I had planned to visit the Aztec ruins at Malinalco, but after inquiring at the bus station in Cuernavaca as to the bus route and finding that I would have to take a bus to a nearby city and then a taxi to the city itself and then another taxi to a different city in order to catch a bus to Taxco, I decided, somewhat unadventurously, that I would skip Malinalco and instead head straight to Taxco where I knew I would find a clean room and a welcoming, familiar city.
So after another night in my room, devoid of visible roaches, thanks to my strategically placed bedspread and liberal use of mosquito repellent on and around any potential hiding places, I caught the bus for the hour ride to Taxco where I found the city just as beautiful and captivating it had been on my previous visit.
I left the bus station and caught a combi to the zocolo where I asked my way down the windy streets, through the maze of market stalls to my hostel. After I had been shown to the dormitory, I met Anya and Grace, two other girls travelling on their own from Switzerland and Australia, respectively, who invited me to breakfast. After a delicious breakfast burrito, we headed to the silver shops.
Besides being an unbelievably picturesque city of steep winding cobblestone streets flanked by gleaming white buildings topped with red Spanish tile roofs, Taxco is the silver mining capital of Mexico, if not the world, and is laden with countless shops filled with a multitude of pieces of silver from jewellery, to tableware to ornaments, most, for the diligent shopper, at extremely low prices. Happy to have two other girls, equally as eager to shop, with whom to share my day, we set off in search of the bargains.
A good six or seven hours later, tired, hungry and a bit sore from trudging up and down Taco’s winding streets, but satified with our day, we sat down for dinner on a balcony overlooking one of the city’s many local squares and talked about our lives, our travels, our respective countries and our similarly as yet undefined plans for the future.
This morning, we took a cable car ride out for a bird’s eye view of the city before parting ways, Anya to Oaxaca, Grace to Guanajato and me to another relaxing afternoon of sightseeing in Taxco before heading to Acapulco in the morning.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 29, 2006
La cabeza perdida
While I was visiting an art museum in Cuernava (the house of an American who collected art from all over the world and donated his house and collection as a museum when he died) I was drawn to the head of a Buddha, one that I recognized from the many I had seen last year in Thailand. Upon reading the caption under the head, I found that it was one of the many missing Buddha heads belonging to one of the many headless Buddha bodies of the ruins in Ayutthaya Thailand. It was interesting after hearing the stories of how so many Thai ruins had been plundered and Buddha statues releived of their heads to be sold to collectors around the world, to actually see one, all the way on the other side of the world.
No se porque...
I have discovered that I have a strange effect on old Mexican men, not one that I would say I enjoy, but one that I seem to have nonetheless.
While waiting for my bus to Puebla in the bus station in Oaxaca, I was approached by the porter who asked me where I was headed. I told him Puebla and he asked where I was coming from. After a brief exchange, he complimented me on my Spanish and pointed me in the direction of the waiting lounge.
A few minutes later, the man reappeared, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had begun to read my book, he began talking about his job and where he was from. I politely put down my book and conversed with him for a few minutes. He then excused himself and returned with a bag full of tortas, Mexican sandwiches (which he had made by himself because he was not married), and offered me one. I had already had breakfast, but after he continued to insist, I agreed to take one to have for lunch on the bus. Then regardless of my protestations, he hurried off to buy me a drink to go with the sandwich. Each time he left, I resumed my reading, but he continued to return and pick up the conversation where he had left off. Once it was determined that I was 29 and not married, he began to mention that he would like to see me again and that whenever I came back through Oaxaca I should visit him at his house, all possibilities I politely refused.
Finally, much to my relief, it was time to board the bus and I bid farewell the porter "promising" to write him at the address he had given me (after refusing to give him mine saying truthfully that I had none). Much to my dismay, even after I boarded, he continued to come on to the bus to tell me that I was beautiful and making me promise to write and finally that he loved me and hoped that I would be the mother of his children. I was extremely grateful when the bus pulled away from the station leaving my new admirer behind.
Thinking this a rare occurrence, I thought nothing of the older man who approached me and began talking to me in a museum in Cuernavaca. He mentioned that he was married, but that he wife didn’t like to travel and so he was here on his own for the day. He seemed nice enough and somewhat sad, in the manner of an old retired man who feels his life has passed him by, so of course when he asked me if I would like to have a drink and chat for a while, I agreed.
