and we're off!

I went back to the doctor today. It wasn't so much that I was convinced that something was wrong, I just wasn't convinced that everything was alright. This is what happens when every plan falls through over and over again over 8 months. I am not trusting my body as I should. My body hasn't been behaving as it should. We must spend some time reconnecting. My plan is to leave this coming Saturday for Guatemala, head to Belize for the Garifuna Settlement Day festivities, back to Guatemala to meet mom and venture south through El Salvador, where she will fly home and I will continue on to Nicaragua for another 3 or 4 weeks. No return ticket purchased yet, but somewhere around the first week of January.

Doc said everything really was fine, that my pain is healing and muscle related, and moving in the right direction. No abscess, no infection, just a tender scar. This good news pumped me up, and I began closing the circle on the inquiries I've made. And within an hour, this is what happened:

My friend Athena's cousin, Carolina, who lives in Guatemala City, has offered to pick me up from the airport and transport me to Antigua.

My friend Pauline made arrangements for me to drop my extra bag of cold weather clothes and other gifts and necessities to be shipped by the luggage fairies to the city (Quetzaltenango) these things need to be in so I no longer have to carry them. I haven't met these fairies yet, but I already love them.

The crazy treehouse with volcano views is available to me at Earthlodge. Comes complete with a bathroom with HOT water, on an avocado farm during avocado season. And oh yeah, by the way, we have a visiting Americana musician playing music and we are having a BBQ that day. Guacamole music fest in a treehouse. You can't make this stuff up and I love it!

That's just day 1.

The Santiago and Sumpango Sacatepequez Kite Festival for Dia de los Muertos is on Nov 1, and Carolina also wants to share this with me. I equate this with someone from New Orleans sharing Mardi Gras. What an amazing experience with someone from the area.

More is in store. This may be the most planned trip I've ever taken, but so far this is working in my favor, so this is good. I am hoping Carolina will also join me for the weekend at Lago de Atitlan.

Quetzaltenango plans will be it's own post.

In all honesty, the fact that I can actually envision myself getting onto a plane for an adventure is enough to be grateful for. I've been working on that lemonade for some time. It's time to move forward on this adventure I've been seeking, regardless of the order it's presenting itself. I am a little homesick for NOLA, and thinking about a stop there en route to Bahrain in the spring. But that's another story I just can't jinx again. If ever there was a time to embrace being in the moment, this has been it. All year.

Tenga un buen noche.

ok, so...

I'm not sure what happened. I was doing pretty well posting while I was in transition. Then I got a new job and BAM, not only did I stop blogging, but I stopped writing at all, and my creativity came crashing to a halt.

Well things have certainly changed. I mean, not in the creative department, but in the job one.

Ok, so I was planning on quitting my job at the end of the year to go to Bahrain to be with my friend Jillene and her family. For those of you who don't know where that even is, it's a small island directly to the east of Saudi Arabia, connected by a land bridge. It did certainly get some attention during Arab Spring, and F1 racing, of course. But for the most part, it's a calm Middle Eastern country, and I couldn't contain myself with how excited I was to be going.

And then everything changed. I'm sure there are a few of you reading who are already thinking of something violent or an outbreak in damaging protests.And you're right, though it had nothing to do with the country I was planning on visiting. It was right here at home. In my body. I had recurring, non-life-threatening abscesses that made things very painful and uncomfortable. I took my yearly pilgrimage AWAY from New Orleans for Mardi Gras, to San Francisco to visit my family, and ended up getting very very ill. A week turned into a month, and when I finally returned home to New Orleans, the darn thing returned. Without going into too many details, it was a rough winter and spring. Thankfully during that month, I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandmother, who I was very close to. She ended up dying in late April. I was on medical disability for the remainder of the school year, and quit as I had intended to do, but primarily for my health. And I still really thought I would be going to Bahrain at the end of June. House rented. Car getting driven to CA by a friend. Flights purchased.

But my body protested, and I was forced to have yet another surgery. Instead of from Bahrain, I am writing from my airbed at my parents house in Millbrae, CA. A far cry from the adventure I was seeking, but an adventure indeed.

