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.
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
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.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Mexico City: Days 1 and 2: It's a big'un
Both the city and this post is what I meant by big'un. I apologize dearly that this is so lengthy. I promise that they will be much more brief in the future. I also write this so I remember what exactly I did for three months when it is all over. Thank you.
Well, I made it. Hopefully this comes out alright. I have very little oxygen flowing to my head at this 7,300 foot elevation. I knew this city was on a plateau (ironically also in a basin) but I didn't think about it until I started losing my breath frequently. On the plus side it will probably save me money on beer.
I got off my direct flight at...well, I really have no idea. It was supposed to land at 3:30, but my clock said two....Is this city two hours ahead or just one? Are we a half an hour early or late? Didn't really matter. All I cared about was getting to a bed before it got dark.
I had my couchsurfing only moderately arranged. The guy who I was planning to stay with never gave me his address. I figured that if I couldn't find it I could simply go to one of the other two couchsurfing people I had contacted. They had actually given me directions. Juan, on the other hand simply gave me a metro stop: Patriotismo on the number 9 line in Condesa. My guide book is no help for the metro, but after a couple of errors I got stumbled out of the metro cave and onto the street, disappointed to find that I had missed daylight. Farmacia Joaquin to my right...to my left, a fairly dark street, though not intimidating.
After a visit to the internet cafe and several phone calls on a pay phone, Juan picked me up with his girlfriend, Maritere, and we headed back to their place. I gave Juan some of the orange spice tea that mama makes for the holidays, then I bought them some tamales from a guy sitting on a bucket. The mole tamal (my first tamal of this variety) was one of the most amazing I have ever put in my mouth. The rest of the night was relaxing, just chatting with them and watching House of Flying Daggers, an awesome flick that I highly recommend.
This is Maritere. She is also cool.
The interesting thing about moving about this city, for me, is that I do not stick out. I can pass as being a chilango (one from Mexico City), surprisingly. People speak to me in Spanish without considering that I might not be from there. I assume, however, that my shorts and t-shirt might tip them off somewhat. I have the same complexion and hair (and even eyes sometimes) as many chilangos. But being noticed, as one constantly is in a place like India, definitely has its advantages. People that do speak English will go out of their way to help you out, or just start a conversation. However, the plus side about this is that I am not being offered stuff on the street any more than the chilangos. Beggars aren't more aggressive to me and there is not as much of an incentive (or ability) to rip me off.
I began my day somewhat late at about 11:00. There is so much to see, so I was disappointed in myself that it took this long to get up and out. I enjoyed a chicharron and cheese quesadilla made with a blue corn tortilla. It was served with a red chili sauce that put me into a trance of flavor euphoria...flaphoria if you will.
When I finally came to and realized I was in Mexico City, I hopped on the metro, took the 9, transferred to the 2 and got off where Juan said would be a cool place to start off the day. I was very disoriented but I saw a sprawling area with trees and vendors and fountains. Me gusta.
I started walking, not really knowing or caring where I was going. There was a market with some handicrap...ahem handicrafts and food vendors. Photos were taken food from a cart was consumed and eventually I decided I should do something with my day. I figured out that I was in one of the city's biggest parks, Alameda central.
I was on the edge of the historic center of town so I started walking to the Zocalo, or main plaza or square. This one is called the plaza de la constitucion. Rumor had it (well I saw it on the front page of two of the newspapers) that for the holidays they put in a huge ice rink right in the middle of the square...rumored to be the world's largest.
I got sidetracked on the way there several times by markets, public art and some great architecture (did I just say that)? Yes, there were times that I felt a bit like a European traveler with my camera around my neck taking pictures of all this historic architecture and cultural art...whatever. As much as I don't want to be that, I was that today...for a while.
I got to zocalo and that place on the weekends is a zoo. I stepped inside the catedral metropolitano, which was began construction in the 1500s.
After noticing that the line to start ice-skating would have taken at least an hour or more, and that it didn't look like that big of an ice rink at all, I decided to press on.
By this time I have mastered the metro. I swear, this is the easiest big city to navigate that I have ever been in. And it only costs $.20 to get anywhere. ANYWHERE! 4th biggest metro in the world too.
