Where No Cars Go

When I got on the bus to Panajachel, on Lago de Atitlan, for the 15 minute trip, I noticed a gringo laying down in a seat towards the back. He was passed out, sunburnt and looked painfully American. Already the reputation of Atitlan as a party place was revealing itself. When the bus started to move he jolted up, rubbed his eyes and looked around, fairly confused. He lacked any Spanish that someone of a Mayan tongue could possibly understand. "UH, yo voy San Pedro, are we going to San Pedro on this bus," he struggled to say before laying back down. And just when I thought it was safe to say that none of the Americans I had met had lived up to our stereotype. As more people boarded the bus he was forced to make room as two other men sat next to him. At the first stop in Panajachel he moved too slow to get up and out, and the bus kept going. He yelled that he needed to get off there, ignoring the fact that nobody had any idea what he was talking about. I told him that if he wanted to get a boat to San Pedro to wait for the stop at al Centro. I hadn't even been here before and I had to guide this guy around who looks like he has passed out in most of the bars on the lake.

Well, the boat ride to the town was great. I found a decent place to stay at for about $3.50, so that was pretty nice. I was really too tired to do much. After a beer at El Barrio, I went back and hung out in our courtyard, then went to bed.

The next morning I explored a little of San Pedro with a German and Israeli couple. Felix and girl who's name I can't pronounce, let alone spell. I have to say, I was extremely skeptical of this place. It has a reputation as a huge hippie haven where drugs and booze run wild. Well, that's probably not too far off. I only came here because it's the cheapest place to stay on the lake, plus I was in the mood for a social scene after a couple lonely days on a stupid volcano.

To my surprise, though, the locals were far more friendly than they were in Xela. Everyone acknowledges greetings with a smile and a buenos dias. Even the travelers were friendly. I thought this was going to be another San Cristobal, but the people in my hostel were all super friendly. And even though there is a huge gringo population, it has far from killed the local traditions. Most of the talking I hear on the street is Mayan languages, not Spanish. It seems that the tourist scene operates on a completely different level than the rest of town. So you have plenty of opportunities to eat at a local comedor or Indonesian food at the trendy Tin-Tin, which is most likely owned by someone not of either Indonesian or Guatemalan descent.

During the day the German and Israeli and I went down to a swimming spot they had found. There was a dock, some grass, trees, and mostly all locals. It felt very secluded. All the young boys came down for a swim after school got out and then played soccer on the dirt field right above the grassy area. They were filthy and it was hilarious to watch them all run around in their underwear covered in dirt. The water was a bit cold but pretty good for swimming. Just the kind of relaxing day I needed.

Afterward we went to a restaurant to a place called Zoo-La, an Israeli owned hippie restaurant where everyone sits on the floor on these mats and pillows under a giant palapa. It was a great atmosphere with super relaxing music. It was very cliche, and exactly what I expected of this place. It was relatively expensive, and I'd just as soon eat rice and beans at a comedore, but this place did have a great vibe to it.

On the way back to my hotel I ran into Hutson, this guy from San Fran that I'd met in Oaxaca with his big hippie clan. It was crazy to see him again, and as he had left his group, he is thinking about joining me in a few weeks to travel. He told me to come down to the Flying Dog, a reggae bar, that night cause his friend was spinning.

I actually started my night at a nearby bar nursing a beer while they played Babel on a screen. Wow, it's a great movie, and every time I see it it gets better. It's also a great movie to take you out of the mood to go to a reggae bar. I went anyway, and a couple of white rastas were spinning extremely poorly a lot of very good reggae. Hutson eventually showed up and we had a few drinks then crashed out. A pretty fun night I would say. Hutson loves to do those crazy arm-flailing solo dances.

So right now I am in a disgusting hotel room in a sketch part of Guatemala city. This place was half the price of even the cheapest one listed in the guide book. I'm just glad I have my own lock and there's plenty of bars in the window.

When I came in this afternoon and got off my bus the hounding from Taxi drivers was the most persistent I had experienced since India. It made me feel a bit more at home, especially when I forcefully told them that I "no necesito un taxi!". They eventually leaved me alone, and was half surprised that they didn't tell me the bus I was waiting for doesn't run on Wednesdays, or was full or burned down or something. And getting to where I am, for such a crazy city, and using public transit, went very smoothly. I can't lie, I was very impressed with myself.

As soon as I checked into my $5 room I left to grab some of the ridiculous street food I passed on the way. One friendly guy was cooking up some carne asada, and serving it on tortillas with guacamole and some sauces. Needless to say it was rad. Then I turned to the stall next to him and had a chopped up longaniza (a type of chorizo) in a grilled hot dog bun with guacamole, ketchup, green chile sauce, mayonaise and mustard. This was not as good as the first, but still pretty rad.

After a little more wandering and eating, all the stores closed at dark. Pretty much because this place is not safe after dark. I am guessing that only the gangs are out at night or something.

So now I am using the last of the battery in my computer as this room doesn't have outlets. And now I am left to contemplate the two heavily made-up women in mini-skirts on the corner next to my hotel and their possible connection to the sign on my door explaining the standard hotel tax for 4 hour use as opposed to a full day use.

Entry 2:

So I got pretty stir crazy last night and ignored the warnings about walking around zona 1 of Guatemala City after dark alone. Well, I did. The guidebook talked of a couple pretty cool live music venues, one that was the center of the Bohemian art scene in Guatemala. How could I resist that? Well, it was about 7 blocks away, and the last couple blocks were super dark and sketchy. Hell, Zona 1 after dark is super sketchy. Very few people on the streets, but the ones you do pass are the unsavory type that make you hold your breath, say a quick prayer, and thank god that if you are mugged, you only have about $8 in your pocket.

I could not find the place, it was just a dark street. And I did not want to wander around looking lost. So I went to where the other live music place was supposed to be. Couldn't find that either. I had given up, and started to walk back when I walked past a place with some music playing. I walked in and ordered a liter of gallo. To my surprise this was a little gringo enclave. Complete with a reggae dj with dreadlocks. Spinning extremely poorly as well. Seriously, white reggae DJ's, if you put as much effort into learning how to mix properly as you do into maintaining your dreadlocks, you might not be so bad. Anyways, this place had a nice atmosphere. It was one of those revolutionary places with Che on the wall. My table said Viva Chavez. Handwriting on the wall talked about the oppression of the people in Guatemala. I wondered if these were written by foreigners or Guatemalans. Even if they were by Guatemalans, the city folk were not nearly as affected by the war as the people in the remote villages. And I guarantee they've got bigger things to worry about than Che Guevara posters and revolutionary grafitti. Anyways, I got tired, so I peaced out after my beer.

On the way back to my place a little before midnight I was glad to find a lone taco stand still open. I sat down and one of the best things of the trip happened. After, asking for just 1 taco without cabbage, the guy asked if i was "puro Mexicano". YES! Either I look like it, or I sound like it. I'll take either one.

Heading back to my hotel, some dirty, staggering guy asked me for some money. I denied him and he quickly started to walk toward my hotel. He went up to the door and started talking to the manager through the gate. I couldn't hear all of it, but I could hear that they were talking about women. Then I made it obvious that i needed in, and I was permitted to enter, the other man left outside. A woman from the room next to mine came out and started talking to the man through the gate. As I passed the room she had left, I saw three other woman in the same room. Then I noticed the hourly rate of 10Q posted behind the front desk. So this is why I could afford this place.

Back to my room I tried to relax, and get some rest, but after a few minutes a bunch of rowdy guys were right outside my window, swearing and yelling to each other. With their slang and accent I definitely would have guessed gangsters that had lived in the states, and I was just glad that the rebar on my window was very strong.

In the morning I wandered around town, had a traditional Guatemalan breakfast, and stopped for a granazida before going to the bus station. Granazida is my new favorite food discovery. It's a shave ice with a mix of syrups and mashed fruits. I had strawberry, raspberry, and peach. They are also covered in peanuts. This is why I love traveling. While a shave ice in Hawaii is amazing, who says a Guatemalan version can't be better? Nuts, fresh fruit? what brilliant additions.

I made my way to the bus terminal (a different one, as this city has many terminals) fairly easily and gave myself snaps for once again avoiding a costly cab that most travelers would have used. I got a seat on a bus for San Salvador.

In 3 hours I was in a new country, and 2 hours after that I was in the capital. Off the bus I thought I knew where I was going. The 44 bus line goes by the Universidad Centroamerica, which is close to where Lucas lives. After talking to a few locals about trying to get there I lost all of my confidence in my Spanish. Salvadoreans are super-hard to understand. And none of them could seem to understand me. And I had been doing so well in Guatemala. After a series of about 3 separate buses, countless inquiries to locals, and at least an hour of my time, I made it to Lucas's place, but not before losing serious faith in my travel 'bilities. Well, I did save about $8 by not taking a cab I think, maybe more cause it was night time.

And here's lyrics to a song I like by The Arcade Fire. I think it's much more powerful in song form.


