that new that has blown me away. I think my favorite thing about Managua, and it won't sound like much, but it is rad to me, is that there are mango trees everywhere. Locals seem to knock them down and collect them in masses before they fully ripen, but if I keep my ears peeled I hear them drop and quickly go and grab them. Or I will keep my eyes out in the morning for the stray that fell during the night. The mangos are also frequently passed around at work. I think this would be a good place to be homeless because you will never go hungry if you don't mind eating mangos for every meal. I mean, seriously what other city has fruit just growing everywhere. Cool.

Yeah, I had a pretty lazy weekend getting ready for my internship. I wanted to get out of town to see some of the nearby attractions, but I really just felt like loafing around, doing nothing. I don't regret it. Saturday, I went to the market and got a shirt so I had more than one for work. The biggest market is pretty cool. Saw some new stuff there, like a plate of iguanas (live, just chilling there) for sale. This means that I might be able to sample some reptilian cuisine before I go. There was also a surprisingly large area of crafts and tourist junk. If anyone wants a cool shirt, I am thinking of buying a bunch and making a small profit selling them when I get back. After getting ripped off by the guy subletting my room, I will be short on dough when I get back, so I need to do whatever I can to recoup funds. I will sell the shirts for $10, or other tourist junk, like Cubans, hammocks and stuff.

On Saturday night I wanted to go to the place a few blocks away that supposedly has some live music. I went to a seedy bar across the street for a cheap liter of beer first though. Well, when I got there they said the minimum purchase was 50 Cordoba (about $2.50), which means I would have to get 2 liters. Jeez, 2 liters of beer for $3. That is not a bad deal, so I went for it. Don't worry Ma, I can handle it. So this bar is not really a bar, it is just a sidewalk outside a family's living area. Just inside the main door there is a small area with two tables and a slot machine (casinos and gambling are randomly huge in Nicaragua). And past that, through the second door is their house, so I had to pass through there when I had to use the bathroom. On the way back I stopped to talk to the owner who was watching the city's carnival parade on TV. This was a huge mistake, because we inevitably started talking politics. He insisted on showing me a movie that he had. It was a documentary about their war. It followed a young 14 year old girl fighting for the FSLN, the leftist rebel group. In the '80's the US government was pouring money into the country to fight the rebels, like in the rest of Central America. This has made America, and mostly just Ronald Reagan, insanely unpopular among many Nicaraguans. In the movie one of the families showed a picture of the father of the family. He died in the war, and the owner told me that it was his friend. Yeah, this guy I was talking to had been involved in the conflict. He showed me two gunshot wounds on his shoulders, and one on his side. Throughout the movie, he kept asking why America had done what it had to his country. I tried to explain that I was not in agreement with what had happened, and that I was born in the middle of the conflict. But the way he was asking was not out of anger. It was in sadness. He was in pain while watching this movie, and he seemed to just want to educate me. To make me relate to what he and his people had been through. His voice was so stressed, he sounded on the verge of tears. He just could not understand how or why such a rich, powerful country would bother a small impoverished developing nation that had nothing to begin with. I could not either. At least with El Salvador, America has unintentionally helped by letting all the immigrants come in to work and send money back. Nicaragua does not have as many citizens living in states, as more of the population goes to Costa Rica to work. But either way, what do I do with this? What do I do when I meet people's lives have been so deeply affected in a negative way by the country I am representing? How do I deal with this? And I know that this situation will not end here in Central America. I will encounter this when I go to South America some day. Southeast Asia even more so. And we can all imagine what it will be like in the Middle East. Who knows where else. Most people under the age of 30 (and I am sure plenty over that age as well) are not even aware of what kind of involvement the states had in Central America. I did not know until I started educating myself in the 6 months before coming here. What will I find out if I go to Africa? Eastern Europe? Did the states have a war on communism/terrorism in Mongolia? Australia? Well, at least I know that Belize is pretty safe. That country's ridiculous.

Sorry for that rant. So yeah, Sunday, I walked to the bus stop to go to some hotsprings, and boiling mud baths a couple hours outside of town. I was also going to go to the Flor de Cana rum distillery if I had time. But then I got to the bus stop and realized I didn't feel like it. I just wanted to relax for a minute, so I bought a juice at the grocery store and went back and lazed. Uncharacteristic. But again, I have no regrets.

Monday was my first day of work with La Prensa, the biggest and best newspaper in Nicaragua. OK, so it is one of two, but come on. It's something. They have a pretty big photo staff, I would say about 10 in all. There is also another intern here from Canada. His name's Andrew, and he seems aiight. He is doing a 4 week internship, and speaks as good of Spanish as me (not very good) so it is good to not be alone in this overwhelming environment. Tomas, the photo editor, said I need to get some real shoes (I am still wearing my Keane's, just with socks on so they don't seem as sandally) and that I "need to do something with" my hair. OK. I mostly hung out all day with Tomas for the day at the desk, then at 1:30, I was called away on assignment. The city's baseball team was having their first practice. Baseball is the biggest sport here, thanks to 50 years of US occupation. This, to me, is the real downside of America's influence. Baseballs is so boring, even compared to soccer. So yeah, I got my first photo printed in the paper the next morning.

On Tuesday, my single assignment was a press conference at a library. It was super boring, but Andrew said that is what most of our assignments are like. Sweet. Both days, I got off a little after six. I start at about 8:30. Long days. I don't know what Tomas does, but he gets in around 9:00 and is still there when I leave. I never see him do anything except read photography websites and the news. Oh well. Maybe I'll do that some day.

After work on Tuesday I figured I would figure out the bus system, because a $2 taxi each way to work was not going to do. It turned out to be about a 45-60 minute ride on two buses. But at least I am saving money. When I got back to my hotel at about 7:30 I decided I need to do something with my hair, and fix my pants that had re-ripped pretty wide on the seat. This would be tricky this late, so I started asking around. Everything barbershop seemed closed, but a teenager with tattoos and a bad limp hanging out by a food stand decided to help me find someone to fix my pants. We walked for a few blocks, peeking into various homes, asking the matriarch if she could fix the pants. Eventually we found one. Because they were so badly ripped, the woman said she would put a huge patch inside that would hold very strong. The only brown fabric she had was silky, and very shiny. Whatever. I didn't really have any other options. I also asked if she knew of any place to get my hair cut. Well luckily, her sister who lives there could. So for the next 45 minutes, I sat while these two sisters solved both of my day's problems. My hair is sexy and my pants are no longer holy. All for about $4. The women said I looked like Tom Cruise. I would like to take this as a compliment, but I know that it is just that all white people look the same. I should have told them they looked like Penelope Cruz and Shakira.

I don't know how I am going to solve the other problems. I need at least one more shirt and one more pair of pants and a pair of shoes. This will run my budget, but what's worse is that I go to work before markets open, and get done after they are closed. And the weekend, well, I was planning to go surfing (there's a surf comp too!) and get those errands done on the way, but Tomas told Andrew and I today that we were working. No days off.

Wednesday, today, I spent most of it waiting for a press conference to start. The vice president of the country and some other politicians talking about development and junk. Super boring. All I can say for all this, though, is it will be good on a resume (definitely not in a portfolio). I really hope I get my second weekend off. I really need to go to Lake Nicaragua. There's two freaking volcanoes that form an island in it! And one of them erupted in November!

Oh and the other thing I like about is that horse carriages are pretty common. Not for people, but to carry stuff.

LONGEST BUS RIDE EVER!

2/27/08

K, a quick update on my journey in the land of Moskito (I don't know about the etymology of that word, but the region is named after the people inhabiting it. I don't know if that is their own name for themselves, or if the English named them that after the bug that plagues this area like crazy. I'm more bitten than I have ever been. Most hotels, and most houses as well, are equipped with mosquito nets, but it does not help much. I should be on my antimalarials, but after the side effects in India, I am more than a little wary. Plus I figure that these people live their whole lives here without them, so why should I be lucky enough to have them?).