Now, I have to say, all things being out of my control, there is no better back up plan than spending the late summer and fall in California with friends and family. I knew I was starting to feel better when I suddenly couldn't handle limbo anymore. Specialists, too much TV, packing and unpacking a strange assortment of things meant for winter in the Bay Area, and summer in Bahrain. So I made a phone call to my old boss and good friend, and within a couple of hours, I landed myself a teaching job in my old school district. Ironically, the trip to Bahrain, and unplanned-as-of-yet gyspy like travel that was going to happen beyond Bahrain was part of a bigger plan to make a career change. Jumping in to 8th grade didn't really meld into this big picture plan, but I was in a fog.

The job was offered to me full time for the rest of the year, and I really did consider it. I mean, I had to! Good kids, good gig, save up some money and perhaps replenish some of what I spent on my protesting body this year (insurance doesn't take to it kindly when you get sick out of state). But after opening up the books on Saturday and Sunday morning, reuniting with my procrastinating inner self, and a long conversation with dad, I realized that, surprisingly, taking a job in teaching isn't really going to help me get out of teaching. I know, duh, right? But what's that saying about the forest and the trees?

So here I am, finishing up a month long commitment with some goofy 8th graders, and I feel like I have come out on the other end of this experience in a different space. I'm feeling better, and most definitely more confident than I did two months ago, but not well enough to be so far away. Yet. I am, however, ready for a practice run. I don't want to jinx it by typing it yet. Doctor appointment is tomorrow so we shall see how far I've come, and then a plane ticket will be purchased. Hoorah!

Hopefully I'll be writing more. Soon. And better!

testing...

Testing testing, 123. Been 3 years- just seeing if this still works. First big trip out of the US in a while, and looking forward to getting back to writing. Why is it that the things I love are the things I forgo when I'm busy. Arg. Let's hope this is an homage to change that. Happy blogging people

Hooray! Culture Shock! OR…how Rebecca got SCHOOLED.

If I had a dollar, heck, if I had a dime for how many different emotions I’ve felt over the last couple months, I would be a very rich woman! Thankfully, dust is starting to settle, and I am able to pinpoint much of this as culture shock. In my last entry, months ago, I wrote that I didn’t get culture shock anymore, and that I wanted to have it. It kicks my off my butt, makes me look at things in a new way, question, and refocus. Usually, the big question is ‘what are my fortunes that I take for granted?’

Well, turns out, I didn’t have to go far at all to experience this. In fact, what I needed, was to be in a different place, but not as a tourist. I needed to be someplace new for a longer period of time, to really feel the shock. Welcome back to New Orleans! I’ve been going through many different phases of culture shock since I’ve been here, just at a much much much slower rate than I thought. First came comparing here to home, and being excited about the nuances. I stayed in this phase for a long time, until it became time to re-join the workforce and get a ‘real’ job here in this new culture. Another layer of cultural difference started to unfold as I visited different workplaces, met with interesting people, and became acutely aware that I have been living in a tourist-based town, and one that operates mostly by word-of-mouth, rather than resources I was used to like craigslist.

I found a job as a middle school math teacher, something I’ve often thought about moving into. The details sounded ideal- 3 ninety minute blocks of teaching, one prep per day. I went and observed a functioning classroom, different than the one I’d be taking over. More and more of these layers were uncovered as I began my first day teaching. I brought my California ideas and ideals into a system that was very different. For one, I had 16 and 17 yr olds in my 7th grade class. For another, I had a class full of incredibly angry young people. Honestly, they had every right to be angry- here it was January, and they hadn’t had a teacher all year. And I can’t even pretend to begin comprehending what they were dealing with at home, let alone the last two years during and after Katrina.
On my second day, in my class of 6th graders, one girl started quite the raucous. Books thrown, insults thrown, she decided to walk out of class. I wasn’t quite sure what to do- how did I let the office know a child had left the classroom? I didn’t have a classroom of my own. Like the students, I moved from room to room to teach. Where was the phone?