We left the museum and I followed him to a local outdoor cafe, where he proceeded to tell me about his life and ask me about mine. I thought maybe he was just lonely and would like to talk, so I kept the conversation going by asking him about his work and his hobbies and his family. Finally when the conversation turned to how lucky he was to have met me, how he was in love with me and how much he would like to see me again, I began to mention the "friends" that I was "meeting" in half an hour. He said that it was a "lastima" that I had to go and told me that he would never forget that moment. He asked me to wait just a few more minutes because he wanted to sing me a song, at which he began signing me what sounded like an old Frank Sinatra song, much to my relief - just lough enough for me to hear. When he was finished, I thanked him for his company, told him how nice it was to have met him and took my leave.
While waiting for my bus to Puebla in the bus station in Oaxaca, I was approached by the porter who asked me where I was headed. I told him Puebla and he asked where I was coming from. After a brief exchange, he complimented me on my Spanish and pointed me in the direction of the waiting lounge.
A few minutes later, the man reappeared, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had begun to read my book, he began talking about his job and where he was from. I politely put down my book and conversed with him for a few minutes. He then excused himself and returned with a bag full of tortas, Mexican sandwiches (which he had made by himself because he was not married), and offered me one. I had already had breakfast, but after he continued to insist, I agreed to take one to have for lunch on the bus. Then regardless of my protestations, he hurried off to buy me a drink to go with the sandwich. Each time he left, I resumed my reading, but he continued to return and pick up the conversation where he had left off. Once it was determined that I was 29 and not married, he began to mention that he would like to see me again and that whenever I came back through Oaxaca I should visit him at his house, all possibilities I politely refused.
Finally, much to my relief, it was time to board the bus and I bid farewell the porter "promising" to write him at the address he had given me (after refusing to give him mine saying truthfully that I had none). Much to my dismay, even after I boarded, he continued to come on to the bus to tell me that I was beautiful and making me promise to write and finally that he loved me and hoped that I would be the mother of his children. I was extremely grateful when the bus pulled away from the station leaving my new admirer behind.
Thinking this a rare occurrence, I thought nothing of the older man who approached me and began talking to me in a museum in Cuernavaca. He mentioned that he was married, but that he wife didn’t like to travel and so he was here on his own for the day. He seemed nice enough and somewhat sad, in the manner of an old retired man who feels his life has passed him by, so of course when he asked me if I would like to have a drink and chat for a while, I agreed.
We left the museum and I followed him to a local outdoor cafe, where he proceeded to tell me about his life and ask me about mine. I thought maybe he was just lonely and would like to talk, so I kept the conversation going by asking him about his work and his hobbies and his family. Finally when the conversation turned to how lucky he was to have met me, how he was in love with me and how much he would like to see me again, I began to mention the "friends" that I was "meeting" in half an hour. He said that it was a "lastima" that I had to go and told me that he would never forget that moment. He asked me to wait just a few more minutes because he wanted to sing me a song, at which he began signing me what sounded like an old Frank Sinatra song, much to my relief - just lough enough for me to hear. When he was finished, I thanked him for his company, told him how nice it was to have met him and took my leave.
Cuernavaca
I left Oaxaca for Puebla in route to Cuernavaca on the 10:30 bus. The trip to Puebla was peaceful and scenic and I sat back and enjoyed my new cds and watched the Mexican countryside go from lush green farmland to dry, mountainous desert.
When we arrived in Puebla, still sans any guide book, I asked the bus driver where I would find a bus to continue on the Cuernavaca and he pointed me in the right direction. I then asked a gas station attendant and two friendly men ferrying some sort of equipment across the highway who directed me to a bus to the bus station. Once on the bus, I asked my seatmate to tell me when to get off, after which I questioned the guys at the bus stop, a man washing his car on the street, a policeman and a taco vender. Finally, thanks to the combined directions and arm gestures of all of the previous men, I found myself at the bus station where I purchased my ticket to Cuernavaca.