We know a place where no planes go
We know a place where no ships go

(Hey!) No cars go
(Hey!) No cars go
Where we know

We know a place no space ships go
We know a place where no subs go

(Hey!) No cars go
(Hey!) No cars go
Where we know

(Hey!)
(Hey!)
(Mom, Dad!)
(No go!)

(Hey!) Us kids know
(Hey!) No cars go
Where we know

Between the click of the light and the start of the dream
I don't want any pushing, and I don't want any shoving.
We're gonna do this in an orderly

Manner. Women and children! Women and children! Women and children,
Let's go! Old folks,

Ya Me Voy!

Alright, well, I'm on the move again. The plan was to stay in Xela for 3 weeks, and I easily could have, but my travel plans changed, and I need to speed this thing up.

It was a great week though. Sunday I went to one of the bigger markets and bought some bootleg reggaeton and salsa cd's. I really need to learn how to salsa. I know the basic steps, but doing that in public would just be embarrassing.

On Monday I continued my Spanish education and we also learned a lot about our school, and the non-profit work that it does. It looks like a really great organization that I could definitely see myself returning to for long-term work. We also learned more about the history of Guatemala, and America's role in it. While in India, I had expected some animosity toward Americans, but in Central America, I am surprised more. I think the only reason that there are American flag burnings here is that there is a poor education system. And the education system that does exist, like ours in America, does not teach the whole story. In America we never are really taught much about Vietnam, as if it is this embarrassing secret that nobody wants to talk about. And I guarantee that no public education system discusses America's role in Central America during the 80's. But isn't this the reason that we learn history? So that we can learn from our mistakes? If we just ignore the controversial times in America, our nation can never improve. I remember asking about the Vietnam war when I was younger. I was told, that we were fighting the communists. Obviously I was too young to understand exactly why we were so threatened by communists, but I didn't understand why a country's system of government was a reason to go to war with them. I also remember watching Desert Storm on TV with my dad when I was five. Why are we at war? Well, because of oil, my dad said. I don't remember if there was a further explanation than that, but it left me very confused.

Anyways, on Tuesday, Juan, Fernando, Tony, Nate and I went to Los Vahos, a steam bath built around geothermally heated rock. It was this big concrete structure, built against the hill/mountainside. Upon entering the first room, yes it was very hot and steamy, but then I opened the curtain to the second room, in which the back wall was the rock that would burn you if you touched it. Just opening the curtain a bit flooded the room with heat that made me cough. We were all pretty sure that going in there was not possible, but slowly, Juan crawled in, on his hands and knees, eyes closed. He stayed in for a few minutes, and eventually stood up, the heat being too much after a few minutes and left. We all took turns going in and coming out to the freezing shower. It was great. Here's the people I was with, all from my school:

John (Juan): A clean-cut Brit, whose Spanish I can't understand because of his British accent. He's traveling from here down through South America. He's probably going to buy a motorcycle here, and may get from Panama to Columbia on a boat that will likely be smuggling something (more likely drug money than drugs, as drugs don't move south.)

Fernando: John's teacher, and guy that lives in my house. A young guy going to school in Xela to be an engineer. He lives in a town closer to the Mexico/Guatemala border. He loves salsa dancing and drives a huge red truck with yellow flames.

Tony: I don't know much about Tony as his English is about as good as his Spanish, but he's French and he did the Everest base camp trek as well.

Nate: Nate is a grad student at UW, but is from Berkley. He won some UW scholarship that basically funds your traveling for nine months. His route, roughly, is Guatemala, Costa Rica, Peru, Venezuela, Brazil, South Africa, Ghana, India, Bhutan, Thailand, Vietnam, China (for the Olympics) and Japan. The rules for the trip include: no educational activity (his week of Spanish class was against the rules), no contact with other recipients of the scholarship (in fact he doesn't even know who won other than him), no purpose or theme to the places you go, this is simply to travel on your own for 9 months. Crazy lucky.

On Thursday I met up with John and Josh (a guy that everyone knows in Xela because he DJ's, works with my school, works with EntreMundos, another organization and newspaper, and stays at the same hostel that I spent my first two nights at, which is very sociable.) We went to the cemetery, which would be much easier to describe with photos. It was a vast colorful area with a mix of leased graves stacked on top of each other 5 or 6 high and elaborate family family graves with intricately constructed structures on top of them. It seemed that even in death the upper class lived better than the the lower class does in life. We eventually got to the top of a hill overlooking the cemetery and I was amazed at how much it looked like a miniature version of any-town Guatemala.

Thursday night was what I had been waiting for all week. Some Americans from a local NGO were having a fundraiser in the form of beer-pong at some bar. None of the Europeans that I had talked to about it knew what it was. How they all miss out. And missed out again, as there were almost no Europeans at the event. I brought British John and he loved it. I think our record was 1 and 2, not so great, but we also played a few games of flip-cup. I couldn't believe I was playing beer-pong in Guatemala. I wondered though, if the reason that the Europeans didn't come because they didn't know the game or because they didn't want to associate with Americans. Jonathan, a Canadian, had told us in Kolkata that when he traveled in Central America he always avoided Americans, and that we were the first he had traveled with. Was this a common mentality? Were the Europeans really more narrow-minded about Americans than the locals who had a good reason to dislike our country, but don't show animosity toward us?

On Saturday Justino and I went to Laguna Chicabel. Incidentally his class was going too, so we decided to meet up with them. Justino said they were meeting at 4:45 at the school. We got there at 4:50 and nobody was there. Well, we tried asking around for the bus stop and got sent in so many different directions I don't have any idea where we ended up. It is the same in India, even if people don't know the answer to your question, they will answer as if they do. I wish this didn't happen. So we got on a bus that was going to the right town. We got there just as the sun was rising. From there it was a 2 hour walk up to the volcano with a lake in the cone. Well as we started walking uphill I noticed that a lot of this hike could be driven, which made me annoyed. Eventually we saw a pickup full of gringos zoom past us. They had probably hired someone to take them all from Xela. Justin flagged down the next pickup. It was full of Mayan farmers. We were the tenth and twelfth people crammed in. Their ages seemed to be from 5 to about 80. Seriously Guatemala, get these people some education and some social security. The youngest and the oldest didn't speak Spanish. And they all spoke Mam. This ride saved us about two kilometers of walking up the road. It brought us to the entranced, and from there it was only a 45 minute hike. Justino, who is in much better shape than me was obviously not used to hiking. He's a city boy from SoCal, but he ended up doing alright. There were two stunning views from the top. The one that looked over the lake in a volcano's crater. The other was of three other volcanos: Santa Maria, Zunil, and Santiaguito. Santiaguito, the most active in C. America and in the top five in the world, erupted while we were watching it. Over 500 stairs dropped us right to the edge of the lake. We walked part way around it and saw a large group of Mayans having a ceremony. This is a highly sacred area, and foreigners cannot come during certain times of year. 500 something stairs back up, down the trail and we knew we couldn't catch a truck going back down this early in the morning, so we just walked the whole way down to the road. We both agreed that the exercise would be good for us. Oh, and his class, they were meeting at 5:45, not 4:45, but we were glad we went early to beat the tourist rush.

That night was one of the most epic nights of the trip. Justino and a few people from his class and I went to a soccer game between the Xela Chivos (goats) and the Guatemala City Diablos (Devils). People had told me I would learn new vocabulary, but I just figured they meant people yell a lot of swear words. Well, yes they do, but they also chant them in unison, and the band plays music that everyone sings vulgar songs to. Most of the phrases revolved around the word puta, hijo, and madre, but there were many other colorful phrases. Here's some of my favorites:

Rojos, y Crema, la misma mierda!: Red and white (colors of Guate) the same as s***

Maldito Madero: F***ing gangsters (because Guatemala City is known for its gangs)

Que se muere: I hope you die! (usually yelled when an opposing player is down)

Serrote: S***, or literally you are my s*** (this was a very important one)

Xute: A**

There were many more, but I think you get the idea. Mostly I learned that sportsmanship is not nearly as fun as a soccer game in Latin America.

The atmosphere before the game was awesome. Everyone wearing red, loads of food vendors, no rules about where or how people could sit. People lighting sparklers in the stands, then throwing them over the fence onto the field. Some were even lighting fireworks right there in the stands. It was chaos. There were no rules. Xela's mascot paraded around the field doing naughty things to Guate's mascot. After a pretty respectable firework show just on the other side of the fence from us, which included a 50 foot string of firecrackers, they tied a diablo, Guate's mascot, to the fence, which is seriously like 5 feet from the fans, doused it in gasoline and torched it. A lot of the crowd had to move to avoid getting burned, but the cheering was huge. On the other side of the field they burned a Brazilian flag because a Brazilian that played for Xela left to play for Guate. When did American sports get so lame? Seriously, laser light shows, dances and acrobatics before a game is cool, but this was way radder. radder? yeah, it works. Guate, who was highly favored, came out strong, but the refs, who were on our side, called back two goals due to off-sides. Xela dominated the second half, but in the end, it came out scoreless. I was disappointed that I never got to see the unspeakable madness that I am sure would follow a Xela Goooooooooooooool!

ONE MONTH TRAVELING!