So after lazing around for a while yesterday after my large serving of turtle, I decided to go and investigate the situation with the lobster fishermen and the possibility of paying them to take me to the Moskito Cayes. I didn't know where to go, so I walked towards the water. I saw a place called Bar Marina, and figured that this place would probably have connections to the seafaring individuals I was looking for. I ordered a Tona (Toneya), a surprisingly good, and unique tasting local beer. I started chatting up the owner and told him that I was hoping to go the Moskito Cayes, and asked if lobster fishermen would be able to give me a ride out there. His response was promising and he instructed me to go to the peir, just a few blocks away. I started walking there, and once I got within view of the dock, I asked someone else about who to speak with. The pointed me toward the beach, where it looked like there were a few skiffs. As I walked away, he called out to look for Miss June or Jane or some generic girl's name, I don't remember. On the stairs I ran into a couple of friendly old men, one of African descent, and one that looked Moskito, but he spoke in English with an African accent like in Belize. They pointed to a boat coming in and said it had just come in from the Cayes, so it would not be going again any time soon. In fact, the old men told me that no boats would not be going out for another three months. I had a hard time believing that, so I went down and asked one of the guy's from the returning boat if there were any boats going out tomorrow. He didn't know for sure, but if there were, they'd be leaving at 8 in the morning. If I come down at that time, there is a chance that one is going and it could take me.

On the way back I ran into a German guy who has been working here for four years with an NGO. He told me he's never been out there because the Cayes are so frequently used by drug runners, and there is a reputation for piracy around there as well. That worried me slightly, but seriously, what kind of pirate goes after a lobster boat? Well, I guess I would. I had lobster once, and it is worth pirating for.

I went back and told Tio (Belgian guy) about the possibility of the boat. I figured this town would be where we parted, but he sounded interested in going to the islands.

So this morning Tio and I went to the pier. On the street just above the beach there were a few large sea turtles on their backs. They were all quickly thrown into a cart, or dragged down the street by the buyers of the freshly arrived sea fare. As we walked down the stairs to the beach there were more of the turtles being carried up. And on the beach at least fifty huge turtles lay on their back, fins tied together. A crowd of people crowded around, picking out which one they wanted to take home.

I went and asked someone who was loading up a boat where they were headed. Sandy Bay, he told me. He said he didn't know of anyone going out to the cayes today, but there was one going tomorrow he thought. Another guy came up and started negotiating fares for me to go out there. This was of course a private charter he wanted to sell me, in which I would have to pay for all the gas. That would have been a couple hundred dollars, so I told him no, but he kept wanting to discuss it. I changed the subjects and asked how much those turtles go for. About 200-500 lempiras, or 10-25 dollars. Wow. And aren't these things in danger too?

I turned to Tio.

Did you hear that? I asked.

Yeah, it's disgusting, he said, just before walking away.

Well jeez, I mean, it's sad to see all these helpless turtles, i thought, but this is the people's culture. This is their food. If these fishermen couldn't catch turtles for a living, what would they do? Plus, I don't think that they were doing anything illegal. The man told me that turtle season ends in just a couple days. No more turtle fishing for three months. Maybe that's the nesting season or something. Even if these are the endangered turtles, what would happen if someone came into America, telling us we could no longer eat beef. Yep, all those cows are now protected and you'll have to do without one of your most popular foods. I know your people have been eating it for hundreds of years, but you understand, right?

I chatted around some more, but it sounded like lobster season was ending as well, and it was very unlikely to get a fishing boat from this pier. They said I would have better luck out at the Sandy Bay. A guy offered to take us there for an arm and a leg in his boat, but I declined, as I wanted to see what Tio had to say. I waited for him to return as I waited for another 20 or 30 minutes. I don't know where he went. I had barely even told him that we might be out of luck. Maybe he just wanted to get away from the turtles. I went back up to the road but could not find him. He must have walked back to the hotel. I grabbed a cab heading back there, but he was not in the hotel. Maybe he stopped for breakfast? Nope, waited around all day, and he never came back. I have no idea what made him leave without saying anything. I didn't mind too much. I hate making a big deal out of things, but that was really odd. I just hope that they give me a break on the room we shared, and don't make me pay double.

In other news, my stomach has been off all day. Twisting all over the place, many times to the bathroom. Turtle? I really didn't eat more than that yesterday except for some bread and a coconut. So...yeah, I guess that's what I get for eating a potentially endangered species. But come on, when in Rome... I didn't really eat much all day, but the ice cream cone went right through me. I figured that this was a good time for some greasy food, as there was less danger of calories. Did I just say that?

So fried chicken it was. I asked for the side to be of plantain chips, no cabbage. Then the woman serving me said something about yucca, and I said I had plenty of food already. Then she said something about water and yucca. I didn't really understand, but I figured that she was talking about some yucca drink. Sure, I said. She quickly grabbed my plate, dumped the plantain chips I had been craving back into the bucket, and put to large hunks of tasteless boiled yucca on my plate. If this wasn't motivation to improve my Spanish, I don't know what is. I needed something to wash it down with, so I asked for some of their pineapple juice (think lemonade, but with pineapples). I figured this would make up for the bland yucca. Well, the pineapple this juice was made with had definitely fermented, thus destroying my hopes for a cold tasty beverage. I really think this country is out to destroy my stomach. I hope that Managua has better food than this. Mexico and Guatemala, and even El Salvador and Belize, really spoiled me with great food. I'm sure in a big city I'll do better.

2/29/08

Woo! I'm in Managua. And before I get into this, I would just like to say that you do not appreciate pavement. And neither did I, until I spent the first 20 hours of a 24 bus ride on a washboard dirt road.

I got to the bus station around 8:00 for the 9:00 AM bus (I had heard they leave early if it fills up). Well, I had been told the wrong time, and it actually didn't leave until 10:00. I was assigned to the seat right above the wheel well. When I tried to switch seats (the bus was about half full) the bus assistant guy put me back in my proper seat. Sweet. 24 hours over a wheel well.

I'm not going to go into much detail about the ride, other than that it was pretty brutal. I am very sore, tired, bruised, nauseous. But...I've got a sweet room in Managua right now. Private bathroom, fan, TV! with cable! I'm watching CNN and the BBC! in English! And it's only $6/night. It is more than I would normally want to pay, but since I won't be spending much money on buses for a few weeks, I figure I can afford it.

Also, I started laughing to myself about the name of Managua. Man-agua. Man water.

Rurney (Rad Journey)

Well, I made it to Nicaragua. It took a minute, and I was lucky to make it in as little time as I did. Overall, what Honduras and the Moskita lacked in new and interesting foods, it more than made up for in new and exciting 3rd world transport adventures.

So the journey into the Moskitia started in La Ceiba at about 5 in the morning. I was waiting for my cab. When I had gotten my cab into town (after passing up about 6 other cabs that refused to give me the set fare for the city) I arranged to have the same driver come pick me up at 5 so I wouldn't have to struggle to get a decent price when there were hardly any cabs around. Well, he never showed up, so I walked to a main street where a cab would come by every 5 minutes. After passing up the first two for not giving me the right price, I went for the third at a slightly inflated price just because I was wasting time, and really wanted to get the first bus out of town to ensure a smooth journey for the day. Well, either way I missed the first, and ended up on the 6 AM bus headed to Trujillo. I got off in Tocoa where I got another cab to where I was planning to catch a truck into the Moskitia. I was mauled by about 6 guys before my cab even stopped. I was bartering for my fare before even opening my door. As I got out all these guys were fighting desperately for my business. This is very rare for Central America. It felt like India again, but I must say this was even more intense the way they not only fought over me, but my bag as well. It was getting tossed around, as they probably assumed whoever got control of it would get my business. I yelled, "Just give me my bag" a few times until they all calmed down and handed it over. Now, who wanted to take me for 300 Lempiras? Someone agreed. I liked this market. I was in control and I got a much better deal than the guide book had even said (400-500). The guy took my bag and put it on his truck, when surprisingly I saw a couple other travelers next to one of the other trucks. After speaking with them, I found out that none of the trucks could leave until they had a few more people. Mine had one. Theirs had three. I was not about to wait for theirs to fill and then for mine to. I asked their driver if he would also take me for 300 and he agreed. He went and tried to grab my bag off the other truck and the other driver started yelling at him. They were up in each other's face and almost threw down in fisticuffs, until I got in there and explained that I was going with this other guy and that I was sorry.