I took 4 different trains to get to my next destination: Tianguis Cultural del Chopo. Don't ask me what that means, but I know that it is a weekly street market for the local punk scene. I had noticed a few emo/scenester looking kids on my train, so I followed them instead of looking at the map. As we walked, I noticed more people in ridiculously tight pants. A few "alternative" hair styles. Slowly I became the only person walking in this direction not wearing all black. Faces became white, not from race, but from makeup. Hair became long...and frequently pointy, and occasionally in dreads. It got crowded, I soon found myself back in that awkward white-guy-in-a-rickshaw feeling. Camera on my shoulder, khaki shorts (so ya know it's good) extremely basic hair, and that obnoxious little nike swoosh on my shirt. I tried to cling to the fact that a lot of the stalls were selling Jim Morisson shirts and that I had, for a brief several days, had dreadlocks of my own. But I had no visible street cred here. And I can blame this on my poor photos. I could not bring myself to ask any of these intimidating mohawked-goths with dog-collars to take their picture, let alone in Spanish with my American accent. On the other hand, I figured that since they all seemed to be idolizing American and British artists, I should get at least a little bit of respect. No go. It was a fun two hours though. LIke someone's first time on Broadway in Seattle...except 83x more crowded.
I wonder what the corner shop guys in India would say if they knew that the cheap bidi cigarrettes were being sold in Mexico city to punk rockers as a hip "natural" tobacco...at what I am sure is an exorbitant markup for the occassion
On to the street markets. More subways and eventually I was reborn at mercado la merced, one of the larger markets in the city taking up about 4 city blocks. I wandered through there, not looking for anything in particular until I found the Mercado de sonora, which supposedly specializes in the mystical, the witchcraft, the voodoo. Well, if that means selling herbs curing prostate ailments, lots of incense, candles and for some reason having African-American cabbage patch kids on display (or for sale, I couldn't tell) then I guess that's what this was. There was also a section for animals...pets or food one could not tell because there were rabbits, dogs, turkeys and chickens all right next to each other. Enough, when I found myself back in the first market, I must have passed through some secret door or wardrobe or something because the market seemed way cooler now. Stalls of fresh fruit (I purchased guavas, like I haven't had since Nepal), and chiles. CHILES CHILES CHILES! DRIED CHILE PEPPERS. I cannot explain how many peppers I saw today. And so many different kinds too. Blew me away. I just wanted to stare at all the crazy foods the whole time, but if I lingered too long at one stall I would hear "que buscaba, joven", what are you looking for, young boy? Yes, in Mexico I am addressed by strangers as joven. Love it.
Sidenote* something interesting to see in markets: Religious items like candles and statues of Mary in one booth next to a booth where pirated pornographic dvd's line the walls....Harley, no, I'm bringing you a sombrero or something.
I stopped for some tacos de cabeza. Yep, all the head meat cooked up barbacoa style, barbecued on maugey cactus. Not gonna lie, it was not great. In fact, not even that good. Head meat is not that flavorful, and the varied textures just keep reminding you of what you are eating. I'm still working on this whole bizarre foods thing.
On the way out of the market I had a chapulin, which is like a cricket or grasshopper or something, but cooked and seasoned. I sampled one from a stall selling them by the bag. It was not bad, but it did have a very strong flavor that would not let me commit to purchasing a bag.
My next stop was the plaza Garibaldi. It was dusk and it seemed as if a fiesta was a-brewin. Mariachi band members were scattered thoughout the plaza as I made my way toward the pulqueria fimiliar. Pulque is an old low-alcohol beverage that was popular among the lower class during the colonial era. It is made from the mague cactus (see barbacoa tacos above) and was invented by the Aztecs back in the day. I was afraid of the plain kind because I am sure there is a reason that there are only a few pulquerias left. I had the strawberry flavored version and hung out in the plaza for a while. After a couple glasses, I decided to come back to Juan's and see what was up for a Saturday night.
Crossing walk on the way back, there was a dude performing in the crosswalk in front of stopped traffic. His shtick was to go in the street without a shirt on, lay down his shirt, which was full of shards of glass, then lay on it and roll around for a while. Crazy. This city is crazy and I am all about. Tomorrow=bullfight.
Well, I made it. Hopefully this comes out alright. I have very little oxygen flowing to my head at this 7,300 foot elevation. I knew this city was on a plateau (ironically also in a basin) but I didn't think about it until I started losing my breath frequently. On the plus side it will probably save me money on beer.
I got off my direct flight at...well, I really have no idea. It was supposed to land at 3:30, but my clock said two....Is this city two hours ahead or just one? Are we a half an hour early or late? Didn't really matter. All I cared about was getting to a bed before it got dark.
I had my couchsurfing only moderately arranged. The guy who I was planning to stay with never gave me his address. I figured that if I couldn't find it I could simply go to one of the other two couchsurfing people I had contacted. They had actually given me directions. Juan, on the other hand simply gave me a metro stop: Patriotismo on the number 9 line in Condesa. My guide book is no help for the metro, but after a couple of errors I got stumbled out of the metro cave and onto the street, disappointed to find that I had missed daylight. Farmacia Joaquin to my right...to my left, a fairly dark street, though not intimidating.