This is when I was introduced to “the buttons”. In every classroom, there was a white button, and a red button. The white button just called the office, and a voice would come over the intercom system to see what was going on. This was for normal things, like so-and-so needs to call home for his library book. The red button was to be used if there was a disturbance, a fight, an emergency. When this button was pushed (and it did get pushed), the campus police would come directly to the classroom.

Without going into too much detail, it became very clear to me that this was NOT a safe place, or a good fit for me. Although some kids had started to turn around, I knew that making a difference was going to take a lot more than one semester as their math teacher, and was going to cost me too much personally. If I had to pick the one thing that really made me sick at night thinking about going back it would be this- the kids weren’t allies. As a teacher of this hormonal age-group, I expect some disrespect, some hostility, and even some hate to be directed towards me. But kids are supposed to take care of each other. Yes, there are bullies, and there are the loners. But big picture, middle schoolers are supposed to be overly consumed with friendships. These are the years of cliques, and first crushes, and slumber parties and ridiculously long phone conversations. When I realized these kids weren’t looking out for each other, and that so many of them felt unsafe, my heart sank. It became the first job in my life that I walked out on. I got seriously SCHOOLED in the New Orleans public school system, and thrown face flat on the ground with all of my presumptions.

It was a rough month after that, trying to regain balance, as more and more cultural differences began to unravel before me. Instead of marveling at the nuances, I was frustrated. I was trying to figure out how to fit in, if I fit in, and if these were cultural norms, or just traits that some people had in common. I found myself suddenly understanding why people who were from New Orleans behaved in certain ways, and why I sometimes didn’t see eye to eye with people who’s opinions I valued. I felt like the kid in math class ‘getting it’ for the first time, but over and over again in succession, to where it became exhausting just to get through a day. On a professional level and a strong supporter of (though terribly flawed) public education, I struggled with finally, completely, totally, understanding why many parents in greater New Orleans chose to put their children in private schools. I hated to admit that if I had a child, I would do the same.
Well, a week passed, and I was picking up any odd job I could find, and thought maybe it was time to throw in the towel, move back to San Francisco, and go back to what was….. comfortable. I think that was the moment I realized I could name my emotions, and decided I needed to see it through, regardless of what decision I made, or will make in the future. I needed to get through all the discomfort, wear it, sweat it, overanalyze it, and finally EMBRACE it. Once I started to see this experience as a lesson (and boy was it ever!), I was ready to steer it a little better, and look for all the positive growth it had to offer.

One Monday morning, I woke early, got on the internet and wrote a list of all of the charter and private, non-religious schools and their phone numbers. I cold-called almost every one of them. When in Rome, right? I knew there were plenty of smart, well-educated people in this town. They had to have gone to school somewhere. Through avenues learned living within the culture here, rather than getting yet another one-day gig on craigslist (though I do love them!), I connected with a friend of a friend, whose son needed tutoring. This led to a phone call to the principal, and a just-funded position, a fantastic connection, a gun-shy but successful school visit, and voila! I am now an academic interventionist at one of the two top public charter schools in the city of New Orleans. I work with 6th through 8th graders, again. Only, these kids are really kids. They’re silly and hyper, and have their temper tantrums, but I have yet to see one outburst that isn’t age appropriate. There are no red or white buttons, and there is no need for them. They hug their teachers, and most of all, they look out for each other. I wake up in the morning feeling fortunate to have such a fantastic job in such a beautiful setting (http://auduboncharter.com), and leave with hilarious stories about what happened during the day.

I got schooled, and it was worth the humility, and every tear and sleepless night. I asked for culture shock, and boy did I get it! As rough as it was, I can’t imagine not having pushed through these barriers. So what were the fortunes that I have that I want to be more conscious of? Culture shock taught me so much more about myself, and about my new friends and colleagues, and reminded me how wonderful, brilliant, and supportive my family and new and old friends are. I know there are more layers to unpeel as I live here (yikes- is that really what I am doing? Living here?), but I am now armed with more experience and information to make sense of those layers. I feel really lucky to be doing what I am doing, in a place so different from home, and learning so much while having such a good time.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it a bit differently this time- Come visit! I promise you will have a good time, and now I can say YOU CAN STAY WITH ME!