The next morning I was off. Got up at 4:45 to get to the bus station. Plan for the day, begin my ascent of Volcan Tajamulco, the highest point of Central America at 13,845 feet. Most people take a guide, which costs about $40, but ten minutes of research on the internet gave me the info to do it on my own. I got the first bus just before six, and it took me to San Marcos. I found a cheap hotel to rent a room so I could ditch all but the essentials for a night on the volcano. I was glad I didn't have to stay in that place. I mean, it seemed nice, but the bloody hand print on the door gave me some reservations. I grabbed the next bus to a small Mayan village higher up in the mountains. So here, I had to look for some sort of trail head. I eventually came to a sign that had the volcano's name on it and two roads, one going down and one going up. Now, it would seem obvious which to take, but I asked a passing truck just to be sure. I asked a person in the truck, not the truck itself, sorry. To my surprise, Tajumulco, was on the downhill road. I hopped in the back of the truck and we were off. After five minutes of driving we picked up another passenger. His second language was also Spanish, so communicating was difficult. He told me that he lives in the village of Tajumulco. I asked if that is where you go to climb the volcano. No, he told me. I banged on the side of the truck to signal I wanted to stop. I told the guy I wanted to climb the volcano, not go to the town of Tajumulco. He told me to get back in and that the trail was there from the town. He started to speak in English which took me by surprise. He explained that the trail was down there. I remained skeptical, but took the truck all the way down to the town of Tajamulco, a trip of 30 minutes on a winding dirt road. The guy in the back explained that there was a trail to the volcano, but it was much longer and very complicated. I told this to the driver and he told me he would take me to the trail just outside of town. His speaking such good English really sketched me out. One does not learn that kind of English in rural Guatemala. Most likely he was deported from the States, most likely for committing a crime. No, this did not seem right at all, and I got out to the frustration of the driver. I watched the other passenger pay 5Q for the ride. "Twenty Quetzales", the guy told me. I was glad we were speaking in English so I could tell him off properly. "He only paid five!" "Yeah, well he got on after you" My trip was 30 minutes, his was 25, I did not think this justified a 15Q increases. "I shouldn't even pay you at all, you knew you weren't taking me to the right place, now I have to pay to get back where I started!" He drove off quickly, and I almost didn't grab my bag in time. It really seemed like he wanted take me past this town off some rural road and rob me. I don't know for sure, but I don't get bad feelings about people very often, but I definitely did about this guy. Maybe he just wanted to overcharge me and that's it, no way to know for sure, but I am glad I did what I did.

Well, now I am at the deepest depths of this valley in the tiny Mayan village of Tajamulco. I would have hung out here for a while, if I wasn't already an hour behind schedule. This was definitely a very off-the-beaten track place where they are definitely not used to seeing foreigners. It made it a bit more reminiscent of India with all the stares. I caught a ride in the back of a truck with about a dozen Mayan women and all their wares. It was super-uncomfortable, but it was fun.

So I got started up this mountain finally. I had heard it is about 4-5 hours to the camp, which is only 200 vertical meters from the top. I wanted to get there with plenty of time to set u camp though. It was probably 11:30 when I got started. There were a few houses I passed by at the beginning. The kids ran out. "Buenos Dias" I said. "Buenos Dias, regalame una galleta" Good morning, give me a cookie! they said. Wow, this was a rerun of the second half of the Everest trek, indicating an area heavily touristed. I don't have have any cookies, I told them. Give me a quetzal! Why? I asked. They didn't really know what to say. Perhaps because they only knew a bit of Spanish, but I don't know. It's tough. These kids are poor, their families are poor. They're farmers, and are living hand to mouth. Would a quetzal, about 12 cents, hurt? But then again will it really help? Will it teach them to rely on handouts, and hinder their future, or will it at least ensure beans on their plates tonight?

About 3 and a half hours of moderately difficult hiking and I reached the base camp. I had gained about a thousand vertical meters and I was feeling it. In the day I had gained almost two thousand vertical meters after leaving Xela. My head hurt, and catching my breath was more difficult than normal. I pitched my tent, and gathered some sticks for my fire. Most of the firewood had been taken by the Mayans selling it around their villages and other trekkers. There was a lot of green wood laying about, but nothing old enough to make a good fire. I had enough moss, pinecones, twigs, and sticks to get a little fire going enough to make my can of beans kind of warm. I ate them with some tortillas I had bought in Xela. I also followed the trail past the camp to figure out where to go the next morning. There were a few trails going in the same direction, and they were all kind of vague, but since they all seemed to go the same way I figured it would be fine. to take any of them.

The wind was brutal and it was getting freezing as the sun dipped below the mountain. I was in my tent just after four o'clock. I thought how I could probably climb this thing before sunset, make it back down to the road in a couple of hours in the dark, catch a bus back to my hotel room and be warm for the night. But the reason that I had heard that this is usually a two-day hike is that watching the sunrise from the top of the mountain is an amazing experience.

I listened to some music on my iPod until the hearing in my right ear quit working. It was a bizarre feeling, not really pain, just awkwardness, and I didn't know if this was an affect of the elevation or what. A couple hours later when it got dark, the wind really picked up, shaking my tent all through the night making it loud and cold. I had known the whole time that I had not brought enough for warm clothing, but I have made it through some cold nights (notably San Juan Islands in February and Pheriche in the base camp trek) and didn't want to buy more clothes and lug them around. In fact, this night wasn't one of the coldest, though it was one of the most miserable. Sleep came in bursts of 10-20 minutes, and the deafness in my right ear became pain and deafness. I was very thirsty, but only had half a liter of water left that I needed for the climb tomorrow morning. I was stuffed up and couldn't breathe. Then my nose started to run all over the place and I had nothing to wipe it with but my shirt or sleeping bag. Any snot or drooling on my bag not only made it gross, but colder as well.

4:45 finally rolled around. I figured I needed to get to the top by 6 to watch the sunrise and make it down to the road in time to catch buses all the way to my next destination and check out of my room in time.

I stumbled out of my tent with my headlamp and a vague idea of where to go. I found one of those trails that seemed to skirt the summit. I lost the trail a couple times, but managed to find it. After about ten of walking I realized that I had really lost the trail and should probably start over. I found another trail, but it did not seem to lead me to my tent. I lost that trail again and realized I had no idea where I was. I wandered around in a panic for about five minutes and found a trail much more beaten than any of the others. I could not see my tent, but I had figured out where I was, roughly, in relation to it. This must have been the correct trail, and it seems to be a much more direct route up this thing. It started out just straight up the side of this volcano's cone, fairly strenuous. All I carried was my water bottle and my camera, which was getting bumped up pretty bad as the terrain got more difficult. It just got steeper and steeper, as I was basically crawling up a scree field with loose rocks. Everything I grabbed, even the largest rocks, were pretty loose. I looked down. I was probably half way up this thing, but it was only getting more vertical above, and getting down from here seemed like it would be a difficult task without losing the life of me or my camera. What's more, the trail above me seemed less like a trail, and more like the general route of rocks tumbling from the top of the volcano. I sat down and rested for a while, waiting for a bit of sunlight to show me the way. I probably only had another 20 minutes from the top if this was indeed the correct trail. My head hurt and my ear throbbed. The wind whipped my bear hands. I lasted about 15 minutes waiting for the sun, but I had to go down. This couldn't possibly be the way, as the hike had been described as moderate, and I was definitely in the very difficult category. I slowly made my way down with my tail between my legs. I fell several times, though luckily did not hurt my camera. My Keane sandals were fine for the moderate hiking, but did not have the support for this. I tried one more trail veering off in what seemed like the right direction. It quickly faded and I figured that I should get back to my tent while I still knew where it was. I started to take down my tent. I felt super lame. I mean, I had come within about a hundred vertical meters and didn't make it. And this isn't even a mountain mountain. This is a tough day hike. I could have waited for light to explore the correct trails, but I didn't have the time, plus I had drank all my water, my head was in pain, and I simply did not have the energy for it. Well, this just gives me a reason to come back to Guatemala then.

A couple hours later I was back at the side of the road, feeling dehydrated and beat down. I bought some peanuts and orange pop from a little store just before the bus came. When I got on, I realized this was going to be a super lame bus ride, probably a punishment from the trekking gods for being so lame. Jam-packed on windy mountain road for an hour. Constantly picking up more people, all going to the same place. I was among probably thirty people standing in the aisle, clinging to the bar above us. It was a rough workout to not slam into everyone around me at ever curve, stop or acceleration, of which there were many.

Back in San Marcos, I quickly grabbed all of the stuff in my room. Everything was still there, though it appeared that my shower had been recently used as the floor was all wet, and there was also a cigarette butt that had not been there before.

Then a bus from San Marcos to Xela, to some place on the highway where I got out, caught a bus to some town, then a bus to Panajachel, then the last boat to San Pedro on the Lago Atitlan. It was good that I had gotten off the mountain when I did. Missing one connection would have meant that I did not get to San Pedro. The lake is absolutely amazing. It has scenery reminiscent of Lake Coeur d'Alene, minus the resort and mansions plus it is surrounded by huge volcanos.