We waited at least an hour and a half until we were on the road at about 10 or 1030. About a half an hour into the journey the truck started stalling about every couple kilometers. After one of the several peeks under the hood, the driver pulled out a couple of pieces from inside that to me looked fairly important and put them in the back with us. I didn't think taking parts out would help, but I don't know anything about cars and engines and junk, so whatever. After about an hour of this starting and stopping, we reached a town with a mechanic and after about 30 minutes we were back on the road. The road turned to dirt, and it got real rural real quick. It was supposed to be a 4 or 5 hour ride to Batalla. After about 5 hours of a nauseously twisting road with plenty of potholes and formerly washed out areas, we reached the coast, where we drover through a bunch of tiny little Garifuna fishing communities. I really wanted to just get off at one of these and see if I could find a place to stay for the night, but I had already paid the full fare, so I stayed on. Eventually we picked up a full load of people in a village and all their goods. Finally the truck was packed. Then, unexpectedly the road ended and we took a detour onto the beach. I thought this was just temporary, but for about 2 hours we drove right through the sand. Unfortunately it was high tide, so to stay on firm sand, the truck was driving half in the water and half out. Looking left, it was about 2 feet deep, looking right it was just wet, firm sand. There were some very tricky sections, but we made it through without too many complications. We reached Batalla, on the Laguna de Ibans, where we unloaded everything and reloaded it onto a pipante, a very long and skinny canoe with a motor. It was just getting dark (meaning that our 4-5 hour ride was more like 7-8, which I would quickly get used to in this region) and we started off. It was a beautiful journey across this lagoon, but after about an hour of the bumpy ride sitting on a wooden board (the same thing I'd been sitting on all day) destroying my backside, the novelty of this boat ride wore off. The sun had set, the wind was picking up and plenty of water was splashing up making me and my bag wet and cold. Not too bad though.

I arrived in a tiny village, Rais Ta, with the two other guys, Germans in their early 40's, around 8. There was one guesthouse, and it was kinda pricey, but there was no real choice. The German guys had been talking about making a trip out to Las Marias, a 6 hour boat ride up the Rio Platano. The tiny village was supposed to be super remote and out in the middle of the jungle on the river, just the way I liked it. I had thought about this before, but because there are no regular boats that go up there, tourists have to pay an exorbitant amount to charter a boat up there. Split between the three of us, they had told me would be $50 each, for both ways. I decided that if we stayed two nights there and I ate cheap and everything it wouldn't be too far out of my budget, so I went for it. We made plans to have someone take us the next morning.

7 AM, we spoke with our boat captain and he tells us that the price has gone up and it will cost more like $70 per person. Breakin my balls, boat cap'n, I thought. We asked why it was so much more and he had all sorts of explanations (such as cost of gas, which is about $5 per gallon out here, that he also had to pay the bowman, and that we were paying him to wait for two nights to take us back). Whatever, we went for it anyway. The boat ride was great. Very peaceful even though it was so long, turning out to be more like 7 or 8 hours. There were little villages all along the way, kids running around, waving at us, women doing laundry, men in their dugout canoes fishing or moving loads of plantains to the next village. My only complaints were that it didn't seem very jungly and the majority of the wildlife (supposedly a big draw for the area) we saw was cattle and a few birds. Oh and that bowman we were paying so dearly for...yeah, there wasn't one.

Las Marias, the biggest village along the Rio Platano has about a hundred families living in it, though that could mean like 4900 people live there judging by the size of the typical Central American family. It is all very spread out, and the area where our guest house was consisted of our guest house and the owner's family's living area. We were warmly greeted by one of the sons living there getting us some coconuts from their tree for us to drink. For the afternoon I just laid around on a hammock and read Life of Pi (highly recommended). In the evening the "head guide" came around and asked what trip we would like to do the next day. There was the option of multi day jungle treks, river tours and night time crocodile watching. This little town really knew how to work the tourism. Every tour, when he worked out the price, it was including two guides for the three of us (which seemed completely unnecessary to me) plus an extra 100 lempiras for the "booking fee" to the head guide (him). Anything on the river required three guides: two to handle the poling (no motor) and one to steer. This all seemed ridiculous, so we decided on a one day hike and convinced him to let us have just one guide. The Germans were really into seeing wildlife, especially birds, so they made the guide grudgingly agree to get started at 7 AM (the earliest he was willing).

Las Marias, is an entirely Moskito village. I have really come to like the Moskito people. The sound of their language fascinates me. The caidence and tone reminds me of Belizean Creole. Especially because random words are English, or based on it, as the British had more influence here than the Spanish. But there is Spanish mixed in as well. Such as all numbers. You would think that the Moskito people didn't know how to count before the Spanish came. To me it sounded like this: blea blah bloo spoon blah blee blah mil quinientos blah bananos bloo. A sentence obviously about how they had bought 1500 spoons in exchange for some bananas. Currently my moskito vocabulary includes the following:

monney=hello
tinky=thank you (this one is based on the english word)
tinky pauley=thank you very much
zocolon=frog
tawa-tawa=little by little or slowly, fitting for how to describe getting around La Moskitia

The people automatically seemed more friendly and hospitable (not just where I was staying, but all the people I have met) than most I have encountered on this trip. Especially the Mayans. As much as I respect them for all they have endured over the years, and how strong of a people they are, none of them ever seemed very friendly, especially to foreigners. Though that is understandable. It is just that several times the Moskito people have made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside with their natural friendliness.

Anyway, for the hike, we didn't get going until 8, surprise, and I think 7 would have been too late anyway to see many birds. They rise early, but then just hide out as soon as it starts to get warm. We had also been promised white faced monkeys. I think in the whole hike we saw like 3 birds and that's about it. It was a good hike though, a lot of trudging through mud, and we rose to a lookout over a huge expanse of jungle below us. It seemed to just go on forever, and it was all flat. Behind us there was a bit of mountainous area with a good view of Pico Dama (Lady Peak?).

More relaxing that evening, then a fairly early start back down the river. A much quicker journey this time, as we had the current with us. I didn't really know how I was going to get to Nicaragua, but after asking around I found that I could get a boat to Brus Laguna, on the Laguna de Brus, from the town of Rio Platano, at the mouth of the river. I asked to be let off there as we neared the village where the Rio Platano dumped into the ocean. I bid farewell to my silly German companions and continued on my journey. This seemed like a cool village, almost completely surrounded by water, with a good mix of Moskito people and Garifunas. I wanted to at least hang out in the village for a couple hours while I waited for the boat. However, the boat to go to Brus was already loading up. I threw my bag in and we were just about off. Among the locals, there was also this Belgian guy, named Tio, much to the humor off anyone speaking Spanish. Picture some foreigner coming to your town and introducing himself as Uncle. Anyway, Tio was trying to do the same route as me, so we decided to team up. Already I had seen three more tourists than I had expected to. But it wasn't bad. In fact, I feel like I met every tourist that was in the entire region at the same time as me.

The two hour boat ride quickly turned into three before we arrived in Brus. This town was shockingly big at 4,300 hundred, and it definitely had that port town's edge to it. It was on the inside of a lagoon, that opened up to the ocean. We checked into our room and asked the owner, who was running the bar across the street, how to get to Puerto Lempira (near the Nicaraguan border) or Ahuas, just another town in the right direction. He said you can't get to Puerto Lempira from there, but by boat you could get to Ahuas, if there is indeed a boat running, which is highly unlikely. We asked about a road out of town, because there was definitely a road in this town wide enough to fit cars. He said there was no road access to this town, but if he heard of a boat leaving in the next couple days he would let us know. I did not want to turn around here, but it looked like we could be out of luck. We looked at Tio's map, and it did show a dirt road going from Bus to Ahuas. We decided to investigate just by walking down the main road out of town. After ten minutes of walking I asked a boy where the road went. To the "pista" he told me. Is that like autopista (highway) I asked? Uhhhh, si, he responded. OK, so there IS a way out of town by road. We asked somebody else, they said no, no way out by car. Then a car passed! Well, if there are cars in the town they must have come in by road right? We flagged it down and asked where the road went. To the airport he said. But after the airport? Nowhere. Apparently that is what the kid meant by "pista". So if there was no way out of town, how did we see at least five cars that day?