Back in my condo tomorrow……
-Rebecca

On to Chiapas

Everything written in my guidebook about traveling from Guatemala to San Cristobal de las Casas in was true. All of it. The road, though freshly paved, is somewhat treacherous as it winds up and out of one mountain range, and then into another. The beauty was indescribable, suffice to say that the views offered over verdant green valleys, and thick pine forests were something to gasp at. Although highland Mayans still look similar along the mountain roads between the two countries, the quality of life improves the closer and closer you get to the Mexican border.





Once in town, I could see why many travelers end up staying months. Fresh mountain air, clean streets, beautiful colors and architecture, and a healthy entertainment life makes San Cristobal a very comfortable, if not a little chilly, place to be. Because I knew I was going to be in the city for Dia de los Muertos, I booked my hotel online before I left the states. So I ended up in an absolutely gorgeous hotel, one block from the main plaza, in a suite! It was a treat.








I took 2 trips outside the city, a one day trip out to Sumidero Canyon,and a 2 day trip to the ruins of Palenque which included a stop at the famous Agua Azul waterfalls. Palenque was a highlight! Getting there was a 5 hour journey up and through the cool forested mountains, and back down into dense, humid jungle. There was NO WAY I was going to do that twice in one day like many do, so I found a nice little traveler’s village about 4 km from the National Park.



El Panchan has only one road into it from the main road, and it stops abruptly in front of a check in desk. Beyond this desk, there is a canopied area that houses 3 restaurant/bars, and in every direction from this focal point, is a dirt trail leading to various jungle hideaways. It was absolutely wonderful. At night, people from every different guesthouse establishment would meet in the middle at the restaurants where there was a stage for live music, and people selling things from the region like silver and amber. Another place travelers end up staying longer than they think, El Panchan lured me with bamboo, wooden bridges over tiny streams, tropical flowers, and rain. It was relaxing, and absolutely gorgeous.



But I was more lured by ancient architecture, and spent another day at the ruins. On the way inside, I was met by a guide trying to convince me to hire him. The day before, I was asked to share an English speaking guide, who charged 60 US dollars for a tour. I declined, being more interested in a solo exploration. However, on this morning, I was ready to hear and see more. The guide and I chatted for a few minutes, and I kept telling the guide I couldn’t afford him, and he said he only charged 10 US for a Spanish speaking guide. I told him I didn’t really speak Spanish, and needed an English one. “But you’re talking to me in Spanish right now,” he reminded me, and I started laughing. He assured me he would speak slowly. I’m pretty certain that I got more out of this experience than I would have if the guide spoke English, as I had to focus, and ask questions when he used unfamiliar vocabulary. It was really awesome. Palenque was probably my most favorite new experience on this trip.




Dia de los Muertos
What a joy it was to be in Mexico for one of my favorite holidays! In Guatemala, I could see as some of the preparations were to be taking place. Marigolds covered the hillsides around the city, and farmers were busy gathering them for the markets. People were selling and flying kites around the city and the countryside. I didn’t learn much about the reason behind the kites, and I never saw them in Mexico, so that will have to remain a mystery for me.In San Cristobal, a pretty cosmopolitan city, sugar skulls and special orange drinks were all over the stores. Decorations, for Halloween as well, were displayed in the parks, hotels, restaurants, and homes days before the event.



I visited the city's cemetery on October 31, and watched as families repainted tombs that looked like houses, bring flowers and food, shovels and rakes. The place was swarming with activity and with color. Outside the cemetery, people set up shop, selling pan de muerto, flowers, drinks, stuffed animals, eggs, and much much more. Tile was bleached, fresh green grass spread out, crosses erected. There wasn't the fanfare I expected, but it was beautiful.




The next day, I traveled to 2 Mayan villages to see how the holiday was celebrated there.In San Juan Chamula, men wear either white or black wool felt vests, and women wear black wool felt skirts with a gorgeous purple huipile (blouse). It was freezing and rainy when we got to the cemetery, and standing on the top of the gently sloping hill, I could see dots of black and white and purple amidst graves, all in the ground (which I was later told is how the poor are buried). Musicians played, men were drinking, and golden flowers and this green grass (maybe it was straw?) was spread all over the graveyard. I did try to take a couple photos, but was given the shaking pointer finger after the first one. I didn't stay long here- I felt uncomfortable, like I was intruding on something that clearly didn't belong to me.