After a visit to the internet cafe and several phone calls on a pay phone, Juan picked me up with his girlfriend, Maritere, and we headed back to their place. I gave Juan some of the orange spice tea that mama makes for the holidays, then I bought them some tamales from a guy sitting on a bucket. The mole tamal (my first tamal of this variety) was one of the most amazing I have ever put in my mouth. The rest of the night was relaxing, just chatting with them and watching House of Flying Daggers, an awesome flick that I highly recommend.
This is Juan. He is cool.
This is Maritere. She is also cool.
I began my day somewhat late at about 11:00. There is so much to see, so I was disappointed in myself that it took this long to get up and out. I enjoyed a chicharron and cheese quesadilla made with a blue corn tortilla. It was served with a red chili sauce that put me into a trance of flavor euphoria...flaphoria if you will.
When I finally came to and realized I was in Mexico City, I hopped on the metro, took the 9, transferred to the 2 and got off where Juan said would be a cool place to start off the day. I was very disoriented but I saw a sprawling area with trees and vendors and fountains. Me gusta.
A father buys his son some tazos, the Mexican version of pogs.
I started walking, not really knowing or caring where I was going. There was a market with some handicrap...ahem handicrafts and food vendors. Photos were taken food from a cart was consumed and eventually I decided I should do something with my day. I figured out that I was in one of the city's biggest parks, Alameda central.
I was on the edge of the historic center of town so I started walking to the Zocalo, or main plaza or square. This one is called the plaza de la constitucion. Rumor had it (well I saw it on the front page of two of the newspapers) that for the holidays they put in a huge ice rink right in the middle of the square...rumored to be the world's largest.
Anyone who knows me should also know that I have a fetish for chicharrones (fried pork skins). In the states they come in bags like chips, in Mexico, they come in big man-sized sheets!
I got sidetracked on the way there several times by markets, public art and some great architecture (did I just say that)? Yes, there were times that I felt a bit like a European traveler with my camera around my neck taking pictures of all this historic architecture and cultural art...whatever. As much as I don't want to be that, I was that today...for a while.
I got to zocalo and that place on the weekends is a zoo. I stepped inside the catedral metropolitano, which was began construction in the 1500s.
Catedral Metropolitano at the zocalo 
Then, on my way to see the ice rink I had to stop. There was music...well, where isn't there music in Mexico, seriously, it's why I love this country. But this was something different. First of all it was live and it was mostly just a loud repetitive drum accompanied by yelling. It was Aztec dancers, traditionally dressed, just going absolutely nuts. On the side I noticed one of them partaking in a religious ceremony. He had a bowl of smoldering incense that he was blowing on people as some sort of blessing. Well I got in line for my blessing. When it came my turn I tossed a few pesos in the donation cup and he proceeded to instruct me as he blow this smoke all over me. Turn half way. Turn all the way. Lift your arm. Your other arm. Shake your hands. Rub you belly and pat your head...jk....then he asked what I wanted to ask him....I had no idea. I thought this was a blessing not a fortune telling, I almost blurted out, donde esta mi padre? and something about having been separated from him at a young age. I chickened out and just said I dunno, (in spanish of course). He handed me a large arrowhead made from obsidian and said something about keeping it close to the heart, high in the air and away from the ground. I couldn't tell if I made a fool of myself or scored a sweet keepsake. Either way it was worth it. Hopefully I am well-blessed.
Then, on my way to see the ice rink I had to stop. There was music...well, where isn't there music in Mexico, seriously, it's why I love this country. But this was something different. First of all it was live and it was mostly just a loud repetitive drum accompanied by yelling. It was Aztec dancers, traditionally dressed, just going absolutely nuts. On the side I noticed one of them partaking in a religious ceremony. He had a bowl of smoldering incense that he was blowing on people as some sort of blessing. Well I got in line for my blessing. When it came my turn I tossed a few pesos in the donation cup and he proceeded to instruct me as he blow this smoke all over me. Turn half way. Turn all the way. Lift your arm. Your other arm. Shake your hands. Rub you belly and pat your head...jk....then he asked what I wanted to ask him....I had no idea. I thought this was a blessing not a fortune telling, I almost blurted out, donde esta mi padre? and something about having been separated from him at a young age. I chickened out and just said I dunno, (in spanish of course). He handed me a large arrowhead made from obsidian and said something about keeping it close to the heart, high in the air and away from the ground. I couldn't tell if I made a fool of myself or scored a sweet keepsake. Either way it was worth it. Hopefully I am well-blessed.