Coming back to the hotel, we were stopped by an old man with four teeth and good English. He told us he was going to Ahuas the next morning at 7. What luck. We didn't realize at the time how rarely boats travel between the two towns, but it is not very often. On our way back to the hotel, I went into the bar to ask the owner if I could buy one of the coconuts off of his tree. It was before 5 PM and there were already people stumbling out the front doors, barely able to walk. I swear, that place was a pirate bar. Modern day pirates. A drug running hot bed, where trades were being discussed in a mix of Moskito and heavily accented Spanish. This is all speculation, but it is fun to imagine, and it definitely gave off that vibe. There were plenty of sketch folk wandering around Brus. Back at the hotel, we were approached by a swaying man with one brown eye, and one turquoise from blindness. He told me over and over (in English) how he wanted me to teach him the words of the American language. He really creeped me out, but Tio and were able to convince him to go get a book in English from his house and we would help him read it. Predictably, he never came back.

Oh, and I was denied the purchase of a coconut, but I went to a guy two shanties down and he sold me one of his. I went back and realized my machete still wasn't sharp. So I went and bought a file, and tried to sharpen it back at the hotel. I knowingly did a very poor job of it right outside my room, in hopes someone would see me struggling and do it for me. A man from the room next door was watching me and I told him that I had never sharpened anything before and that I didn't think I was doing it right. Sure enough, he sent his ten year old grand son to help me out. He sharpened it perfectly, and I immediately became a coconut opening machine. It is tougher than they make it look, but I did a very respectable job my first time, opening the top less than an inch wide, perfect to drink out of. I shared it with the kid and he seemed to think it was a very just reward.After drinking it, I split it in half and we ate the meat together.

We met at the dock at about 6:30 and enjoyed an amazing sunrise as silhouetted men standing in their dugout canoes poled their way around the canals. The extremely narrow pipante started loading up after 7 with large women, their kids, a few men and a ton of goods. Fruit, gasoline, water, etc. Now, I know that anyone that has been to Central knows the fame of the chicken buses, those old school buses for dirt cheap where people transport all their wares, including fowl. However, I am proud to say that I am probably one of the few travelers who has experienced an iguana boat. Yep, tossed in with all the luggage and bags of wares, was 3 foot long iguana with all limbs tied behind it's back. I felt so bad for it. It was constantly being smashed between or under bags, and even stepped on a couple times. What was this, a pet? I didn't really think much about it until later. After an hour or two of navigating a series of narrow canals, we arrived into the main river that would eventually lead to Ahuas...eventually. This boat trip made me regret going to Las Marias because this boat trip was easily twice as rad, albeit 8x as cramped an uncomfortable). The scenery was better, we saw tons of turtles and plenty of unique birds, and the river life was just as interesting. However, the people seemed much more impoverished here. They were visibly traumatized by hurricanes, as most of the houses were as basic as a frame of a small logs and a few tarps. We stopped at a house along the way and everyone got out. I followed them up to a large women's house frame where she sat with the stature of a jungle mystic that would cure us of our ailments with unheard of herbs and then tell our future. Actually she was selling fish and turtles. Three fairly good sized turtles were purchased, thrown in bags, and into the boat. I asked the kid on the bench what the turtles were for. To eat, was the answer. Awesome! And they had cost less than three dollars. I bet one of those things could feed two families if accompanied with rice and beans and tortillas, as it surely would be. And the iguana? Same. Wow. I guess I didn't feel as bad for the thing knowing that it would be on their plate in a matter of hours.

So because of the hour late start combined with typical Moskito transport, our estimated noon arrival time quickly became 3:30. To my disappointment, when we got off the little boat, the town seemed to consist of just a couple of wooden shacks. It turned out that Ahuas isn't really on the river, but an hour's walk down the road. When we got pretty close to the town, we were passed in the opposite direction by a truck. Maybe there was a road leading out of this town? After asking around, no there definitely wasn't. Seriously why do these little towns with no road access even have cars. I mean, jeez, Ahuas doesn't even have electricity, but it had plenty of vehicles (like 10). I asked our guesthouse owner how the cars get here. "2 canoes!" he replied. Seriously? Yep, they take two of the pipantes with motors, put a huge board in between, and drive a truck or car up onto it. Transporting a vehicle into Ahuas costs roughly $550. I don't know who could afford that on top of the car, but several have done it.

We asked around and asked if it is possible to get to Puerto Lempira. Well, whaddya know, it is! We were told that there are frequent fast boats that take 2 hours and cost nearly $20, or a 5-6 hour slow boat for about $13. The fast boat sounded like a good idea actually, especially because there were two leaving the next day, one at 6 and one at 9. That evening a guy came by, looking for passengers for the following morning's boat. He told us it leaves at 6 AM and costs $22. Well, we knew better and decided to take the later one, plus we knew it shouldn't cost that much. He warned us that there was only one boat leaving. I just wanted this guy to quit lying to us, so I told him we weren't going tomorrow.

Well, waking up the next morning we found out that there really was only one boat leaving that day. Also, there wouldn't be any the next day either as it was Sunday. Great. Now we're stuck in this little town with nothing to do for two more nights. That morning I also met our neighbors in the hotel. I had peeked out my window to see who was talking. A big fat white guy responding to someone from the hotel by saying, "uhhh, no understandy Spanish", before walking off. Whoa, who was this guy? I stepped out of my room and there were three more gringos. They turned out to be missionaries from Pennsylvania, going around to different villages, handing out clothing and showing a movie about Jesus. To me it seemed like a way to guilt-trip people into your religion. They had flown into town and were flying back to Puerto Lempira the next day. They informed us of this great hotel to stay at that was only $50 a night. Little did they know that the $9/night place I was at with them was quite a stretch on my budget.

With my free day I borrowed the hotel owner's bike and rode around town. I went to the river for a swim, and on the way back I took a left down a dirt road that I figured would not go very far. It did. I rode for about half an hour through some fields, wetlands, and eventually to another tiny village, where I acquired many a stare. It was good to have a bit of exercise. My other plan for the day was to find a place to get some iguana, or turtle. Well, the one eatery in town did not have any, and they said that you can only get iguana in April. Apparently the rest of the year they are just too skinny. We also kept asking around for boat options, and we heard a rumor of a 2:00 boat leaving on Sunday. It was a slow one, but I didn't care.

The next day we waited around for the truck to take us to the boat. It finally came at about 2:30. Then we drove around and picked up a bunch of other people and their stuff. I got to sit up front with the driver, a Cuban mechanic. I don't really know how he got there. I asked him about Cuban food, and his eyes welled with pride. "Si! Es muy rica!" he exclaimed. Then he went on about all the delights of his motherland's cookery. Then he told me that Fidel had resigned. Wow, I had no idea. He said he had heard just a few days before. I hadn't been on the net for almost a week, so I didn't know for sure. This was crazy. He thought the government was going to change too. Did this mean the embargo would be lifted? Would I no longer have the chance to go to Cuba illegally? I need to go there soon! It is true that if the government presses charges, the ACLU will defend you for free, and they have never lost a case, as the law is basically unconstitutional.

The truck stopped after about 20 minutes down a dirt road, just as it started to deteriorate. Well, there was no sign of any water except for a broken down canoe on the side of the
road. We set off on foot towards a forest off in the distance. I was carrying my backpack, 2 coconuts, and my camera bag. Everyone else was also carrying something as well, whether it was a load of bananas, luggage, empty diesel barrels. One guy was carrying the boat motor in over his head. The road started to get a big muddy and I struggled to keep on a route where I would not get my feet dirty. In front of me, Tio was getting his beefy boots muddy, and I stayed clean for a while. Until I made a bad step and sunk to my knee in mud. I got out fairly easily, but as soon as I felt that I was on stable ground again, I sunk again, this time both feet, knee deep. I couldn't stop from laughing. 5 minutes before I had been trying not to get my feet wet, now I was completely covered in mud. A young girl carrying bananas stopped to help me, but I was stuck too well. When I finally freed my left foot, I had lost my Keane sandal shoe thing. I reached in past my elbow to pull it out. It took a lot of force, so much in fact that it ripped them a bit before the mud released it. Now, my right foot. I had to ditch this shoe to, as I was stuck even worse on this side. The girl helped pull me out, not minding that I was all muddy. Then she helped get my shoe out. This one was much deeper and firmly planted in a suction of mud. Even with both of us reaching down deep, the shoe did not budge, it just ripped. After about 5 minutes of wiggling and fenagling it, I pulled it out. It really didn't even look like a shoe, just a blob of mud with grass and reeds on it. I was able to walk the rest of the way bare foot with only a few more sinkings.