Once in Cuernavaca, I headed immediately to the zocalo, which I remembered from my trip there some years before, in search of a cheap hostel. I had read in a guide book in the hostel in Oaxaca that the cheaper rooms were to be found on Matamoros a street near the zocalo, so I asked around until I found myself in that general area. The guidebook I had utilized, not one which catered to the backpacker crowd, had described the hotels in this area as of the type which “rent rooms by the hour.” Thinking the book snobbish; I expected to find simple, clean rooms, simply beneath the editors of that particular guidebook, but what I found, did indeed, appear to be rooms that rented by the hour: small, windowless cells with dirty sheets and scurrying shadows. I looked at three places, before finally settling on a passable one within my price range. Unfortunately, after paying and returning to change for dinner, I noticed that I was to share my room with a family of giant cockroaches. Disgusted, but composed, I returned to the office to ask the man behind the counter if he had anything to kill the “cucarachas,” upon which I was told that they just come in under the door and that there was nothing he could do. He handed me a broom and a rag with which to block the door and sent me on my way. Resigned, conscious of the darkening evening, I swept the roaches out the door and used his rag to block a hole in the way into which the one roach I was unable to sweep out, disappeared. I then blocked the bottom of the door with the bedspread, piled all of my belongings on the bedside table and headed out for dinner, knowing that I was in for a long night because there was no way I was sleeping in that room with the light off!
When we arrived in Puebla, still sans any guide book, I asked the bus driver where I would find a bus to continue on the Cuernavaca and he pointed me in the right direction. I then asked a gas station attendant and two friendly men ferrying some sort of equipment across the highway who directed me to a bus to the bus station. Once on the bus, I asked my seatmate to tell me when to get off, after which I questioned the guys at the bus stop, a man washing his car on the street, a policeman and a taco vender. Finally, thanks to the combined directions and arm gestures of all of the previous men, I found myself at the bus station where I purchased my ticket to Cuernavaca.
Once in Cuernavaca, I headed immediately to the zocalo, which I remembered from my trip there some years before, in search of a cheap hostel. I had read in a guide book in the hostel in Oaxaca that the cheaper rooms were to be found on Matamoros a street near the zocalo, so I asked around until I found myself in that general area. The guidebook I had utilized, not one which catered to the backpacker crowd, had described the hotels in this area as of the type which “rent rooms by the hour.” Thinking the book snobbish; I expected to find simple, clean rooms, simply beneath the editors of that particular guidebook, but what I found, did indeed, appear to be rooms that rented by the hour: small, windowless cells with dirty sheets and scurrying shadows. I looked at three places, before finally settling on a passable one within my price range. Unfortunately, after paying and returning to change for dinner, I noticed that I was to share my room with a family of giant cockroaches. Disgusted, but composed, I returned to the office to ask the man behind the counter if he had anything to kill the “cucarachas,” upon which I was told that they just come in under the door and that there was nothing he could do. He handed me a broom and a rag with which to block the door and sent me on my way. Resigned, conscious of the darkening evening, I swept the roaches out the door and used his rag to block a hole in the way into which the one roach I was unable to sweep out, disappeared. I then blocked the bottom of the door with the bedspread, piled all of my belongings on the bedside table and headed out for dinner, knowing that I was in for a long night because there was no way I was sleeping in that room with the light off!
Oaxaca
My bus trip to Oaxaca was relatively uneventful. I was a little concerned a first that they were going to stop every thirty minutes to let people on and off, each time turning on the lights and announcing, loudly, our destination. I began to grumble internally about the fact that I had paid, more than I thought I should have paid, for a first-class, “direct,” bus and this whole stopping every thirty minutes thing was not really working for my plan for a good night’s sleep, but eventually, they must have completed all of the stops because I was able to get to sleep.
When we arrived at 6:30 in the morning, I found that I was not the only other foreign traveller on the bus and introduced myself to Anna, on her last few days of a 10 month trip around the world from Germany. Interestingly enough, Anna did not have a guide book either and she too was headed to the same hostel that I was headed to. We decided to walk together after learning that there was a teachers´ strike and that taking a cab would be fruitless because the streets around the center of town were all filled with tents and tarps. After ducking and winding our way through the maze of tents, we found our hostel, where we settled in before heading out to explore the city.
Oaxaca, like many other Mexican cities, is one of many colors. On almost every street, each house and abutting business are painted in different, vibrant colors. While Oaxaca houses some beautiful old churches, much of the city seems to be of every day use and was not extraordinarily picturesque. The city center, or zolocalo, which I had heard was quite impressive, was impressive for the moment, filled as it was with hundreds of tents, tarps and signs praising socialism, communism and listing the teachers demands. Of the buildings and other ornaments, there was little to be seen.
The following day, Anna was feeling ill, so I left her to recuperate, while I visited what is said to be the biggest tree in the world, in El Tule, and the Aztec ruins of Mitla, before heading back to Oaxaca.