From here I took a collectivo to Zincantan. This was a much larger town, and therefore much more spread out. Here, men and women wore black, with shimmery teal and blue woven huipiles and tops for men. Unlike Chamula, where the graveyard just looked like a huge field, the cemetery in Zincantan was high up a mountain, and graves, both in and above ground, stretched up and down the peak like a labyrinth. With the forest in the background, the fog sitting low to the ground, the vibrant clothing, and the freshly painted graves with flowers, it was a color explosion. Although more comfortable here, I still felt like I should hurry up and move on to stay respectful.

Oaxaca is known for it's Dia de los Muertos festivities- people come from all over Mexico and the world to be part of the events. I had originally thought that being in a smaller town, but still with strong indigenous routes would offer me a deeper experience, not altered for tourists. Though this was probably true, in retrospect I think Oaxaca would have been a better choice, because tourists there are invited to the events. Here, though I did get a lot of positive response, I was overtly and overly concerned with being uninvited. No regrets, but I would still like to visit Oaxaca during this time period in the future.


Halloween, by the way, lasts three days in San Cristobal. Lucky kids. They dress up, and instead of saying trick or treat, they sing a little song, saying they are little angels coming from the heavens in search of sweets. If the person gives them a sweet, they scream, "viva la tia/o!".






After the holiday, I scooted out of town. I lost a little steam, and was ready to be warm for a couple of days, and I was ready to come home. So I took an overnight bus to Veracruz and spent two glorious days wandering through plazas, eating amazing new foods,and listening to all sorts of music all evening and night long. There was a rock concert in front of my hotel, a traditional salsa band where older gentlemen, all wearing guayaberas, danced with ladies dressed up for the evening. I went to the beach, which wasn't so spectacular except that it was warm, and nothing beats eating fresh fish while sitting in your bathing suit, feet in the sand. From there, I spent two days in stunning Puebla, a city prettier, cleaner, and more cosmopolitan than many cities I've been to in the U.S or beyond. Spanish tiles cover many of the buildings, tree-lined plazas can be found around every corner, shopping, restaurants, and museums are all within reach. The food is delicious- my best meal was here in Puebla- a chile relleno stuffed with cheese and vegetables, and smothered in mole. I also tried a delicacy- huilacoche, a black mushroom that grows on corn. Sounds kind of gross, but it was delightful. From Puebla, I was ready to go home.




On thinking about long term travel........

As Eva and I spoke about our previous travel experiences weeks ago in Guatemala, one thing became clear for both of us. The more places on the planet you go, the more you find places to compare to. On the quest to find something new and exciting, you find yourself or someone else saying, “Wow, this looks so much like __________ in Cambodia!” or “Oh how funny, we did something similar when we were in Zimbabwe.” This does something for being comfortable in what could possibly be an uncomfortable environment, but also takes away some of the culture shock, which is part of what we’re looking for when we travel. The enjoyment of the adventure is still strong as the realization of how small the world is creeps into this different-paced ‘daily’ life, but the adventure is very different than that first time. I remember fondly many of my firsts in regards to travel- the first time I realized that English wasn’t going to get me where I needed to be, the first time I saw turquoise water against snow-white sand, the first time I saw a monkey swinging from branches above my head, the first time I met my cousins in Budapest, the first time I saw a traditional celebration that I was deeply moved by but didn’t understand, the first time I saw poverty on a realm so very different from the USA. I remember the first time I tried starfruit in Israel, rambutan in Thailand, coriander in England, ceviche in Costa Rica, mole in Oaxaca; the first climb of an ancient ruin (the descent, maybe moreso), the first sunrise over the ocean and high on a mountain, first hike through the jungle, first ride on an elephant. I’m sure if I had a different set of goals for this particular foreign adventure, I would have had some new memorable firsts. But this trip gave me a different experience, equally as satisfying, but different than what I’d expected. I enjoyed it in a quiet, snuggling with my favorite novel sort of way, rather than an on-my-toes sort of way.