We eventually reached what looked like a tiny pond surrounded by jungle. During the rainy season, the pond flows up all through the area we had just walked through, explaining the extreme marshiness of it, as well as that broken boat on the side of the road. We waited for the rest of the passengers next to the pond, which had several boats in it. Right after I washed off in the pond, I saw two crocodiles swimming in it. They were small, probably 3 feet. but it just meant the older ones were hiding somewhere nearby. I stayed out of the water from then on.

While we waited, I cracked open my first of the two coconuts. Getting better at it.

We got the boat loaded up and started off in this little pond. The jungle was so dense that it was hard for me to see where the outlet was. There was a small passage into a canal with thick jungle on both sides. Very much the heart-of-darkness feeling I had been hoping for. We proceeded slowly up the canal proceeded for a good 45 minutes, before it slowly opened up to a large lagoon. Yes, this journey was slow, but the boat was bigger and more comfortable. The sun set soon after, and I was left to lay on the floor of the boat taking in the stars and a very visible milky way. I saw Orion, a constellation that I like because I feel like he has been there wherever I've been since I was little. Even in the middle of nowhere, Honduras. As we started to go faster in the lagoon, water splashed up, and we all huddled under a tarp. This was an incredibly peaceful seven hour trip.

We finally arrived at about 11:00 to Puerto Lempira. This was a small town, about 5,000, but the biggest one in the area. In fact, right next to the dock where we got off there was a discotec bumping proudly. A far cry from Ahuas, the purely Christian town where you couldn't even get a beer.

Well, that was pretty much it. The next morning we were on a truck heading to the Nicaraguan border. It was only 125 km. We boarded at 8 AM, then drove around town for an hour picking up people until we were packed. We got to the border around three PM, partially due to the rough conditions of the dirt road, and partially due to the two military checkpoints, where they searched everyone's bag very thoroughly. Seriously, we were going south, what would we have been smuggling? And the heaviest searching was just as we were leaving the country. Did they think we were gonna steal something of Honduras'? Like what, their constitution? The Presidential banana stash? The truck eventually brought us to a river, which we crossed in a canoe and we were in Nicaragua. Another truck took us to nearby Waspam, another Moskito town, which felt much more like most Central American towns than the one's in Honduran Moskito. There was street food, a market, bars, etc. But here was something new: a casino? I will have to go there next time. We were supposed to go through immigration in this town, but I didn't really bother to find the office. It costs $7 to enter Nicaragua, but they don't give a stamp because between El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, and Nicaragua you only need one for 90 days, so I figure if there is some sort of hold up when I try to leave, a $7ish bribe will suffice.

As I was sitting in my room on the second floor right on the main street, I heard some music start up outside. I got excited and went to the balcony. Well, this was like going to the door of the person that hands out apples on Halloween. It was evangelical Christian music, just blasting out of the typically poor sound system. A man singing with a woman accompanying on the keyboard. This was easily the worst musical performance I have ever seen in my life. And there was no escape. It was far too loud. After about an hour of singing, the man went into an hour of loud preaching. With every emphasized word of his fire and brimstone piercing my ears. At one point he was getting into politics, talking about Chavez and Bush and Castro and all that. I wasn't paying attention to what he was saying though. I don't know if this happens every nights or if the people ask him to do it or what. I mean it would seem that evangelical protestants are the great majority in Central America, but in reality they are just the loudest. Catholics make up over 70% of Nicaragua, but I have seen very little evidence of this.

Well, this morning we boarded a bus out of Waspam. Now I don't usually like the buses that much, but after a week of tiny boats and pickup trucks, it didn't seem so bad. Well, this bus ride was like trying to look at the bright side of getting that apple on halloween, then biting in and finding razors. Yep, another fire and brimstone preacher. Right there on our bus. Screaming into a megaphone at 7:30 in the morning for a solid hour. I didn't care that there was no room to sit and the aisles were packed, but I draw the line at over the top evangelizing early in the morning on a Tuesday! This was worse than 4:30 AM call to prayer waking me up in India. At least that sounds peaceful and only lasts a couple minutes. When I pretended that he was speaking German I realized he spoke with the same fervor of Hitler. I know his words were different, but the tone scares me.

Anyway, we are in Puerto Cabezas. A town of nearly 40,000. Feels like a metropolis. An ATM in town (though it was out of service, leaving us to panic with our lack of funds) internet, which lost service after 15 minutes, and mangoes, most of which were well over ripe. The highlight though, was that I went to a little food stand for lunch, asking what they had to eat. Only fried chicken, she told me. Too bad. I walked away, and then she called back. We also have turtle! aHA! This brought me back and she served me up a huge plate of gallo pinto (rice and beans), yucca, and a few hunks of foreign-looking meat. Each piece had a different texture. The first looked like a black sponge. It was chewy, but had a nice flavor, though a little fishy. Was it sea turtle? I don't know, but I'd feel bad if it was. Aren't they endangered? The next piece was like a thin rubbery sheet. I could guess that this is like a membrane that goes between the turtle's body and it's shell. The last piece had a texture much more like chicken, but almost black. It too had that fishy flavor. In the end, the weird fish flavor combined with the textures not the slightest bit like fish made me decide that this would probably be the last time I would have turtle. It had a good taste, but sometimes the feel of weird textures just won't do it for me.

So no my next mission is to get a lobster fisherman to take me out to the Moskito Cayes nearby, though I don't know how likely this is to happen. If not, then it's on to Managua where I will start my internship at La Prensa, the country's biggest newspaper.

WTF MATE!

MATE?OK, so I need to go over this real quick. I just wrote my previous blog, but I gotta put this down before I forget. So, I walk into my hotel after getting some lunch and I see this tall blonde guy in jeans heading toward his room, and he stops and turns to me.

I said, hey. how's it going.
He garbled a response unrecognizable to me.
I asked if he's been at this place for a while.
He says it feels good to speak English, and that he has been here a while.
How long? I ask.
About a year, he responds.
Wow, I say, doing what?
I don't know, he says with a half grin
What do you mean? have you been working or something?
No, I don't think so. Are you from the United States?
Yes
The United States of America?
Yep. Where are you from?
England.
And so you've been here a year...and you don't know what you've been doing?
Yeah.
So where were you before here?
I don't know.
You don't know how you got here?
No.
OK, well, you might want to get a pair of shorts if you're going to be here much longer, there's a great beach out there.

So what what do you guys think about this? Any explanations?

***

OK, so I just had another interaction with that guy. I was looking at the hostel's book exchange and he was sitting near the front desk with a cigarette. He said something, but I didn't hear it. I turned and the woman at the desk just turned to me and gave motioned with her finger in circles on the side of her head that he's kinda crazy. I nodded in understanding. As I passed him on my way to the room, he turned slightly and he said desperately, "help me" in a strained voice. I stopped and he repeated, a bit louder, "please, help me. I need to get out of here!"

Where Are you trying to go?
Just away from here!
Away from the Mar Azul Hotel? Away from Tela? Away from Honduras?
Whatever, I just need to get out of here! They won't let me go!

Ok, this did sound like a crazy person, but either way, he seemed panicked, and far away from where home. He assured me that they kept him locked in his room and he hadn't been outside of the guesthouse in a year. I asked him why, and his response sounded like "for my skin" which could have simply meant they wanted to kidnap a white person, or he had gone thinking he was in Silence of the Lambs style or something. That happened in that movie right? Either way, to prove his point he got up, and announced in English that he was leaving, and the two woman at the desk yelled at him to stop and to come back inside, which he did. I mean, if I was him, I'd just run right across the street. Tourist police. Though I think it was put in there less than a year ago, so maybe he doesn't know.

So I didn't know how to help, and then he just told me to save myself. That was creepy. And as I write this I am hearing yelling outside of my door. It is this guy (who's name is Tristan, usually an indication of insanity right there) and the woman working here arguing in Spanish. I couldn't make it out, but it sounded like Tristan submitted and returned to his room.