That night I finally realized the appeal of the backpackers’ hostel, complete with shared dormitory, shared kitchen and free movies watched from an array of well worn couches. Because I had already overspent my allocation of cash for the day, I bought a packet of spinach soup from the nearby grocery and had a simple dinner of spinach soup (made significantly tastier by the packet of oriental soup spices left by another traveller before) and joined my fellow travellers on the couch for a movie. Granted not a very “Mexican” experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.
When we arrived at 6:30 in the morning, I found that I was not the only other foreign traveller on the bus and introduced myself to Anna, on her last few days of a 10 month trip around the world from Germany. Interestingly enough, Anna did not have a guide book either and she too was headed to the same hostel that I was headed to. We decided to walk together after learning that there was a teachers´ strike and that taking a cab would be fruitless because the streets around the center of town were all filled with tents and tarps. After ducking and winding our way through the maze of tents, we found our hostel, where we settled in before heading out to explore the city.
Oaxaca, like many other Mexican cities, is one of many colors. On almost every street, each house and abutting business are painted in different, vibrant colors. While Oaxaca houses some beautiful old churches, much of the city seems to be of every day use and was not extraordinarily picturesque. The city center, or zolocalo, which I had heard was quite impressive, was impressive for the moment, filled as it was with hundreds of tents, tarps and signs praising socialism, communism and listing the teachers demands. Of the buildings and other ornaments, there was little to be seen.
The following day, Anna was feeling ill, so I left her to recuperate, while I visited what is said to be the biggest tree in the world, in El Tule, and the Aztec ruins of Mitla, before heading back to Oaxaca.
That night I finally realized the appeal of the backpackers’ hostel, complete with shared dormitory, shared kitchen and free movies watched from an array of well worn couches. Because I had already overspent my allocation of cash for the day, I bought a packet of spinach soup from the nearby grocery and had a simple dinner of spinach soup (made significantly tastier by the packet of oriental soup spices left by another traveller before) and joined my fellow travellers on the couch for a movie. Granted not a very “Mexican” experience, but enjoyable nonetheless.
Mas de Mexico
I left San Cristobal de las Casas early the next morning for Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of the state of Chiapas, where I hoped to see my first quetzal.
Happy to be free of tourist shuttles, I found my way to a collectiva stop where shuttles (much like the ones they use for tourists, but filled instead with Mexicans and for a tenth of the price) leave when filled, for various destinations. I settled in with my new book, Aztec, a fictional history of the Aztecs - interesting, but at times disturbingly graphic.
The shuttle dropped me off on the side of the highway nearest to the "embarcaro" for boat trips through the Sumedero Canyon. Since I had arrived alone and the boats only left when full, I decided to have breakfast and asked for an order of juevos ranchos, which turned out to be one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had: two tortillas, topped with fried eggs, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, avocado and crumbled cheese (sorry, it was so good I had to share). After breakfast, the loading dock began to fill up with people and I purchased a ticket for the first boat.
Throughout the trip, I was constantly thinking of my father and how much he would have loved that boat ride. The canyon was spectacular, reaching over a thousand meters in some places, and the lush foliage on the banks teemed with local birds, pelicans, gulls, herons, and interestingly enough, tons of vultures. At various points throughout the trip, the driver would pull over to point out a basking crocodile or an interesting rock formation.
After the trip, I returned to the road where I caught a bus to Tuxtla and made my way to the bus station to purchase a ticket for Oaxaca for that evening. Having still not yet found a Lonely Planet or any other guide for that matter, I was travelling on notes taken from guides that I had borrowed from others and on the directions given to me by the various people I met on the street.
After finding the bus station, purchasing my ticket for a 7:30 p.m. bus that evening, I caught a cab to the zoo.
In Guatemala, you hear constantly of the quetzal. Not only is the quetzal their national bird, but it is also their national currency and holds a prominent place in much of their indigenous history. Unfortunately, the quetzal is also in danger of extinction and therefore is almost, if not entirely, impossible to find in Guatemala. Hence, I found myself in southern Mexico, making my way to the local zoo, simply because I had heard that they had the elusive quetzal.