On this trip, I had the opportunity to connect with a family in another country, and to practice speaking Spanish, to negotiate unknowns in another language. I got to see how Dia de los Muertos was celebrated in a city, in the country, including modern practices, and Mayan ones. I learned, again, that everything is possible, if you ask the right questions. I learned that everything you hear and read about a place isn’t necessarily THE truth, but A truth. I learned that I really miss the feeling of initial culture shock- that feeling of ‘firsts’, and will look for a place to explore that at some point in the future. My ‘first’ this time had nothing to do with where I was, but with where I wasn’t- I missed people while I was gone for the first time. That hasn’t happened since Sagie died. When I traveled without her, I had someone (yes, she was a person to me, not a dog) to worry about. But since then, especially with internet all over the place, I didn’t have that feeling of missing people until this time- this was my ‘first’, and a good thing, I think.


I learned a lot about myself. I learned that though I enjoy traveling on my own for short periods of time, I would prefer sharing the experience with someone I know. I originally thought- hey! I can travel around the world for a year by myself!- but I don’t really have the desire to do that. I would like to continue traveling, and see lots of new places, but one region at a time, and with someone, or a group of someones (keep that in mind if you get the itch!). And with that, I close this chapter, to re-open one back here in New Orleans. It's good to be back, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have had what has been available to me in the last 10 months.

Take care, and write soon!


Here's a link to the slideshow if you would like it. There are a few video clips at the end- some of them quite funny.

http://picasaweb.google.com/rebeccaLrobinson/MeximalaSlideshow

Rolando, and goodbye to Guatemala

I can’t begin to tell you how much apprehension I had coming back to Quetzaltenango (Xela) to visit with Rolando and his family. So much has happened in his life since Kara and I were there- both his wife and his 33 year old daughter have since passed away. Rolando was fortunate enough to be granted permission to come to the USA legally to visit with Wendy for the last 6 months of her life, and I was fortunate enough to spend Christmas of that same period with them.




But when I saw him in California, I had Wendy and Gustavo to translate. Three years not being around Spanish everyday like in Watsonville, and a couple trips to Asia with different languages infiltrating my brain’s Spanish file made me shy and Spanish words swam around my mouth awkwardly. Having Wendy and Gustavo around to translate made me lazy. I’m glad I had a week of semi-practice with Eva in Livingston and Honduras before I saw Rolando, and particularly glad that I was with someone who knew less than I did during that time, as it forced me to step up and go for it.



The driver of the shuttle from Antigua to Xela, Felipe, was a riot. He had lived in Oklahoma for a while so he knew some English. I sat in the front seat and we talked the entire twisty, unpaved 6 hours. They are paving the entire Highway, and boy is it a mess. The scenery, however, was absolutely gorgeous. We bent and turned through the dense fog in the pine forest, occasionally catching glimpses of waterfalls. We also climbed the highest peak in all of Central America which is appropriately named Alaska. We stopped once to drop the two other passengers at Lake Atitlan, which was a treat for me. I have been here twice before, and it is stunning, a deep blue lake in a cirque, surrounded by three active volcanoes, surrounded by tiny Mayan villages accessible mostly only by boat.





On the way back up the mountain towards Xela, our journey came to a halt. The road had closed for repair for what they told us would be 30 minutes. Our shuttle was nestled between two chicken busses, and everyone from all of the busses and all of the cars stepped outside into the cold, and life went on as usual on the muddy mountain road. People sold juice and water and fried chicken, and some even continued to sell cell phone cards (TIGO is everywhere in Guatemala. You can be driving a tiny mountain barely-paved road with only Mayans walking around in their traditional clothing, carrying baskets of vegetables on their head, and talking on their cell phones).