***

A couple of hours later I discreetly asked the woman (who I will now take as the owner) about what the deal is with that guy. She says that he has been in Honduras for a year, but only in this place for about 15 days. She said she thinks he has been drinking and smoking, but to me his demeanor gave the impression more of dementia (or at least harder drugs than pot). She said something about having a girlfriend too.

***

A couple more hours later, and I was sitting outside the guesthouse just before going to bed. One of the girls who had been hanging out around the place all day comes and sits next to me. I had noticed earlier that she had at least one black eye, but I can't remember. She asks if I had been speaking with her boyfriend. I ask if she means the English guy, she says yes. I tell her I had spoken with him, and ask what's up with him. She explains that he has been on a 3-day alcohol and cocaine binge (and there might have been other substances thrown in there too. He hadn't smelled too strongly, and I don't think coke can make you trip out and think you've been somewhere for a year and that you are trapped. Apparently they had met about a year ago at the ruins in Copan. Neither side of the story made too much sense.

***

1:30 AM, I am woken up to some shouting. It sounds like it's coming from outside my window to the street. "DONDE ESTA ISA?!" It sounded like they were saying. They sounded a bit angry and maybe even frantic. Though it was not a scared frantic, just an angry one. I dosed back off, but then rose with a start when I heard more yelling, this time through the window leading into the courtyard. I could not tell what was going on, but my senses first told me that whatever it was, it was something violent. I got up and pulled back the curtain, just a tiny bit. I saw the figure of someone around a corner, going to the door of a room invisible from my vantage point. Another guy, a guest I recognized that had checked in earlier with his girlfriend, both speaking only Spanish, emerged panicked, saying, "what do you want me to do!?" and I also heard something about the police. I don't remember if this was in English or not, but the idea of police being around for whatever reason struck fear in me, but I think more fear was struck in me when I realized this guy was rushing out of his room while I think the person was saying something about not being police. It was all very hazy. When it seemed the commotion had died down, I stepped outside and met the Spanish-speaking guest and his girlfriend was out to. I asked what had happened and they said the crazy English guy had come into their room. They were packing up their things and heading across the street to the tourist police station. I asked an older guy hanging out at the guesthouse and he told explained that they had been sleeping and for whatever reason he had just come in. I don't know what he did when he entered, but it was enough for the couple to peace out. And apparently the English guy just ran out afterward and they don't know where he went. I hung out in front of the hotel for a while, just trying to get more info from the couple people talking about it right there. One seemed worried that he was gonna get killed out there, or that he was going to kill someone out there. I couldn't quite understand which, and neither seemed too far off in this place. At one point a younger man came up and started yelling with the older man, a younger Garifuna girl got in between, and the younger guy walked off angry. He came back with his woman a few minutes later. They must be staying at the guesthouse, or just friends of the guesthouse people, as they had been hanging outside earlier. When the woman started talking loudly, the owner, who was making her way from the police station across the street, started shhhing her, even so much as to start yelling, and physically cover up her mouth. I hadn't understood a word she said, so I couldn't tell what the owner was hiding and from who. Me? The police? Other people? Seriously, what's going on? I chatted with the owner for a couple minutes. She tells me she doesn't want any druggie in her hotel (then why's he been around for 2 weeks) and that he's never caused a problem and that in 15 years here she's never had a problem like this. I highly doubted that. She's running probably the cheapest guesthouse in a seedy beach town in Honduras. Yeah, things are gonna happen. She also told me that he must be here illegally because he's been in the country for a year. True, they don't just hand out year visas to Honduras. The first is 90 days, and then it is possible to extend it another 90. Oh, and sure enough, she told me that the black eye(s) were on this guy's girlfriend were from him. This is all too much for me to figure out.

So then I am left with wondering this. Is it possible that this guy is really being held captive? The owner definitely seemed to careful with what she told who. I even noticed that at times, even when she wasn't talking to me specifically, she would slow her speech and use her hands more, as if to make it more obvious to me what she was saying, and other times she would speak so fast I could not keep up. Or was he really the boyfriend of this girl, a drug attic and illegal immigrant, who really had no concept of reality?

***

Following morning, I roll out of bed at 9:30 with the intent of some morning beach time before checkout. I go to the front desk, Tristan (English guy) sitting next to it. I ask the owner woman what time checkout is, and she says 8:30. Was she seriously? Usually it's noon, sometimes 11:00, and only the lamest cheap places are 10:00, but 8:30!? So I had to go pack up, and leave. As I handed my key in she abruptly said, Seeya later, bye! As if to rush me out after I had said hello to Tristan. I remind her that I had wanted to trade a book in for one of the books behind the counter. She lets me through and I switch out the book. On my way out I start talking to Tristan.

Hey man, how's it going?
Good, good. Where are you going?
La Ceiba, have you been there?
Yeah.
How is it?
It's fine.

I could see the owner getting visibly nervous, as she could not understand us. She moved closer, making her presence felt.

I asked Trisan, So how much longer are you staying here?
I'm leaving tomorrow.
Well, good luck, I said before heading on out.

***

As far as Honduras goes, I like it. My two nights in Tela were fairly low-key for how much of a party town it seems to be. This morning as I walked toward the beach at 930 AM, people were already one or two beers deep. As it was the weekend, the beach was constantly packed, almost entirely with locals. Vendors everywhere, the water filled with children, teenager, adults, giggling as the waves splashed them. A very fun atmosphere that I really appreciated. I am in La Ceiba (a town with an even greater reputation for partying) now, making final preparations to descend into the moskito region. I was looking through the guidebook, and they do not list any passage from Honduras to Nicaragua through this region, and there are really no roads from where I will be to the border. I will make it happen though. If not, super lame. But I have confidence I will make it one way or another. I am out of internet contact for what I am guessing will be about a week, but could be very possibly two. Peace out!

HONDURAS!

TAlright, where was I? Belize, that's right. My first day there. So on my first morning there, after going out to buy some Marie Sharp's Hot Sauce and my failed attempt to get burrito lady burritos, I came back to the hotel to relax in my room for a minute. The thing about Belize City is that I love the feel of it. But there's nothing to do. Except spend money on this or that, and being the most expensive country in Central America, this becomes problematic to a budget traveler. So relaxing with the fan on is not a bad idea. A few minutes later I got a knock at the door from the woman that ran the place. "Joey, there's two beautiful girls here looking for you," she said. Sweet! It was Christina and her friend whose name escapes me, of Seattle U nursing school fame. It was good to see a familiar face and we made plans to meet up that night with all the nursing students. I guess that between the burrito lady not showing up yet, not yet finding anybody I knew around town, and going out that night, I would make Belize City the first place to spend 2 nights in about a week.

After Christina left, I was chatting with the woman running the guesthouse. I mentioned the place I stayed at the year before, right across the street. She said that Bill had died. He was the guy running the place when I was there last, who had neglected to pay the power bill because he had spent all the money at the bar, and then he hid out at the bar while everyone tried to figure out why the power was out. Belize without a fan is pretty brutal. "He was a real piece of work," she said lightheartedly, "people were always mad at him." I asked about the expat from Florida, with the greying Joe Dirt hair. She said that the had been arrested, but she didn't know what for. I guess some sort of American law enforcement came down and took him away. "Belize is too small of a place to be hiding out," she said. This was all interesting news.