And that's where I am now. Back to Hippie-land. We'll see how long I can last. Oh, and I still can´t hear out my right ear. Kinda worried about that.

2 Things

Saturday January 19th, 2008

Sitting outside my room in the little courtyard area tonight. I sat on the edge of an ancient wooden chair, next to a broken down cabinet filled with bottles of who knows what. I gave into my fears of spiders and other thoughts as I leaned back all the way into the chair. I started thinking about being. Two things mostly.

1. Life is pretty rad right now, and whether it lasts, well, why think about that side of it?

2. Mayan women are pretty much my heroes.

My hair was still just the slightest bit damp from the hot springs and it gave me a small chill. There was no discomfort. Well there should have been, but it was that kind of discomfort that reminds you of where you are and what you're doing. Like the discomfort of standing on a packed bus in a place you've never been before, with plenty of eyes fixed on you because you look different. Or the discomfort of that gurgling stomach from that sketchy food that was so worth it. Or the shortness of breath due to high altitude. The discomfort that lets you know that you're really alive, and reminds you of all the possibilities that life has to offer. Yeah, I like that discomfort.

My past week of classes has gone (and I think I can safely say that I have never used this word before and never will again, I hop)...swimmingly. After my first couple nights in a sociable hostel with nightly communal dinners and the atmosphere I had been hoping for in a guesthouse, I moved in with my host family. A middle-aged couple, whose children seem to have all flown the coop, though they pop in occasionally. I get three home-cooked meals a day and a bigger room than I have in Seattle. All for about $40/week. My room even has two lightswitches, one by the door, and one by the bed, just like Tory raved about in Spain. Five hours of straight one-on-one Spanish class was not as grueling as I had expected. In fact, it was enjoyable knowing that I was really improving. And every afternoon there are activities, that even though touristy, provide a great means to see the area and the culture.

The first day, we simply watched a movie called hija del puma (daughter of the puma) about a Mayan woman during the civil war. It is a terribly depressing movie, but very quality. Definitely worth seeking out. I believe it is based on a book by Rigoberta Menchu.

A lot of the Spanish schools seem to be quite political, with a lot of the curriculum designed to educate students about Guatemalan history and injustices to the indigenous people. A lot of it makes me feel guilty for being American (though this is not their intent). From The United Fruit Company taking advantage of local farming in the early 1900's to the CIA overthrowing their first democratically elected leader, spurring their civil war (which America funded heavily) to the current state of CAFTA, it is very understandable if Guatemalans have ill-feelings toward America.

On Tuesday we (the three other students and one of the teachers) went to the municipality of Salcaja, nearby Xela. The teacher pointed that 80% of Salcaja's residents were working in America and that many of the buildings (it seemed to be a fairly privileged residential area) were paid for with money sent home from the US. It felt good to know that our country is doing something positive for these people, even if it is not done consciously. Well, I shouldn't say that, because the large majority of volunteer workers I have met here are American. Until Xela, I rarely met Americans, but here, where volunteering and Spanish schools are the two main activities, Americans seem to be the strong majority. Anyways, Salcaja is famous for its church, which was the first one built in Central America by the Spanish. We also went to this small shop where a man was using a giant, complex loom to weave the fabric for the traditional dress of Mayan women. It was a process that I did not understand one bit and therefore explain it, but it was cool. They also sold some homemade wine made from fruit. I bought a small bottle. It was not bad, but it was thick and sweet, making it reminiscent of cough syrup. Our teacher also took us to a place where they made this drink called Ronpopo. I asked the woman what was in it. She responded, rum, egg (WHOA! I thought, this sounds dangerous), she proceeded, vanilla, milk, and a few other things. I spent a little less than a dollar on the smallest bottle. To my delight this was simply bottled eggnog with rum. It was great. We stood outside the shop and passed the bottle around till it was gone. While we waited for the bus back to Xela, a Marimba band was playing outside their town hall to celebrate the inauguration of their new government. The presidential inauguration was the day before in Guate City, and featured the likes of Hugo Chavez, and his Columbian rival counterpart of whose name escapes me now...but I read there was definite tension over the terminology of terrorists to describe the guerillas fighting Columbia's civil war right now. Anyways, marimbas. Guatemalans claim that the instrument originated there, but I remain skeptical, because I always thought they originated in Coeur d' Alene...or Africa. One of the two.

On Wednesday, Fernando, one of the teachers, who also lives in my house, and Justino, another student in my house, and I went to Zunil, a mostly indigenous town outside of Xela, where the women wear these colorful bands sitting atop their heads like crowns. I swear, Mayan women are some of the coolest people in the world. They all look so beautiful in their traditional clothing, plus the carry their babies on their back using a blanket looking thing. Even babies that seem two or three that should be able to walk get carried around sometimes. That's a heavy load to be packing around all day. Plus, they carry around heavy loads of goods (mostly food grown in their fields) on their back to bring into town to sell. They're so strong and so small. And the older woman have these epic weathered faces, every wrinkle just reinforcing the difficult life they have led. And they keep on working. A lot of this rural indigenous living is very reminiscent of the what I saw while trekking in Nepal. Guatemala has truly blown me away in this respect. Anyway, Zunil. The main point of interest is San Simon, a saint that is a mix of Mayan Gods, Pedro de Alvarado (the Spanish conquistador of Guatemala) and Judas. This effigy attracts people from all over the area to leave offerings. This was a truly odd experience. We got to where the saint was currently being housed (it changes every year) and people outside had fires burning as they dumped in rum, eggs, candles, cigars, and other offerings. We stepped inside the small dark shack where San Simon sat with western clothing, a cowboy hat, and a bandana on his face, bandit style. He was surrounded by candles, and a person guarding him, and flicking the ashes off the saint's lit cigar. The others that made pilgrimages to San Simon were showing great amounts of reverence to the figure. When people make offerings of rum, they apparently can open San Simon's mouth and pour it down. It looked more like the scene from an obscure haunted house, than a religious site. On the way back to the bus I saw two boys eating hot dogs from a stand. Curious as to what they were really referred to here, I asked them, hey, what're you eating. The two boys turned in unison and yelled, "Cheveres!" which is indeed what every hot dog cart in Guatemala says on the side, a word that is more like the word "cool" in places like Venezuela.

Thursday was our trip to San Adres Xecul, another Mayan town on the outskirts of Xela, famous for its brightly colored church. The facade in front was a bright yellow with relief artwork detailed in red and white. Figures on the front included saints, angels, tigers and monkeys. I just love this fusion of Mayan and Catholic culture. Many say that when the Catholic beliefs were first imposed on them, they accepted them as a survival tactic, but really just took names like Mary and Joseph and Jesus and replaced them for certain figures in their own religion. I love it. I wonder if they do that with the Jehova's Witnesses and Mormons that come down here too?

Friday we got to skip class and go up to San Francisco el alto, where they have a spectacular market. We trudged up the steep streets through rows of jeans, and other typical western clothing, and as we got higher the clothing being sold was more often the traditional indigenous wear. When we got to the top of town we were released from the suffocating gaggle of vendors into the street to a large open area. It was still crowded, but instead of rows of shops, it was crowds of people selling livestock. Men and women held leashes with six pigs, some wrangled cattle, there were dogs, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and I think even sheep and goats. This was something new to me (well other than like, 4H at the fair, but that's super lame).

And this morning Justino (I am still not sure of the spelling of his name) and I went to the Fuentes Georginas, a natural hotspring near Zunil. Justino, a city boy from LA, had never been to one before. We haggled for a ride up the road, and standing in the back up the pickup as we ascended into lush jungle, past Mayan women tending their crops, we were treated to some spectacular views. The main pool at the springs was at the bottom of a cliff covered in densely green vegetation, and as the day grew later, mist rolled in until visibility was about thirty feet. This made the springs extra, dare I say, magical. I could not believe how much this region has to offer in such a condensed space. Spending six months exploring Guatemala would be easy.

GUATEMALA!...GUATEMALA GUATEMALA GUATEMALA!!!

I wrote this on Saturday but haven´t had a chance to post it till now-

Finally here, and now that I am, I'm kinda regretting taking as long as I did to get here. Sure Mexico's cool, but something about the energy here is just driving me crazy, in a good way.

I spent 2 nights in San Cristobal and continued my frustrated efforts to get into the travelers social scene there. My first night was at an Italian owned place (I didn't know this when I checked in) and there was hardly any travelers, except for, surprise, a few Italians, and they all seemed very anti-social. I didn't do much on my first day there except for wander around the town debating my next move. I could simply go to Guatemala the next day, but I didn't want to miss out on the rich indigenous culture of Chiapas. Plus, with all the stuff with the Zapatista movement, I wanted to learn more. I could take a longer route through Palenque, some very famous ruins, then cross the border on bus, boat, bus, though this would take several days longer to get to my destination in Guatemala.