Once Felipe dropped me directly at Rolando’s, I knew everything would be fine. His street looked different, as there were many more stores than 6 years ago, but his house looked the same. You have to walk beside another, much poorer home occupied by a traditional Mayan family before you get to his quarters. Once in the gate, you are standing in an atrium, with a walkway on three sides. There is the main house on one side with a bedroom, living room, and kitchen. Along the rest of the walls are 5 more bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. One bedroom is his (he hasn’t slept in the main house since his wife Aida died), one is his 18 year old son, Kendall’s, one is Heidi and her daughter Nyeli’s when they come to visit, one is rented to a med student, and one is empty (other than the main house), which became my quarters for the week.



Not being in Spanish school made Xela a less interesting place to be, as really, this is the main reason for foreigners to be here. Guatemala is a great place to learn Spanish, because they speak very slowly in comparison to Mexico, as well as use less slang, and generally, Guatemalans enunciate each syllable. People come from all over the world for this purpose, and Xela is a great choice in the country, as it is a small city that sees fewer tourists than Antigua, so it is true immersion. My lessons remained out of the classroom for the week, as Rolando, Kendall and I explored the area, focusing on hot water sources, as it was bitter cold! I also made a trip to San Francisco del Alto, the largest market in the country, where people sell everything from Levi’s to pigs, watch parts to dried shrimp. In the evenings, Kendall would get bad American movies with Spanish subtitles, and we would all pile on the couch under a load of blankets, listening to the rain, and passing time. Heidi and Nyeli visited while I was there, and it was nice to finally meet them. Nyeli looks exactly like Wendy’s daughter Gabby. It was unreal.








The week ended quickly, and it was sad to say goodbye. Rolando thanked me profusely for lifting his spirits, and reiterated how his home was my home. I think I’ve been to Guatemala enough, but I know that on some other adventure that brings me to or through the region, I will take him up on that, as the probability of him being allowed to travel to the US again is very slim. My Spanish improved drastically, and I was ready for something new and exciting- CHIAPAS!!!!!!

It´s Usually about the Journey

Sitting back in a cafe in Antigua, Guatemala, listening to an 80's mix which is so appropriate. FLew in to Guatemala City a week ago today, and took the first shuttle here to colonial Antigua. It is quite a gorgeous city, and interesting to be here for a third time. This was the first developing country I visited, with my mom, and it's funny to think that when I arrived by myself in the wee hours of early morning on that particular trip, culture shock was at it's pique. And here I am 12 years later, more travel and life experience under my belt, and it's so touristy, I'm almost bored, but not quite.




Originally, I was to stay here a couple days, and move along the same route I've moved along twice before, with the goal this time to meet up with the family that Kara and I stayed with 6 years ago. When I checked into the hostel on Monday morning, I realized that I would be bored if I did that, so I opted for an early morning trip to Copan Ruins, Honduras, and left the next week open to possibility. Fortunately, I met a young woman from Czech Republic, Eva, currently living in London, who was also going to Copan. She and I shared the Copan Ruins together and sat down and mapped out a possible week. The next morning, we were on our way south to Santa Rosa de Copan, and Gracias, Honduras. Neither town was anything to write home about haha, but worth every bit of the experience.




We stayed in this craphole of a hotel near the center of town, that you had to enter via a store that sold bicycles, playgound equipment, ice cream freezers, and who knows what else. At night, we had to slip by a quad to get in the door. But as the saying goes, everything is funny if you wait long enough, and we didn't have to wait long. Eventually we made our way to Gracias, a smaller town known for a hot spring, so off we went. On our way home, we met several local people wanting to practice their English. Later, we bought a bottle of wine and sat in our ´lounge´ with the 16 year old running the hotel and practiced our Spanish.


We arose the next morning to make our way back to Copan ruins, where a shuttle was waiting to take us part way to Rio Dulce, a river port that eventually leads to the Carribean on a very small piece of Guatemalan land between the Honduran and Belizean borders. We first took a taxi down the hill to the main bus station, and from there picked up a collectivo, which is exactly what it sounds like, a vehicle that collects people and takes them from points along the highway. There are costs and benefits to this kind of local travel (it ends up being a little different with tourist collectivos). Time becomes irrelevant, a theme that is clearly on the forefront of this year's entire adventure. If you are in a rush, this is not the way to go, but it being so early, we didn't have time to even think. The benefits, however, were extremely interesting. Between Gracias and La Entrada, about a 2 hours drive, we picked up and dropped off somewhere between 60 and 80 people in our 20 passenger truck/van thingy. I can honestly say that Eva and I were the ONLY nonHondurans. Each Hondureño man that jumped on the bus carried with him a machete, and carefully placed it under the mat when he got on the bus. At one point, the bus was so full, that Eva ended up hanging onto a small baby whose mother didn't look more than 17.