That afternoon, much to my excitement, I saw the burrito lady's stand open up. To my disappointment, however, the burrito lady was different. She was not the same frail, nervous woman who didn't seem to speak any English (rare for Belize). Also, she said that she did not have burritos and would not have them until 4. Ya killin me burrito lady! No matter. I headed over to Majestic Alley (Pink's Alley) which is the crip territory where I had met Paisa on my last visit. He had not been around the day before, but someone went and found him when I asked for him. I always get weird looks when I wander in there, and for good reason. Not only am I white, but look at how I am dressed. Khaki shorts a black shirt. Sandals. Not gangsta at all. No blue. Either way, I was glad that Paisa both remembered me and was glad to see me. I found him right where I left him with his friend Alvin, except they were across the street. As we chatted, random people came up to him to bum a dollar off of him for whatever, or to score a bag. This woman named Cece that looked so familiar came up and grabbed a few dollars from Paisa. She asked me for a couple dollars and I told her I couldn't spare any. I also said, "don't you remember me?" She said, "yeah, last time you were here you gave me $5". That didn't seem accurate, but I went along with it, "yeah, I did, didn't I." "Yeah, so I don't see why you can't help me now." "Well, that was my last five dollars," I said. She laughed and walked away. Paisa suggested we go sit down some where, so we went to the end of the alley where there's a Chinese restaurant/bar/convenience store that is definitely patroned mostly by crips and lost tourists. I had been there the last time I had been to Belize and I wondered how everyone in there was able to smoke weed without the cops smelling it or the owners telling them not to. Paisa told me how they always had someone on lookout, so if a cop was coming, they could put everything out in time. It seemed unlikely to work, but they've been doing it for years, so it must. And the Chinese owners? Paisa explained how they don't mind if they smoke because having the crips around provides protection. I didn't really push it farther, but I wondered what else the Majestic Alley Crips received for this "protection service". Extortion. So it was sounding more like a real gang all the time. I bought us a couple of Belikins and we chatted about this and that. Paisa is still with his girlfriend of a couple years, the one he had his first of 5 kids with back when he was about 19. As people came in and out of the place they would always give us a very warm greeting. At least two of them assured me that I was hanging out with a "really good guy". They'd treat me like I was one of them, then ask me to buy them a beer or give them some money for something. "I've got your back, you know that, right? So how 'bout a beer?" I always had to deny them, which they seemed pretty cool with. Paisa told me that whenever they see a white person they just think about ho much money they must have. I wondered how they would like it if I saw them with their dreadlocks and just assumed they had tons of weed on them, and that was the only reason to talk to them. Everyone that came in was wearing blue. One guy came in with a yellow boombox, the blasting reggaeton overpowering the chinese television the owner's were watching. "Pre-moo!," he yelled to the young Chinese guy as he threw a crumpled piece of paper at him. It always seemed like a playful yet mocking relationship with the creoles and the Chinese in Belize. He yelled again, "Pre-moo! Pre-moo!" as the boy struggled to get him his Premium beer fast enough. Another guy came in, a Mestizo, with an ultra-slick SoCal look. Baggy jeans, a big baby blue shirt, big silver chains, a blue bandana with a blue hat rested on top. Black sunglasses, big rings. He came up to our table, didn't say a word. Paisa introduced us, and he shook my hand. Didn't say a word, just threw up a hand sign, and grabbed a beer to go. He had this ridiculous air of mystery around him. Paisa seemed like the most down-to-earth person among all of them. I asked him about the shooting that had happened that weekend at Putt-Putt, a small bar on the North Side of town that I had been to on my last trip. Apparently 2 people died and somewhere between 15 and 20 were injured. He said he didn't want to say anything because he didn't know the facts yet. But he did say something that I would hear from a couple of other Belizeans before leaving. He told me that Belizeans don't know how to stick together. Everyone is against each other and how nothing can get done. Then he pointed out the Chinese. They have managed to monopolize the market of corner stores. They all come here broke, but because they have a community of people that support them, they always end up doing pretty well. The Indians are a similar situation.

He bought us another round of beers, but after that, it was getting close to 4:00, so I had to get back to the burrito lady. It was fun seeing him again, I was just disappointed I hadn't found anyone else yet.

Burrito lady: yes, there were burritos, but when she cooked the tortilla it didn't appear that it was greasy enough. The chicken she used on it was just boiled, not the spiced and slightly oily shredded chicken she had used before. It turned out similar, but without the heart and soul that I had anticipated. I had two of them as they only cost $.75. If it was my first one, I still would have loved it, but it just didn't compare.

So that night, around 8:30, Christina came and got me, and her Belizean friends drove us and some nursing students to one of the hotels for dessert and drinks. I knew I was too poor to afford expensive hotel drinks, so I just nursed a beer while a discreetly sipped out of my bottle of orange juice, spiked with the amazing One Barrel Rum. When I tried to deny a second beer, one of the Belizean guys had the waitress bring one out for me anyway. It turned out they always buy everything for these girls. Sweet setup, way to go Christina. Made me wish I had gotten dessert. One of the guys overheard me telling Christina about the Majestic Alley Crips, and he asked what I was talking about. I said that I had been hanging out at their little bar by the alley. He told me to be careful. I asked him if he knew Paisa, and he said yeah. I wondered what his connection was. I mean, he was an architect, well-educated, and seemed very well off. He seemed like a good guy, so I figure it was just a general warning to the naive tourist. After the drinks and desserts, Christina and I pushed to get everyone moving to another bar. I think we went to MJ's, which was empty (Monday night). Had a couple drinks there, and then moved on to another place I had never seen before. Outside of it, the girls were approached by Cece, who gave them her "I just got AIDS" speech that I had gotten a year and a half ago. She acted very weak and delicate, like it hurt to talk. Then she saw me, and I was like, hey Cece. She grinned, switched character, and was like, 'what's up Joey, how you doin?' I love Belize.

I knew I was gonna miss my guesthouse's 11:00 curfew, but I didn't really care. I was having a good time. When the guys finally dropped me off it was definitely locked. So I was left to climb up to the balcony. This was very challenging. It took a few tries up a few different routes, but I made it. The upstairs door was locked too, so I just slept on the balcony. At 6:00 AM, I woke up to the sound of the man of the guesthouse opening the door, and he seemed a little annoyed with me. I ran into my room and caught a couple more hours of sleep.

After I packed my bag and headed downstairs I had noticed one of those ticks on my wrist, and it was big and bulbous. I showed it to the woman of the guesthouse, and she kinda freaked, especially because I showed her a couple more on my arms. She went and grabbed me a special shampoo and this alcohol solution with a bunch of leaves and herbs in it. I was to rub it all over my body, though I am not sure exactly what for. "Thanks mom," I told her. She laughed because the obvious role the couple were playing in my life at the time, and how she had waited up for me last night, and my "dad" was annoyed that I was late. She had actually stood up for me, saying, "oh he's just having some fun." After the shower she helped me pull the ticks off of me from all over my body. There were at least a dozen. This lady was super sweet, and it was good to have some kind of motherly attention, especially dealing with something I've never had before. She also told me I need to shave my head in case there's any in my hair. I have checked through my hair quite a bit, but haven't found anything yet. So...who out there thinks I should shave it? It is just starting to get long again, and I don't want to have to start over...but when will I have this excuse again?

So before leaving town, I went and looked for Alberto, the reason for my "Hope" wristband. I knew he would be out because it was a cruise ship day today, and he had to get his hustle on. He was also happy to see me. I told him that the pair of earrings I had gotten for my sister had made it on TV, and he was quite pleased about that. After chatting with him for a few minutes of chatting, I walked on down the street, and found George, right where I'd left him, slicing up the coconuts for the tourists. GEORGE! I yelled to get his attention. He and all his homies looked over confused. The confusion turned to excitement quickly on George's face, but failed to fade on anyone else's. He wrapped his arms around me in a big bear hug, "how you doin'," he screeched in his high-pitched raspy voice. Wow, as much as this guy frustrated me last time, it was fun to see him again. He was the one person I had spent more time with than anyone else there (other than Erin obviously). We chatted for a few minutes, and I wanted to hang out longer, but I knew I had a bus to catch. George, made me promise that I would be back, and next time we'd make it a couple hours or a couple of days. I don't know if I could handle George for a couple of days, but a couple hours definitely seemed worth coming back for. I also saw Guru on the way out, and he was looking more stylish than usual.

As I got on the bus down to Hopkins, I realized how much I loved this city, and the vibe it has. I mean, yeah, there's nothing to do there, it's dirty, there's tons of beggars and scammers. Really, Belize City is a tourist's nightmare, but having spent a total of about 12 days there, I think that I have found something I like about it. I could always go back there.