I walked to the street market in San Cristobal and was surprised to find no tourists. It wasn't more than a ten minute walk from the main part of town, so I figured there would be other travelers checking it out. Napes. I guess if they're not selling hammocks and hand woven belts, then nobody's really interested. Anyways, it was a great market, especially because I felt like I was in a very authentic part of the city. All the people were indigenous. I am obsessed with the clothing the women wear. I had thought that the Mayan women selling handicrafts were only dressed traditionally because it helped them sell stuff. But they all (mostly) wear very extravagant, and often blinding clothing that is absolutely gorgeous. Depending on what they wear, you can tell what tribe or clan they are from. The men's clothing, like in every other country I've been to, is pretty boring.

To get some schoolage on the Zapatista movement I decided to attend a screening of a documentary about it. I would have read a book, but you should see the prices on one of the books about Zapatistas in the stores. "A Place Called Chiapas" was a great film and pretty much Marcos, the pipe-smokin mask-wearin Mestizo from Mexico City that started the movement is pretty rad.

After it was over I headed to this cafe called la revolucion, a revolution/zapatista themed bar/cafe, for some live music. I was skeptical of the guidebook saying that foreigners and locals mingled at this bar, but it was definitely like that. With so many travelers fluent in Spanish, and the great music, it brought everyone together for a big nightly dance party. There was zapatista-inspired art on the walls, pictures of Marcos, Che and the like. The bathroom was covered in revolutionary graffiti. Free Chiapas, somone had written, and below that people had added Iraq, Afghanistan, Oaxaca and more. I wished I had had a pen so I could have added Ballard...or Hat. I loved the atmosphere at this place, and it is mostly the reason I did not leave the next day.

I did switch hostels though, and moved to one called Hostal Los Camellos, or the camel hostel. I was glad because it looked a lot more social than the other one. I eventually found out though that I was the only one who did not speak French. How do these people know where the "French hostel" is? Better yet, why would you want to go to a place where everyone is from the same place? And none of them spoke (or admitted to speaking) English. So any conversations I had were in Spanish. A couple of the girls were kind of friendly , but nobody really wanted to reach out to the lone traveler. I couldn't blame them though. If I was with a group of English-speakers, I would have a hard time trying to include someone that only spoke Spanish. Then we would all struggle to speak Spanish to include them. It's tough.

I did something very unlike me on my second day in San Cristobal. I took a tour, and it cost me $15. I have to admit, I got more Mayan culture out of it than I would have if I had tried to go at it on my own. It was a group of an old Danish couple, an old French couple and a couple of younger Dutch girls. Think Bourdain's description of ugly tourists in Oaxaca.

We went to two Mayan communities, their names escaping me right now. The first just looked like a small town from a distance, but when our tour guide, Cesar, explained the stuff about their community it became clear that this was a place a world away from the rest of Mexico. The most fascinating thing about indigenous culture of Mexico is their religious practices, and how traditional cultures are infused into the Spanish Catholicism. The two towns practiced religion from both sides, though one was much more Catholic and the other much more traditional Mayan. Fireworks constantly exploded in these towns as they are part of religious ceremonies, and fun. In the first town we went to a religious leader's dwelling, while a woman performed a candlelighting ceremony that she does something like 5 times a day, every day. Then we went to the large church in the middle of town. The ground was covered in pine needles (pine trees are a prominent spiritual symbol in Mayan culture, in fact, they have been using crosses before the Spanish came, and the cross was meant to represent a pine tree) and there were no seats. Families were scattered around, sitting on the floor, lighting series of candles, many white (representing tortillas to feed the gods) but some other colors as well. Some had bottles of coca-cola, sprite and fanta in front of them while they did their prayers. Different pops represent different colors of corn, which represent the 5 directions (north south east west, and something of an orient right in the middle known as the navel of earth) and each of the colors has their own spiritual significance which I can't recall right now. The drink the pop in order to dispel evil spirits from their bodies through burps. One group had a chicken for their prayers. The chicken was eventually sacrificed. The walls were lined with statues of saints, some traditional Catholic figures, some more of a mix of a Catholic and a Mayan figure. Most of them had necklaces with large mirrors on them. Because the sun brings knowledge, the Mayans used to wear large slabs obsidian around their neck to reflect the suns knowledge into their own brain. Mirrors have since replaced the obsidian. Outside of the church, on the other side of the plaza, a large group of men, perhaps a hundred, was gathered. The town leaders and a few police on an elevated platform and all the commoners down below. Apparently they were trying to settle a dispute that had come up in the town. This is also how elections in the town happen. All the men gather in town (no women are allowed to participate in the democratic process in) and people present themselves as running for a leadership position. People either cheer for them or throw things at them. And this is their democratic process. Loudest cheers win.

Cesar really stressed how the Mayan culture was in grave danger from evangelicals from America. They are always losing people in the community to Mormons, J-Witnesses, and other evangelical Christians. Once they have converted, they must leave the town forever. It's really too bad because I don't dislike Mormons, but I could never imagine going into someone else's community, especially with this rich culture, and say no, you are doing it wrong. This is the right god. And you should not sacrifice chickens.

The other town's church was much more Catholic and even had a sign outside that said that killing chickens inside is prohibited. There were pews, a confessional, and even a place where a priest would give sermons. The other town did not have a formal day when anyone would preach. The clothing was also different here. Each town, has their own clothing, so all the women, depending on their subgroup within the community, wear basically the same thing. A ten minute drive from one town to the next, and all the clothing had changed from wool to cotton. On the way back to San Cristobal, we gave a ride to two young Mayan school girls. They wore the same bright purple dresses as all the other girls in the town. It was fun trying to communicate with them as we are both fairly inadequate with our Spanish. They spoke Tzotzil in these two communities, one of the many Mayan languages in the region.

The night was going back to Revolucion for some more great music. I met up with a French group (with one guy from Uruguay who was pretty awesome) that I had met the day before and we went to a reggae club after. It was pretty cool, but I was super tired and left at 1:30 to get some sleep before a long day of traveling.

7:30 in the morning I catch a cab (I hate doing this, but I was running late) get to the bus station five minutes before the bus leaves, buy my ticket and we're off. My bus had many a traveler, 2 Aussies, 2 Israelis and 2 Danes. 3 and a half hours later, we are at the border, going through customs, grab a cab to the entrance to Guatemala 4km away. Went through one of the most lax customs I've been in (save going from Nepal to India where we were told by the customs guy, "we have a very...liberal border here" almost with a wink) and for some reason the official didn't make me pay the 20 pesos that the Danes had to pay. SUCKAS!

And I was in Guatemala! New Stamp! Then I walked through the dirty bustling street about 500m uphill to the bus station where I was constantly passed by zooming little...wait for it....AUTORICKSHAWS! I crapped my pants when I saw these little things packed with families carrying goods on top. They were the exact same thing as the ones in India. I wanted so badly to ride in one, but they were all full. I also bought an ice cream which was super rad!

We got to the bus station, which was nothing like the squeaky clean Mexican bus terminals. A dirt lot with a bunch of colorful old schoolbuses and people yelling, frantically loading luggage onto the roof. A man yells "WAY WAY, WAY WAY" to announce the departure to Huehuetenango. I tell him I'm going to Xela and he tells me to get in. I throw my bag to the guy on the top of the bus. I turn to the Israeli girls and they look freaked out. This bus? My bag on top? I could tell they were thinking. And then we get on the bus and half the seats already have three people in them. All personal space was lost.

From Mexico to Guatemala was like going from Thailand to India. And it was very comforting. This is what I've been waiting for. This kind of travel is why I had yet to be truly excited in Mexico. There wasn't that same rush. It was too simple.

3 hours of an uncomfortable rollercoaster ride and we get to another dirt lot with one more bus. A guy is yelling Xela! Xela! and they look ready to go. I summon the fellow travelers (now just Aussies and Isrealis) to get off the bus and we frantically get our bags off the top, throw them to the next bus and we're off again. A couple hours later and we arrive in Quetzaltenango (Xela), in another dirt lot with a cluster of buses, making escape a maze. The Israeli girls stuck around to catch the next bus to Lago de Atitlan, while I guided the Aussies, who don't speak Spanish. To get to the buses into town we cross through a market that seemed to go on forever. But I was floored. Freaking out when I saw new foods, people selling bags of fruits I've never seen before. And like the market in San Crizzle, it was almost all indigenous people with glorious clothing. I had this feel of excitement well deep within me. I had a great feeling about Guatemala. Halfway through the crowded market I turn to the Aussies and express my extreme excitement about this place. They, on the other hand did not seem to care one way or the other and just kind responded, 'yeah', with the shrug of the shoulders. Nothing pisses me off more than boring or unenthusiastic travelers. And this couple seemed like both of those. I was glad when, after I quickly and efficiently got them right to where they needed to be, they said, 'well, we're gonna go find something to eat, seeya'. Whatever, they were lame anyway.

I went and found a hostel, threw my bag down and went on a quest for food. I made the mistake of going to a restaurant that offered a meat burrito, a drink and chips (which usually means fries) for $2.50. The burrito had a little beef (ground?! GROSS!) and beens and a lot of stupid lettuce and really stupid tomatoes. The chips were cheetos, which honestly, was really good, and the drink was Jamaica (a drink made from hibiscus leaves) which was one of the best Jamaicas I've ever had. The burrito was terrible, and not even Guatemalan, or Mexican for that matter.