Zoomat, the zoo itself, was quite impressive, having recently been redone in a way that allowed the animals to live in impressive enclosures replicating their natural habitats, without, of course, the freedom; although there were some animals that did seem to have the freedom to roam at will. I had asked my taxi driver to come back for me at 5:00 so I had three hours to relax and take my time enjoying the park. There were many parrots and other birds, including two species of toucan (see Kev, that was a toucan!), and lots of other animals that I was recognized, including a few that I did not. When I finally reached the spot where the quetzal was housed, I stopped to chat with him for a bit and tell him how far I’d come to see him. I made sure to get a few photos, but because I had to take them through the bars I’m not sure how well they’ll turn out.
After leaving the zoo, hot and sweaty, I headed back to the bus stop for my overnight ride to Oaxaca feeling sorry for the person who would have to share my row.
http://www.travellog.com/guatemala/quetzal.html
http://www.dimijianimages.com/More-page2/quetzal-full.htm
http://www.montereybay.com/creagrus/ETsumidero.html
Happy to be free of tourist shuttles, I found my way to a collectiva stop where shuttles (much like the ones they use for tourists, but filled instead with Mexicans and for a tenth of the price) leave when filled, for various destinations. I settled in with my new book, Aztec, a fictional history of the Aztecs - interesting, but at times disturbingly graphic.
The shuttle dropped me off on the side of the highway nearest to the "embarcaro" for boat trips through the Sumedero Canyon. Since I had arrived alone and the boats only left when full, I decided to have breakfast and asked for an order of juevos ranchos, which turned out to be one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had: two tortillas, topped with fried eggs, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, avocado and crumbled cheese (sorry, it was so good I had to share). After breakfast, the loading dock began to fill up with people and I purchased a ticket for the first boat.
Throughout the trip, I was constantly thinking of my father and how much he would have loved that boat ride. The canyon was spectacular, reaching over a thousand meters in some places, and the lush foliage on the banks teemed with local birds, pelicans, gulls, herons, and interestingly enough, tons of vultures. At various points throughout the trip, the driver would pull over to point out a basking crocodile or an interesting rock formation.
After the trip, I returned to the road where I caught a bus to Tuxtla and made my way to the bus station to purchase a ticket for Oaxaca for that evening. Having still not yet found a Lonely Planet or any other guide for that matter, I was travelling on notes taken from guides that I had borrowed from others and on the directions given to me by the various people I met on the street.
After finding the bus station, purchasing my ticket for a 7:30 p.m. bus that evening, I caught a cab to the zoo.
In Guatemala, you hear constantly of the quetzal. Not only is the quetzal their national bird, but it is also their national currency and holds a prominent place in much of their indigenous history. Unfortunately, the quetzal is also in danger of extinction and therefore is almost, if not entirely, impossible to find in Guatemala. Hence, I found myself in southern Mexico, making my way to the local zoo, simply because I had heard that they had the elusive quetzal.
Zoomat, the zoo itself, was quite impressive, having recently been redone in a way that allowed the animals to live in impressive enclosures replicating their natural habitats, without, of course, the freedom; although there were some animals that did seem to have the freedom to roam at will. I had asked my taxi driver to come back for me at 5:00 so I had three hours to relax and take my time enjoying the park. There were many parrots and other birds, including two species of toucan (see Kev, that was a toucan!), and lots of other animals that I was recognized, including a few that I did not. When I finally reached the spot where the quetzal was housed, I stopped to chat with him for a bit and tell him how far I’d come to see him. I made sure to get a few photos, but because I had to take them through the bars I’m not sure how well they’ll turn out.
After leaving the zoo, hot and sweaty, I headed back to the bus stop for my overnight ride to Oaxaca feeling sorry for the person who would have to share my row.
http://www.travellog.com/guatemala/quetzal.html
http://www.dimijianimages.com/More-page2/quetzal-full.htm
http://www.montereybay.com/creagrus/ETsumidero.html
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Una ventana a el Mundo Maya
I set out this morning in search of a "woman with an umbrella" as the Rough Guide described Mercedes, a local woman who gives walking tours, using local transportation and has been known to refuse customers because she "didn´t like their vibe." Mercedes sounded like my kind of woman, so after a delicious breakfast of some kind of sweet bread at the local panaderia (I forgot how much I loved Mexican bakeries), I set out towards the main square. After inquiring at a tourist kiosk after "una mujer con un paraguas," I spotted just such a woman and approached her for information. She immediately handed me a flyer that listed the details of the day´s tour and said that if I wanted to go, I had to pay her right then. My usual suspicions at bay since I had specifically sought her out, I happily agreed to pay, afterwhich the woman stuck a bright red sticker on the front of my shirt that read, "pagado," and told me that the tour would be leaving in 25 mintues. I thanked her and headed off to the bank for some more pesos.