2 Buses, and a hitchhike later and I was in this one street town of Hopkins that the guidebook had raved about for its laidback nature, small town feel and the fact that it was undiscovered. Also, its right on the beach. Yes, it was a small town, but the small town feel was not there. And it was very discovered, by a bunch of rich people. There were two resorts in town, and I couldn't find a budget restaurant to save my life. Most of the people driving cars there were white. All the locals rode bikes. I got the feeling that this place had a high expat population. The guidebook had also mentioned eating gibnut here, a local specialty, which is a large rodent. After setting up my tent on the beach, I went on a quest for gibnut, but nobody had it. So I ended up eating at this little shack of an Indian restaurant. It was completely run by this one guy from Bangalore, India, and it was extremely popular. At one point there were probably ten people crammed into this little wooden structure, while JJ slaved away in the back. I had the chicken vindaloo, and I can easily say it was better than any Indian food I have ever had in Seattle. He was the first person that wasn't afraid to give the food a little bit of spice, and it was perfect. I felt, however, that I was the only budget traveler there though. Everyone else was either living there, or on a 3-week vacation.

Early next morning I got up with the chickens, and hitched a ride back to the highway, where I tried to hitch down south, but a bus came first so I got on it. I was on my way to visit the Mayan family I had stayed with my last time there. I had promised I would send them the pictures I had taken of them, but I never did, so I decided to just deliver them. And after delivering them, I would cross the nearby "unauthorized border crossing" back into Guatemala, as opposed to going all the way back north 8 hours and over, or taking expensive boats from the south. A very bumpy bus ride led me to the tiny village of Santa Elena, where pretty much everything looked the same except for the big out-of-place Presbyterian church that seems to be popping up in every village I pass through along with Evangelical, 7th Day Adventist, and Jehova's Witness churches. I walked up to their thatched roof house, and a small round man with gold front teeth and no shirt on greeted me. He must have been the father. Last time I had been here, he had been working in Placencia doing tours and building thatched roofs. I explained that I had been there last year and I had photos to give them. He seemed excited. Then his wife came up from the river and spoke to her husband in Kek-Chi. "You have been here before?" she asked gently. I was disappointed she didn't remember me, but then again, last time I was there, she didn't seem to interested in my presence at all, so it was not a big surprise. As the husband looked through the photos, she looked at a couple, then wandered back into the house. He seemed glad to have them, and she didn't seem to care one way or another. In some places Mayans don't like being photographed, the whole, steal your soul thing (though a dollar payment will usually change their opinion I noticed), but they had not had a problem with it, in fact, she had asked me to take photos of her boys. I didn't really get her passivity, but at least her husband was glad for me to be there. We chatted about his family for a while, and how the boys were doing. they were not going to be back from school for about 4 more hours, and I was disappointed I would not get to see them before leaving.

I waited by the road for a truck, but surprisingly another bus came by. It must be a market day because buses only come out here 3 days a week to bring people to or from the market. It took me all the way to the border. I had asked somebody about the checkpoint, which didn't exist here. Though he did say there was border patrol that stops people to check their passport. I really didn't want to deal with that. I knew it would end up in a bribe before it would end up in jail, but I still have a budget. Getting out of the bus, someone grabbed my pack, gave it to a guy with horse, and I was told to follow him. He threw my bag on the saddle, and we followed a line of other people crossing the border down a muddy trail. Apparently the road didn't go straight through. No wonder I couldn't find any maps that showed that. We went down into a ravine, where we crossed a muddy river (my shorts now caked in mud). The guy with the horse was like my coyote. Back up the ravine and our total hike probably amounted to no more than a kilometer. We came to a road and we were now in Guatemala. There was even a van waiting for us. A guy sitting next to it, drinking a liter of beer, started to speak to me in English, telling me it was not legal for me to come through this way. I played ignorant until I was sure he was not any sort of authority (the beer should have given it away if the English didn't). He told me it would mess up my passport. This was true, I would be traveling in Guatemala without a stamp. That was dangerous, but I had a plan. So we got in the van, and got to Chacte, where, I took another van to San Luis. And from there, I took a van into Rio Dulce. I had definitely made it across the border safely, but to get that stamp...

Rio Dulce, a yachtie hangout on the mouth of the Rio Dulce, that leads to the Caribbean, has an interesting vibe to it. I could feel the rush in the air of anticipation. That something was going on. People were moving. It was a place to prepare for journeys into the Caribbean, or into the Peten region of Guatemala. I felt the opportunity this town had to offer. I would have to explore that next time. Not much happened that night, except for me buying tortillas for the next day, and some carne asada dinner on the street.

Next morning, I headed out to Finca Paraiso for their waterfalls. Now get this, there's a river going, right. But then pouring into it from above is a waterfall coming from a hotspring. So the river, above the hotspring, is cold, then below it is a bit warmer, and if you under the waterfall, it is like a perfectly hot shower. Amazing.

Back to Rio Dulce, I grabbed my pack, and caught a boat up the river to Livingston, a boat access only Garifuna town that I had heard so many good things about. The river boat ride was very cool, though not nearly as cool as I had expected. We did see a lot of people fishing in their dug out canoes and we did stop at a hot spring though. When we got to Livingston, I judged it quickly, and I did not like it. When I walked around the main street, everything felt so fake, contrived. Way too touristy for a place that I had heard was so unique. Yes, unique, because it is black people in Guatemala. It didn't have the same laid back feel of garifuna towns in Belize like Punta Gorda. It still felt plenty like Guatemala. I decided to take a walk along the water (not much of a beach) to see more of the area. I quickly left tourist central, and was basically just in a little Garifuna settlement alongside the water. An old man came up to me that spoke English. He asked why I was there, and I explained I was taking a walk to get away from the the main part of town, to see what Livingston was all about. He was glad to hear that, but he explained to me how this was a Garifuna neighborhood, and not many people come around this way, and he just needed to check. He also talked to me a bit about the racial tension in town and how the Garifunas stay in their part of town and the Mestizos, who own everything stay in the other part of town.

I walked on for another 20 minutes before turning back around. I headed up one of the streets leading away from the water and almost immediately I felt something hit the back of my legs. A front bike tire had been rammed into me. I turned around and saw it was being pushed by a teenage boy. I thought he would apologize, but he just kept on moving. Was this an accident? That question was quickly answered as the kid violently rammed his bike into several different stray dogs, making them run away, and cower in fear near any other human they saw. Was I really that unwelcome here?

Next morning I caught a boat to Puerto Barrios and then a bus to the border of Honduras. I was finally leaving this country for the last time. I started feeling a bit queasy, and my stomach started turning. I had woken up in the middle of the night to run to the bathroom as my southern troops gave way. I didn't think much of it, but my stomach still didn't seem correct. There was a war going on inside, and the northern troops had won the last battle. The next one looked like it could go either way. As I got off the bus and headed toward the border, I bought a bag of water, hoping to help with my dehydration. As I neared the checkpoint, I had to run to the side of the road and heave. My northern troops had been conquered and out came all the water I had drank in the morning. After three heaves of water, I had one of something bright yellow. Bile? I don't know, but I hadn't eaten all day, and had only eaten tortillas and two bean tamales the day before. Nothing nearly as dangerous as what I am usually eating. I don't know how to explain this. It was my first time getting sick while traveling (except for altitude sickness in Nepal). I was also so proud of being able to handle any food as long as it was not vegetables. And there was nobody around to help. I was on a big expanse of hot concrete, heaving my guts out, and the loneliness started to hit me, briefly, for the first time. Once I recouped, I didn't feel too bad, but after another 2 hours on the bus, I did not like the idea of two more bus rides. I considered waiting for a night in Puerto Cortes, but then felt like pushing on to San Pedro Sula. When I got there I was feeling better, except completely dehydrated. I had no money, so I had to search for an ATM. The first 2 banks I went to didn't have them. It was so hot, and reading a book about people lost in the desert had not helped. When I finally got my money, for the first time on this trip, there was nobody selling any type of drinks in sight. I walked a few blocks until I saw someone with coolers. I got a bag of water and splurged on a Lipton Ice Tea. Man, that was good. And I was up for another 2 hours on a Bus. Made it to Tela last night, found a room, expensive, but the only one available. I totally sat inside for hours and watched their tv. I watched Lords of Dogtown and Seinfeld. It felt super good to just chill out for a while in English.

So now I've gotta make some preparations for my next leg of the journey into the Moskitia region of Honduras and Nicaragua, an rural and untamed wilderness that is referred to as the Amazon of Central America. Travel is slow, expensive, unreliable, and often on boats. It will great to get off the tourist path and get into some more untouched regions. And a bit more danger.

Don't forget to tell me about whether I should shave my headed!