We finally returned to Copan Ruins and took our tourist shuttle onwards to a town in the Guatemalan province'state of Chiquimula. The weather changed rapidly to hot sticky jungle, and after 5 hours of travel, we decided to sit and wait out the next bus, which was supposedly coming in 30 minutes time. Well, this is where I started to learn my lesson AGAIN about bus travel. If there is a bus going to your destination, and you aren't in a city or tourist town, TAKE IT! 3 hours later, we were still waiting for our bus. The second that all travelers were on the bus, the food hawkers jumped aboard selling everything from water to plantain chips to fried chicken. Once they stepped off, and the bus pulled into 1st gear, a well dressed man stood up and started preaching to his present congregation. It was interesting to watch, as we gained speed. The man´s sermon became louder and more dramatic, as did the snoring of the man sitting behind me. Next to me, there was an older man wearing the omnipresent cell phone around his neck, and he gently pulled a well worn pocket bible out of his bag and followed along. Another cell phone rang, and in the middle of the sermon, two teenage girls had their own conversation that was mostly giggles. It went on like this for about 30 minutes. Leaving so late meant that we arrived in Rio Dulce after dark. Nevertheless, we made it, laughing, and checked into this crazy place called Bruno's, which is basically a hangout for yachties from all over the world.You can rent anything out there from a dorm room to a private room w/without bath, to a fancy suite with airconditioning, and of course docking slips. The benefit of staying there was the pool! We spent three times as much on dinner as we did on the dorm room, but it was worth it. Next morning we awoke a little late to get on the right boat to Livingston, 2 hours downstream...which was somewhat ironic, because we both knew better than to not be on the first early morning boat. But as I said, time seems to be the theme. We arrived at the boat dock at 11 and were told there would be a boat at 1:30, and we didnt' leave until after 3, of course, at the beginning of a huge storm.
But the entire boat, a mixture of backpackers and locals, were laughing about it, and we still were able to stop at the hot springs and this weird castle in the middle of the river. Finally we arrived in Livingston, just before sunset.





The second we pulled into this small Carribean port town, I knew we´´d made a good decision. Over 70% of the population here are Garifunas, sometimes called Black Caribs. They are here in this part of the world because of the slave trade from West Africa, and have stayed here, speaking both Spanish and a local dialect that is some spanish, some something else. Garifunas are on the coast between Belize and Nicaragua, and someone was telling us also in Panama but not Costa Rica. I haven't followed up on this yet.

Anyway, right as we all got off the boat, local people were waiting at the dock to bring us to whatever hotel or restaurant that was paying them a finder´s fee. We were 'claimed' by a guy about our age, named Ranier. Yes, like the volcano in Washington State. He was actually raised in Pasadena, California, but moved back home for a woman. There was some baby mama baby daddy drama, but Ranier was harmless and took us to two hotels, of which we chose Hotel King George. This was only slightly better than the craphole we had in Santa Rosa, but there was a screen and fans, and out very own private bathroom that leaked shower water onto our floor. But it was PERFECT. We walked less than two blocks to the sea and ate our hearts out on the amazing food, Tapado, a fish curry made with coconut milk that is their staple. DELICIOUS!

After dinner, we headed to a place called Club Ubafu, a ramshackle place where local music is played.It was heavy percussion with some call and response and sounded like some Brazilian and CUban music I have heard in the past. I preferred this much more than the beachside discoteques, but, alas, that´s where the people were, so Ubafu closed early, and we joined the party at the beach.






Our final morning in Livingston was a little bit sad, as Eva and I would separate, and I would be making the long journey back to Antigua for less than 24 hours, and another journey to Quetzaltenango. But we traveled safe.

More on the next leg.....

Hope you are all well! Talk to you soon.