As I was walking towards the bank a man approached me and opened his mouth to speak, shutting it as his eyes encountered the bright red "pagado" on my shirt. "Aye," he said, "Ya estas con Mercedes." He then introduced himself as one of a team of the other local guides that I had read about in the book. He continued talking to me, explaining what I thought was his happiness that, although I had chosen to go with Mercedes over them, that at least I was using a local guide as oppossed to a tour agency. I wholeheartedly agreed and he continued saying something to the effect of "anyone can stand out with a colored umbrella and say, "I´m Mercedes."" Finishing up, he bade me farewell and told me to enjoy me tour. I left him wondering if I had made the right choice, but steadfast in my decision to enjoy the day since the die had already been cast.
When I returned to the spot where the woman was standing with her umbrella, another woman walked up and began speaking in English, exlaiming, "Mercedes! I met you 12 years ago at this same spot. I don´t know if you...," at which she was interrupted by the woman who explained that she was not, in fact, Mercedes, but that Mercedes had retired two years ago and had turned her tours over to her. After the woman thanked her and walked away, I introduced myself and asked the woman her name. She told me that her name was Rosie and that Mercedes had become a Buddist Nun (I knew I would have like Mercedes!) two years before and she had picked up where Mercedes had left off. But, she assured me, the tour was just as good and I would enjoy it immensly. She then motioned to a mini-van idling on the side of the road which, she said, was to be our transport. With a sinking spirit, I made my way over to the van, which already contained five other travelers, and took a seat inside, before we drove away, "Mercedes" and her umbrella, a disappearing spot in the distance. I was determined to make the best out of this tour, as I mentally noted to write to the Rough Guide to tell that that Mercedes had retired and that the "woman with the umbrella" was an imposter front for a commercialized tour company.
When we arrived at the first village, San Juan Chamula, my spirit recieved yet another blow at the site of two huge tour buses purging swarms of Caucasion tourists. To my relief, we past the parking lot and continued along a narrow road, that presumably could not accomodate the massive buses.
When our guide stopped the van, we all got out and he explained to us that we had not stopped at the parking lot because the bigger tours simply brought tourists to the church, zipped in and out, and were gone in less than 20 minutes. Our tour, he explained, was more personal, and we would spend two hours walking around the village and learning about the local customs. Relieved, I dispelled all doubts and prepared to enjoy the tour.
The others on the tour included a couple from Spain, another couple from Mexico City and two girls from Holland. Since the girls from Holland also understood Spanish, we unanimously agreed to have the tour in Spanish, something the guide was pleased to do since he had never done it before.
As we walked up the winding street, our guide stopped at various points along the way explaining different Mayan customs and traditions. While we were not allowed to take pictures of the people (because they believe that it robs them of their spirit), we were allowed to take pictures of the town, which unfortunately I cannot share with you at this time..
The first thing that he pointed out were the traditional Mayan adobe houses that appeared every so often between more modern houses of cement block. The adobe houses, he explained were not only economical to build, but were also environmentally friendly, using products from the surrounding areas; energy efficient, their palm roofs and thick mud walls keeping the homes warm in the winter and cool in the summer; and earthquake resistant, extremely important in an area that recives numerous tremmors a year.
He then went on to explain that the people of Chamula ate primarily vegetarian meals which they prepared from their frutiful gardens, although they would eat chicken, pork, beef and fish on occasion for a special event. He expained that their main crops were corn, beans and pumpkins, which they grew all together because of the symbiotic relationship of the crops. The corn provided a stem on which the bean vine could grow while also providing shade for the pumpkins, which provided shade for the roots of the corn as well as valuable nutrients for the soil of all three crops. He then talked about the importance of sheep in Chamula.
Because of the cold climate, wool is used for much of the traditional clothing, making a sheep a valuable comodity. The people also believe that sheep are a gift from their patron saint and instead of using them for food when they die, they bury the sheep in their gardens to help to fertilze their crops.