I left and crossed the parque, and saw what I had been looking for: street food! Hadn't had good street food since Oaxaca city. I had been been expecting inferior food in Guatemala, but it was not the case here. First I saw mini garnaches, a food I had moderately enjoyed in Belize. They're like tostadas, with beans, some cheese, tomato sauce onions and hot sauce. These were better than the Belizean ones though, greasier, plus the onions were cooked into it. There were so many new foods to. I wish instead of writing about how excited I was, I could just let you see me giggle about it. That's what I felt like doing. Giggling and then throwing my arms up and yelling "Guatemala, you rock!" Followed by a funny dance. I had a relleno plantano (Ithink it's called) a friend plantain dumpling with cream and sugar on top. The welcome surprise in the middle was refried beans. There are many other treats I saw that I'm probably gonna go eat today. I can't wait. They even have pupusas and fried chicken! I know I know, but it looks really good.

I am so excited for the next couple of weeks in this city. The social scene is much more my type. Plus it does not by any means overrun the city like in San Cristobal and Oaxaca. Plus the people are so down to earth. They don't need dreadlocks and Indian clothing to express that they're awesome and unique. No, these people are friendly and make an effort to include new people. And I don't know if it's a language thing or a cultural thing, but the Americans here are especially friendly. In fact, most Americans I've met traveling have been pretty agreeable type of people. Is this just because we relate to each other more? Is it the ease of communicating? I don't really know, but I like to think that American travelers are just cool people? I dunno. I am kinda mad at myself for wasting so much time on this. I can't wait to go explore Xela.

Oh, I also tried some fruit that had the most offensive texture of any food I have ever eaten, but it wasn't bad. You crack open the shell, like a dried and thin orange peel, and inside is some mucous-like slim in little pods with crunchy seeds inside. I sucked at it, and the feel of it in my mouth almost made me gag, but the flavor, though mild, and slightly sweet, was very good.

Peace.

Ballin´outta control

I really hope I can keep this fairly brief, though it has been a while since my last entry...and my last shower...That's right! I'm finally getting a little dirt on my body after all-too-clean Mexico City and the polished colonial gem of Oaxaca.

I had only wanted to stay one night in Oaxaca, but agreed with Maya and Shlomo to stay two nights and then move on. Well, when I heard that Maya didn't want to leave yet and wanted to stay an extra day, I was like, balls no to that, I'm movin on and on. I figured since I had given into every compromise thus far, it was my turn and they would eventually follow me. Saturday morning came though, and Shlomo actually wanted to come along, but Maya basically controls things. So after bringing them the traditional bread for Three Kings Day to munch on for breakfast (which neither of them touched, but the hippies back at my hostel were all too happy to dig into).

I couldn't tell exactly why I wasn't feeling Oaxaca, until after I left I read what Anthony Bordain said about it in A Cook's Tour, (which is a great book that I just finished...thanks ma!) Here's what he said:

"I hit the city of Oaxaca next, a place justifiably famous for its food. It's a beautiful town: lovely hacienda-style hotels exquisite Spanish churches and cathedrals, a picturesque zocalo where you can sit at a cafe table and watch the world go by, a fabulous mercado, nice people. It is also, unfortunately for the world's ugliest tourists. Herds of squinting, sun-blotched fanny packers in black socks and sandals shuffled by, snapping pictures. Extravagantly pierced backpackers, filthy from the road, satin the park, ineptly strumming old Dylan tunes on clapped-out guitars. Thick-ankled German women looking for love, and hordes of doddering tour groupers and serial shoppers, fanned out to buy the inevitable tonnage of papier-mache figurines, hammered tin, cheap silver, ponchos, serapes, funny hats, T-shirts and pottery. College kids, fresh from the donkey show in Tijuana, sulked noisily on benches, broke and frustrated, waiting for a Western Union money order from mom and dad."

So I try not to be as cynical as Bourdain, but...he basically said what I was feeling about the place.

So I packed my stuff up and hit the road again. Walked about a kilometer to the bus station (where the dirt begins to accumulate as this second class bus station is an absolute zoo, and like one zookeeper.)

Luckily the second class buses are much more reasonable, making me opt out of hitching to the next town. They are aged, and a fine layer of dust covers the seats, about half of which are broken in some way or another. This is what I like. I don't want to pay twice as much for a tv screen that may or may not work and slightly more comfortable seats. I mean the person in front of you is still going to lean back until he collides with your face, so what's the difference.

The road was once again beautiful, especially as we ascended into the mountains where heavy mist obscured the view of rich temperate forests. Most of the people getting on and off the bus were indigenous, mostly Zapotec I believe, going to and from towns to sell their wares.

The town I stayed in, which came highly recommended by Lisa Custer, was San Jose del Pacifico, a quiet little mountain town (hey, not unlike south park). Pop. 500. I got off the bus and waited for the enthusiastic kids to take me to whatever place they earned commission. Lisa had said that's how she checked in to her place up on some hill. I waited for a few seconds, but nobody seemed interested. So I saw one of like two roads in town and it went up...so maybe this is the place she was talking about on a hill. Every couple hundred meters I would ask if there was a hotel, hostal, posada, casa de huespedes, or simply "lugar a dormir". My inquiries brought me mixed results, but I had already come this far. One person said, "oh you need marijuana? yes, that way." No I want a place to stay...Oh yes, he responds, but it is expensive...I didn't care at this point. I had walked at least half a kilometer up this steep dirt road, and he told me that it was another half a kilo. Eventually I was greeted by three barking dogs, two of which scampered away as I bent down as if to pick up a rock. The third, a massively terrifying rottweiler, held his ground and started to approach me. The pretend rock pick up just made him angry and his bark got more terrifying. Suddenly going back down and looking for another place didn't sound so bad. After a couple of minutes of me slowly backing down the road, not losing eye contact with the beast, a long haired kid, probably 8 years old, came shoo'd the dogs away and brought me down the road to where his parent's guesthouse is. I waited and watched the sunset over the Pacific Ocean while they made my cabana for me. The father, Mercaillo, had long dreadlocks, and a weathered almost leathery face, though he could not have been more than 40. He told me he's from Mexico City, and it has been difficult living in a community where he is the only non-indigenous person and the only one not from San Jose del Pacifico. He tells me stories of them doing stuff to his water supply, which sounded like witchcraft, not just dropping a deuce in his well, which he said he counteracted with his own sort of spells. I was just annoyed because I had heard that the water here is pure spring water, but he said it is still not safe. I was not too sure what I was here for, but Mercaillo told me that Sunday is the day they do Temezcal, an ancient traditional steambath. He says he practices a lot of native culture, but the people in his town don't even know their own culture.

I go into my cabin. It is all wood, no electricity, a small fireplace, candles, a single (is that the smallest) bed and a bathroom. The walls are decorated in a mix of indigenous and drug-inspired art. A mural of an eagle on one wall, a painting of a colorful mushroom on another. Dreamcatchers and feathers hung, as did a couple small paintings of incomprehensible blurs of color, most likely made during an intense psychoactive trip. Benja (I know its not a real name, but come on, he's a hippie), a guy at my hostel in Oaxaca, said he was writing a book about the mushroom culture in Mexico. It seems this is quite the region for it. Benja, so surprisingly, attended Evergreen State College, and between his major and minor was basically studying psychoactive drugs.

Sunday morning I get up and help Mercaillo with the temezcal. We move rocks into a fire pit, then cut up trees for the fire. The fire burns for a couple of hours, while I go nap, and around noon or one (I haven't had a watch the whole time) we move the hot rocks into a tiny room dug into the side of the hill, supported by boards. There is a pit on one end that we drop the rocks into. When it is ready Mercaillo, his wife, their son, Quetzal (yeah, think of it is a hippie name for Mexicans, like flower-children here named eagle or something), their other child who is probably 2, and I cram into the tiny room sitting in a crouched position. Their one employee, Veronica, a young indigenous girl from town, closes us in, seals the door and covers it with a tarp. All light is gone it it is boiling hot in here. I start to get a little nervous with one less sense for this new experience. Mercaillo sprinkles a few drops of water on the rocks and I feel steam gently on my skin. He slowly pours more, pushing the hot steam throughout the space. Another pitcher over the rocks, and it starts to get suffocatingly hot and humid. My entire body is dripping sweat. The youngest child starts to cry, and I want to do the same. I hold strong, but in the dark, my mind runs wild with paranoia. Can you die from over-steamage? Did I inadvertently walk into an Aztec sacrifice...or a mass suicide? I mean, it felt good, but it was hard to enjoy as the child's wailing grew more intense and more and more water was poured over the rocks. I was getting close to my limit, and wanted out desperately. All of a sudden I saw a point of light in the wall. Veronica opened the door and one by one we crawled out, as she gave as a shower of luke warm water. It was such an intense experience. I wish I could do it again knowing that it is safe.