After noticing that the line to start ice-skating would have taken at least an hour or more, and that it didn't look like that big of an ice rink at all, I decided to press on.
By this time I have mastered the metro. I swear, this is the easiest big city to navigate that I have ever been in. And it only costs $.20 to get anywhere. ANYWHERE! 4th biggest metro in the world too.
I took 4 different trains to get to my next destination: Tianguis Cultural del Chopo. Don't ask me what that means, but I know that it is a weekly street market for the local punk scene. I had noticed a few emo/scenester looking kids on my train, so I followed them instead of looking at the map. As we walked, I noticed more people in ridiculously tight pants. A few "alternative" hair styles. Slowly I became the only person walking in this direction not wearing all black. Faces became white, not from race, but from makeup. Hair became long...and frequently pointy, and occasionally in dreads. It got crowded, I soon found myself back in that awkward white-guy-in-a-rickshaw feeling. Camera on my shoulder, khaki shorts (so ya know it's good) extremely basic hair, and that obnoxious little nike swoosh on my shirt. I tried to cling to the fact that a lot of the stalls were selling Jim Morisson shirts and that I had, for a brief several days, had dreadlocks of my own. But I had no visible street cred here. And I can blame this on my poor photos. I could not bring myself to ask any of these intimidating mohawked-goths with dog-collars to take their picture, let alone in Spanish with my American accent. On the other hand, I figured that since they all seemed to be idolizing American and British artists, I should get at least a little bit of respect. No go. It was a fun two hours though. LIke someone's first time on Broadway in Seattle...except 83x more crowded.
I wonder what the corner shop guys in India would say if they knew that the cheap bidi cigarrettes were being sold in Mexico city to punk rockers as a hip "natural" tobacco...at what I am sure is an exorbitant markup for the occassion
On to the street markets. More subways and eventually I was reborn at mercado la merced, one of the larger markets in the city taking up about 4 city blocks. I wandered through there, not looking for anything in particular until I found the Mercado de sonora, which supposedly specializes in the mystical, the witchcraft, the voodoo. Well, if that means selling herbs curing prostate ailments, lots of incense, candles and for some reason having African-American cabbage patch kids on display (or for sale, I couldn't tell) then I guess that's what this was. There was also a section for animals...pets or food one could not tell because there were rabbits, dogs, turkeys and chickens all right next to each other. Enough, when I found myself back in the first market, I must have passed through some secret door or wardrobe or something because the market seemed way cooler now. Stalls of fresh fruit (I purchased guavas, like I haven't had since Nepal), and chiles. CHILES CHILES CHILES! DRIED CHILE PEPPERS. I cannot explain how many peppers I saw today. And so many different kinds too. Blew me away. I just wanted to stare at all the crazy foods the whole time, but if I lingered too long at one stall I would hear "que buscaba, joven", what are you looking for, young boy? Yes, in Mexico I am addressed by strangers as joven. Love it.
Sidenote* something interesting to see in markets: Religious items like candles and statues of Mary in one booth next to a booth where pirated pornographic dvd's line the walls....Harley, no, I'm bringing you a sombrero or something.
I stopped for some tacos de cabeza. Yep, all the head meat cooked up barbacoa style, barbecued on maugey cactus. Not gonna lie, it was not great. In fact, not even that good. Head meat is not that flavorful, and the varied textures just keep reminding you of what you are eating. I'm still working on this whole bizarre foods thing.
Does anyone know how to rotate these in blogspot?...well, there's my dinner, cow head tacos.
On the way out of the market I had a chapulin, which is like a cricket or grasshopper or something, but cooked and seasoned. I sampled one from a stall selling them by the bag. It was not bad, but it did have a very strong flavor that would not let me commit to purchasing a bag.
My next stop was the plaza Garibaldi. It was dusk and it seemed as if a fiesta was a-brewin. Mariachi band members were scattered thoughout the plaza as I made my way toward the pulqueria fimiliar. Pulque is an old low-alcohol beverage that was popular among the lower class during the colonial era. It is made from the mague cactus (see barbacoa tacos above) and was invented by the Aztecs back in the day. I was afraid of the plain kind because I am sure there is a reason that there are only a few pulquerias left. I had the strawberry flavored version and hung out in the plaza for a while. After a couple glasses, I decided to come back to Juan's and see what was up for a Saturday night.
Crossing walk on the way back, there was a dude performing in the crosswalk in front of stopped traffic. His shtick was to go in the street without a shirt on, lay down his shirt, which was full of shards of glass, then lay on it and roll around for a while. Crazy. This city is crazy and I am all about. Tomorrow=bullfight.
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