Walking through the town, one can´t help but notice the abundance of crosses. Although at first appearing to be a devoutly Christian village, our guide explained, that it was quite the opposite. The Mayans had been using the figure of a cross to represent both a spiritual tree found in the lowlands of Mexico and Central America and the four directions of the universe, long before the Spanish introduced Christianity to the area. Each family unit, or group of families – grandparents, parents, children – sharing the same land, has a green cross in their yard, which is considered to be the spirirual entrance for the family unit. Many ceremonies and sacrifies, including marriages, are performed at the cross, which the Mayans believe is a direct connection between themselves and their gods. While the Spanish tried, successfully in many places, to convert the peoples of Mexico and Central and South America to Catholocism, the Mayan people, while appearing to accept the religion, and even accepting it on some levels, mixed thier own traditions with those of the Catholic Church, both pacifing the Spaniards and allowing their own culture traditions to persevere. The one “Catholic” church in the village is a testiment to this reality.
While appearing much like a traditional church from the outside, the church in Chamula, is not at all as it appears. Upon entering the church, one is greeted with the site of thousands of lighted candles forming lines on the floor and adorning the rows of tables to each side of the church. Each wall is liked with figures of Catholic saints in glass cases, dressed in traditional finery with a mirror on a string drapped around their necks (to provide the appearance of a connection with the devout). Groups of indigenous people knelt behind groups of candles, many also with other requirments of a cermony directed by the local curandera, or folk healer: soda, a bottle of can alcohol, a bag of eggs and a live chicken. While we stood by unobtrusively, the people proceeded with their ceremonies, some of which, we were told, although we did not witness, involved the sacrifice of the chickens on the church floor.
The story that I found the most amusing was that of the group of figures of saints who stood to one side of the church near the back, plainly adorned and laking the brightly burning candles that graced the tables of the other figures. We were told that these figures did not belong in this church, but had resided in another church in the cemetery that had burned down over 100 years before. Because these saints did not protect their sancturary, they were being punished and had been for the past 100 years. While the other saints were dressed in fine clothing, these saints were clothed only in plain wraps (even which, we were told, were relatively new additions after having stood without clothing for many years), were not visited by patrons and were left alone in the church during festivals, while the other saints were taking out and paraded about town.
After our visit to the church, we made our way to the cemetery where the ruins of the old church stood. The cemetary was simple and picturesque, with plots of earth adorned with simple wooden crosses (black for the elderly, blue or green for adults, and white for children). What we could not see, our guide explained, was inside the coffins, where each person, upon their death was prepared for the long journey through the underworld, which the Mayans believe everyone takes, before again resuming a life on earth. Each body is dressed and provided with a pocket full of coins to pay for passage through the world of the dead. Each body is given a bag filled with food and drink, for the journey is long, as well as an needle and thread to sew any holes that will invetibley appear in their clothing with the passage of time.
After leaving the cemetary, we set off for the village of Zinacantan, where we visited the home of a local family, the women of which wove textiles to sell in the local markets. We were able to watch the women weave, make corn tortillas (which we sampled with local cheese and avacado. Yummy!) and try a sample of the local cane alcohol that is used both for ceremonies and everyday enjoyment.
As we left the village, I found myself in a zone of contentment, extremely pleased with the day, my travel companions, our guide and the fact that I understood 98% of what was said throughout the tour. I sat back, quite pleased with myself, realizing that my mood might be more from the cane alcohol than simply from my enjoyment of the day, but not caring one bit.
As I was walking towards the bank a man approached me and opened his mouth to speak, shutting it as his eyes encountered the bright red "pagado" on my shirt. "Aye," he said, "Ya estas con Mercedes." He then introduced himself as one of a team of the other local guides that I had read about in the book. He continued talking to me, explaining what I thought was his happiness that, although I had chosen to go with Mercedes over them, that at least I was using a local guide as oppossed to a tour agency. I wholeheartedly agreed and he continued saying something to the effect of "anyone can stand out with a colored umbrella and say, "I´m Mercedes."" Finishing up, he bade me farewell and told me to enjoy me tour. I left him wondering if I had made the right choice, but steadfast in my decision to enjoy the day since the die had already been cast.
When I returned to the spot where the woman was standing with her umbrella, another woman walked up and began speaking in English, exlaiming, "Mercedes! I met you 12 years ago at this same spot. I don´t know if you...," at which she was interrupted by the woman who explained that she was not, in fact, Mercedes, but that Mercedes had retired two years ago and had turned her tours over to her. After the woman thanked her and walked away, I introduced myself and asked the woman her name. She told me that her name was Rosie and that Mercedes had become a Buddist Nun (I knew I would have like Mercedes!) two years before and she had picked up where Mercedes had left off. But, she assured me, the tour was just as good and I would enjoy it immensly. She then motioned to a mini-van idling on the side of the road which, she said, was to be our transport. With a sinking spirit, I made my way over to the van, which already contained five other travelers, and took a seat inside, before we drove away, "Mercedes" and her umbrella, a disappearing spot in the distance. I was determined to make the best out of this tour, as I mentally noted to write to the Rough Guide to tell that that Mercedes had retired and that the "woman with the umbrella" was an imposter front for a commercialized tour company.