Next morning I got up early and trekked back down to town. It felt great to be in such a rural area. It gave me slight nostalgia for Nepal. Just little things, mostly walking through a tiny village with my backpack on early in the morning as people were just starting their day. I swear there were similar smells though.

I tried hitching, but after 20 minutes a shared van came through and picked me up. It was more expensive than the bus, and much more crowded, but a lot easier than potentially waiting for hours. The road going down to Pochutla brought me closer to vomiting than any other. It was cramped and a baby was sobbing the entire way. Well, I didn't mind at first, but then I saw that this baby was about 4 years old. She eventually puked, which made me smile.

Pochutla, a small but bustling transit town that I wish was a destination. The fast pace and crowds made me reminisce on India. Food was super cheap too. Barbecued chicken, rice and ten tortillas with salsa for a buck fitty. I needed beach though.

Zipolite

"...a sort of Last Stop for well-toasted surfers, backpackers, beach bums, fugitive dope pilots from the seventies, the itinerant jewelry/handicraft set. It's the sort of place you wake up in -- after dropping one hit of acid too many at your 112th Grateful Dead concert -- not having any idea how you got there, and far from caring. "
-Anthony Bourdain on Zipolite

I liked this town from the get-go. Totally relaxed atmosphere. An amazing beach at the perfect temperature and supreme bodysurfing. People actually practice siesta here, as several of the hostels I went to were closed until four. I eventually went to a little trinket shop on the beach and they told me I could camp in the sand behind their shop for 30 pesos. This town felt more Caribbean than Mexican, as the music turned from mariachi to reggae. Beto, the owner, had long, thin dreads and he and his buddies sat around in hammocks all day drinking corona and smoking either in front of the shop or on top of it. Beto never seemed too interested in selling his jewelry, t-shirts or hammocks. It seemed pretty much like a half-hearted attempt of a front for his marijuana-dealing business, which became more apparent over the couple days that I stayed there as he had so many friends that would stop by and visit for just a few minutes.

I had been told that this was only partially a nude beach. I thought that meant it was segregated. Nope, that means something more like clothing optional. And as expected the large old lobstery men are out strutting there stuff, as are the aging, but free-spirited vegan hippy women. I don't even know how to act in this environment. I mean, I'll glance at the person next to me and, whoa! no clothes! do I apologize? I can't tell if these people are making the statement that they're proud of their bodies and want to show them off or they just simply don't like clothes. I guess I felt alright as long as I wasn't that old guy with the binoculars. I mean, come on man.

Very little happened in Zipolite. I ate some mediocre food (no good street food in this beach town.) And layed on the beach and bodysurfed. I almost stayed three nights, but two things made me leave. The first was guilt. Why do I deserve to be lounging, doing literally nothing, while my friends and family back home are working, going back to school and all that stuff? Also, in my second night in Zipolite, in my attempt to see the bit of nightlife I confirmed what was a growing suspicion of this town. It is all European owned. I mean, the guide book mentioned an Italian restaurant and a vegan restaurant, Shambala guesthouse is quite obviously not Mexican-owned as it has a meditation room. But the more and more restaurants I wandered into and through talking to people, it seemed that the majority of the people making money off tourism here were Europeans and Canadians. I can see wanting to move here and everything, but to come here and start a restaurant or hotel in such a prime area where the indigenous people are trying to do the same thing seems fairly unethical to me. What made me the most annoyed was seeing a white girl selling jewelry on the side of the street, while indigenous women were trying to do the same not one hundred feet from her. Are you really that selfish that you will compete with impoverished people for money when you come from a country that probably has a very stable economy and plenty of jobs. Just so you can live the hippie dream. I dunno, maybe the restaurants aren't so bad, as they do provide jobs for locals, but I am still not sure. Anyone else have any opinions?

So I bounced out of there the next morning, back to Pochutla, where I found the next bus to Tehuantepec does not leave for 4 hours and its $12.50. Well back to the highway, arming myself with my thumb. First truck I see stops, and Garcia takes me 45 minutes to Bahia de something, where I wait one minute and catch a bus for Salina Cruz for $5.50. From there I catch a bus to Tehuantepec for a dollar, saving myself 4 hours and $6. Who's the bomb traveler now? Whoops, missed my stop, and now I'm headed toward Juchitan...Guess I'm not spending a night on Mexico's isthmus. I get to Juchitan, and decide to look at the schedules. I have several options, stay in this town for the night and head toward Guatemala via the souther route close to the Pacific, or catch the midnight bus to San Cristobal, the backpacker hub of Chiapas. Well, the night bus would save me money on accomodation, so I decide on that.

Went outside, grabbed some food from a mother-daughter food stall. It was decent, but the last several towns have only had salsa verde...I NEED SALSA ROJA! Anyways, the daughter was insanely cute, and the boisterous woman in the next food stall said something to us that I did not understand, but I just laughed along with her. The daughter looked very embarrassed. I really wished I could have understood what she had said.

It was only eight 30. I had been waiting hours for my midnight departure. wandered into a convenient no-frills watering hold...no, not rustic by any means. White-washed cinder-block walls and harsh fluorescent lighting where the fan created a mild strobe-effect sure to bring anyone to seizures after consuming one too many. Not quite relaxing, but it felt more Mexican than Mexican, if that makes any sense. A modern-day male Mexican drinking place, miles away from the charming pulquerias, yet even farther away from the flashy bars and discoteques serving margaritas and cupa libres. At this joing, it was caguamas of Corona for all. Groups of men sat around bantering about who-knows-what, munching snacks from crinkly bags of Mexican versions of cheetos and lays, barely paying attention to the subtitled TNT movie on the television. Some smoked, yet there were no ashtrays here. That's right, drop that ash right to the blue and white tiled floor where it may or may not get swept up later. After a caguama (while literally a turtle, a caguama is the larger of the two sizes of bottled beer) I went back to the bus station, made friends with a fellow Jose and chatted with him until my bus came.

Now I am in San Cristobal, a ridiculously quaint colonial town in the mountains of Chiapas, that has a very strong indigenous population despite the large number of expatriates and travelers. Guatemala t-minuse...well we'll see.

Oaxaca and stuff

Last night I found myself in a random cantina in Oaxaca City. It was one of those settings that I crave. Dive bar, raucous, quality live music, fun locals, cheap beer and I was the only tourist. It is making me wonder about my status as a traveler. Traveling alone is great, but can be lonely. Traveling with people removes that loneliless, yet can make things far more complicated if everyone is not on the same wavelength. Plus, one is much less likely to wander into such a dive due to the yearning for human contact.

For the past few days I have been with these Isreali travelers that I spoke of already. Shloamee (turns out it is spelled Shlomo) is awesome. Total go with the whatever is going on kind of guy. Because of his kosher diet, he has been eating very poorly, but doesn't let it get him down. Maya...her vegetarian, pure life, all natural BS, on the other hand...well, let's just say that I hate being the responsible for communicating to the cook in the tiny little eatery in Spanish that she doesn't want any cheese or that if the vegetables are cooked on the same grill as the meat, then we don't want them cooked, etc. I mean, come on, I am a carnivore, but if there are some surprise onions in my tacos I'm not going to send it back or pout about it. I have eaten way more onions, peppers and whatever than I normally would, but that's part of the experience, right? I hate this to be negative, but I need to vent somewhere. And one more thing Maya, if we agree to be out of the hotel at nine, and you're not ready until after eleven, don't insist on taking a taxi when we are three metro stops away from the bus station because you have two suitcases of epic proportions. And DON'T complain to the person that called the taxi that it is too small.

So yeah, in the last few days, there has not been too much adventure, but I did see a new world wonder. The pyramids at the ancient Aztec city of Teotihuacan. The pyramid of the sun is the third biggest in the world after one in Egypt and one in Cholula (yep, apparently they make more than just hot sauce), just southeast of Mexico City.

I also tried to see a lucha libre fight, but to my disappointment, I went to the wrong stadium. No worries, because I was told that it does not start for another 3 hours. After heading to the other place, I found that I had been at the wrong place, but at the right time. Well, I guess this gives me reason to go back there some day, which is a good sign. Say, if anybody wants to keep an eye on tickets to Mexico City for the weekend over the next year, they get really cheap from Seattle. I saw as low as $260 once.

All in all, Mexico City was a really amazing place, but I wish I would have gotten out of there a day earlier. It was not nearly as polluted as it is famed to be. It doesn't hold a candle to the haze of Kolkata. And the warnings of crime there, well, it seemed about as safe as most US cities I've been to. But then again I never made an effort to get too far away from the downtown area, which is quite posh. Mexico (well Mexico City at least) is the most affectionate place I've ever been. At some point during every metro ride, you are bound to see several googly-eyed couples shamelessly sucking face...any wonder why it is one of the most populated places in the world?...but using that logic, India would have like 12 people instead of a billion.

I was in an irritable state the morning we left Mexico City. That is, until we finally boarded our bus to Oaxaca. It felt right to be on the road...and the girl sitting next to Maya puking all over the place was just icing on the cake. After a beautiful six hour drive through mountains and saguaro forests that put Tucson to shame (sorry Jen, but these were rocking) we arrived in the quaint, medium-sized city of Oaxaca.

Oaxaca's cool, but pretty touristy. It has a great vibe to it though. Mad hippie travelers in my hostel (Banana Magic Hostel) but they seem pretty cool. And all five from San Francisco showered this morning. I didn't even do that!

Oaxaca is known for its food, and it has not disappointed yet. A mole tamal upon arrival was a good sign. Today I explored a market stuffed with food stalls dishing up sizzling carne asada, enchiladas and huge tlayudas (a Oaxacan specialty consisting of huge fried tortillas covered with beans, cheese, salsa, vegetables and some sort of meat. There was huge aisle of stalls with stacks of beef and sausage. It was family style eating. First, someone would come up to you with a basket of peppers and onions and you would buy what you wanted. Then take them to the meat stall of your choice and pick your meat, give them the vegetables and they would cook it up for you. Looked great, but it seemed pricey if you were just one person (another disadvantage of the solo traveling.)

It is interesting to see the population change when moving about a place. Oaxaca has a very prominent indigenous population, and the handicrafts to prove it. The people are great, but jeez, for last time I don't want a blanket or a letter opener, just let me eat my grapefruit.

The city is really alive right now as Three Kings Day draws closer. In Mexico, the gift-giving part of Christmas does not happen until the sixth of January, when the three wise men arrived to give Jesus his gold frankincense and myrrh (does anyone else think that these gifts for a child must have been like the argyle socks of biblical times?) Anyways, lots of streetmarketing, selling things...oh! I bought some Oaxacan cheese today! It's like a really strong mozzarella that looks like a ball of inch wide yarn and peels like string cheese. It's no yak cheese, but its pretty bomb. I probably smell really bad from eating it all day.

So today I was sitting outside of some jewelry store, waiting for Shlomo and Maya, and some filthy (I am not being insensitive, this guy was really dirty) homeless guy came and sat down next to me. Then I noticed something start to drizzle down the sidewalk toward me. My eye followed the stream right up to the guys pants. Yep, he just really had to go I guess. I'm pretty comfortable with public urination and all, but jeez, do you have to leave your pants on and put your sidewalk companero in grave danger of the yellow river? I felt that this man was an insensitive drunk, so I didn't stay long to chat.

Oh, and by the way, Shlomo has a very similar phrase to Borat's wow wow woo wah! Makes me laugh every time.

So I left the bar last night after realizing that women out of my age range on both sides were getting a little too friendly with me. They all seemed nice, but after the (supposedly) 18 year old girl asked me if I came to Mexico for the women (I think that is what she said, my Spanish is still shaky) I decided that it was just that time to retreat to my dorm bed. Too bad, I heard the band does a great cover of Chop Suey.

I need to move, beaches are calling me. Crazy Crazy.

Mexico City Pt. 2 happy new year!

Feliz Ano Nuevo!

Well, I'm losing track of days by now so it will be hard to know where I left off. This is a good sign though. At least I know it is no longer 2008. I will not miss you 2007.

I think a couple days ago I was still with Juan and Maritere. Yes, it was Sunday because I went to a bullfight. But first my wonderful hosts wanted to take me to the museo de Rufino Tamayo. Yep, this guy I've never heard of before has a whole museum to himself. And it's huge too. I asked Juan if he'd been here before and he said, "yes, many times. I've lost count." I couldn't imagine going to a museum more than once, let alone many times, let alone a museum that is always the same and featuring only artist. Anyways, my consensus that anything Tamayo in his early years was crap, especially anything still life. His more abstract and conceptual stuff was great though. I could possibly see myself coming back here...but I would probably have to go through a heavy dosage of amnesia first.

A walk in the bosque de chapultapec (literally forest of grasshoppers; think Central Park, sprawling gardens and trees with museums and random other attractions) brought us back to the car and they took me to the Monumental Plaza Mexico, one of the biggest (if not the biggest) bullrings in the world. I was supposed to meet up with Juan's sister and friends, but they had already purchased their tickets in the $20 section. I decided to enjoy it on my own in the nose-bleeds for only $6.

So for all the people that are against the sport of bullfighting because it is cruel and what-not...whatever, it's rad. True, the first time I saw the matador skillfully plunge his sword deep into the neck of the bull, I winced, but then I heard all the cheering around me, well, it was alright. There were 6 fights, and the second was probably the best. The bull was extremely aggressive, and at one point caught the matador with his horns and tossed him up and onto his back. The matador recovered and made a mocking gesture to the bull, then turned to the crowd, arms out, showing that he was pretty much the balls. I can't be for sure, but it looked as if he had the blood of the bull streaked all across his face. The matador won, and thus followed immense applause, the tossing of hats and flowers onto the floor, as well as an assistant presenting him with the ear of the bull.

That night I found some great pozole (a stew with pork and hominy kernels) and a couple of enchiladas at this literal hole in a wall. I could tell the small family-run establishment (which seemed to only serve pozole and enchiladas) did not often receive foreigners or even Mexicans for that matter. The kind of hospitality one gets in this places is what makes walking that few extra blocks for something different worthwhile. And it was crazy cheap too.

On New Year's Eve I decided to move on from Juan & Maritere's. They were great hosts, but I needed go be with my own people...no, not Americans, travelers. As great as Juan and Maritere were, they didn't seem to get out much.

I metro'd to the centro historico in search of a cheap room. Hotel Isabela is what it came to, because of the price (and what I got for $15). But the place seemed dead. Were there no other traveler's here, or were they just out on the town? It was the middle of the day. I wandered around a while and didn't meet a single person...This was looking like it could be a lonely holiday. I tried to take a siesta in the afternoon, but I am terrible at naps, so I ended up just going down to the lobby to read and hopefully meet some people to celebrate with. It's tough because traveler's can be extremely pretentious, judgmental, anti-American and cliquey.

As soon as I entered the lobby I saw a young couple, and the guy was just departing. The girl was poring over a map of Mexico. Boyfriend's gone, I know a Mexican map, a-HA! Here's the chance! I asked her where she was headed to and she said she didn't know, maybe Oaxaca? Me too! By this time, boyfriend returned and introduced himself. They were definitely Israeli travelers. Schloamee (not the right spelling of his name, but that's how it is pronounced) and Maya. They were extremely friendly and within minutes we were forming plans for Teotihuacan (Aztec pyramids) Oaxaca, some secret waterfalls and caves as well as the new year's eve.

Maya, 28, does a lot of natural herbal stuff. She makes her own natural medicines and does that science thing where they analyze your health by looking at the patterns of your iris. Most of what she talks about goes right over my unnatural, carnivorous head.

Shloamee, 34, trades jewels. He goes to places like India and China to buy jewels, then sells them in Israel. He is a crazy guy, like a mix between Borat (not the Jew-hating part) and Johnny Depp in Blow. Really cool and slick business man, but with a funny accent. He only will eat kosher meat, so has been eating a lot of guacamole. He also brought bags of food from home. This is their first long-term trip (2.5 months) and they brought suitcases, not backpacks...I have a lot to teach them.

Upon meeting up with these two I realized why I had decided not to pack the book that Gus gave me for Christmas called "Schticks and Stones", which was full of Jewish jokes and stories.

Anyways, We didn't head out until almost eleven, after having a glass of their wine they brought from Israel. We went to Zocalo, which was still beautifully lit up from Christmas. There were grandstands overlooking the temporary ice rink and music was blasting. A man in a cowboy hat was singing in the middle of the rink with a dancer on each side of him. When he was done singing, Maya wanted to find some food. Well, on our way, we found out this guy was pretty famous because there was a crowd getting autographs. And yes. I got one.

I asked Maya where she wanted to be for midnight and she said "somewhere drinking". Fair enough. And then we discovered that Mexico City is surprisingly dead on this holiday. Even some of the 711's were closed. Eventually we found a place (just after midnight) that had a live band of 3 women singing a mix of Spanish and American rock. My favorite was of course their rendition of The Door's 'Love Me Two Times', which they pulled off quite splendidly. We had a couple beers and Maya and I had shots of tequila. Shloamee declined as he was feeling sick from his poor diet since leaving Israel. We tried to hop to another bar...but once we started the jump we couldn't find anywhere to land. So back to the hotel it was to finish their bottle of wine. However, we didn't even make it up to their room as we got in a conversation with Miguel, the doorman, who had a significant line of empty beers under the couch he was sitting on. He insisted on drinking tequila with us, so after finishing the small bottle I had brought, he brought a fifth from the hotel's bar. Eventually we were joined by some girls from Norway, a German guy who was teaching German in Monterrey, and a Nicaraguan girl who works at the same newspaper that I will be working at when I get there, as well as random other travelers passing through the lobby briefly. We tried to convince Miguel to come to Oaxaca, but he kept making up excuses like, "but I have to work!" Whatever Miguel. I thought we were friends.

Finally at 3:30 I finished the GLASS of tequila that Miguel had poured me and retired to my quarters. I am sure those are the exact words I used too. Well, New Year's in Mexico City, while not exactly what I was expecting, turned out to be a success. Especially compared to last year's.