When we arrived at the first village, San Juan Chamula, my spirit recieved yet another blow at the site of two huge tour buses purging swarms of Caucasion tourists. To my relief, we past the parking lot and continued along a narrow road, that presumably could not accomodate the massive buses.
When our guide stopped the van, we all got out and he explained to us that we had not stopped at the parking lot because the bigger tours simply brought tourists to the church, zipped in and out, and were gone in less than 20 minutes. Our tour, he explained, was more personal, and we would spend two hours walking around the village and learning about the local customs. Relieved, I dispelled all doubts and prepared to enjoy the tour.
The others on the tour included a couple from Spain, another couple from Mexico City and two girls from Holland. Since the girls from Holland also understood Spanish, we unanimously agreed to have the tour in Spanish, something the guide was pleased to do since he had never done it before.
As we walked up the winding street, our guide stopped at various points along the way explaining different Mayan customs and traditions. While we were not allowed to take pictures of the people (because they believe that it robs them of their spirit), we were allowed to take pictures of the town, which unfortunately I cannot share with you at this time..
The first thing that he pointed out were the traditional Mayan adobe houses that appeared every so often between more modern houses of cement block. The adobe houses, he explained were not only economical to build, but were also environmentally friendly, using products from the surrounding areas; energy efficient, their palm roofs and thick mud walls keeping the homes warm in the winter and cool in the summer; and earthquake resistant, extremely important in an area that recives numerous tremmors a year.
He then went on to explain that the people of Chamula ate primarily vegetarian meals which they prepared from their frutiful gardens, although they would eat chicken, pork, beef and fish on occasion for a special event. He expained that their main crops were corn, beans and pumpkins, which they grew all together because of the symbiotic relationship of the crops. The corn provided a stem on which the bean vine could grow while also providing shade for the pumpkins, which provided shade for the roots of the corn as well as valuable nutrients for the soil of all three crops. He then talked about the importance of sheep in Chamula.
Because of the cold climate, wool is used for much of the traditional clothing, making a sheep a valuable comodity. The people also believe that sheep are a gift from their patron saint and instead of using them for food when they die, they bury the sheep in their gardens to help to fertilze their crops.
Walking through the town, one can´t help but notice the abundance of crosses. Although at first appearing to be a devoutly Christian village, our guide explained, that it was quite the opposite. The Mayans had been using the figure of a cross to represent both a spiritual tree found in the lowlands of Mexico and Central America and the four directions of the universe, long before the Spanish introduced Christianity to the area. Each family unit, or group of families – grandparents, parents, children – sharing the same land, has a green cross in their yard, which is considered to be the spirirual entrance for the family unit. Many ceremonies and sacrifies, including marriages, are performed at the cross, which the Mayans believe is a direct connection between themselves and their gods. While the Spanish tried, successfully in many places, to convert the peoples of Mexico and Central and South America to Catholocism, the Mayan people, while appearing to accept the religion, and even accepting it on some levels, mixed thier own traditions with those of the Catholic Church, both pacifing the Spaniards and allowing their own culture traditions to persevere. The one “Catholic” church in the village is a testiment to this reality.
While appearing much like a traditional church from the outside, the church in Chamula, is not at all as it appears. Upon entering the church, one is greeted with the site of thousands of lighted candles forming lines on the floor and adorning the rows of tables to each side of the church. Each wall is liked with figures of Catholic saints in glass cases, dressed in traditional finery with a mirror on a string drapped around their necks (to provide the appearance of a connection with the devout). Groups of indigenous people knelt behind groups of candles, many also with other requirments of a cermony directed by the local curandera, or folk healer: soda, a bottle of can alcohol, a bag of eggs and a live chicken. While we stood by unobtrusively, the people proceeded with their ceremonies, some of which, we were told, although we did not witness, involved the sacrifice of the chickens on the church floor.
The story that I found the most amusing was that of the group of figures of saints who stood to one side of the church near the back, plainly adorned and laking the brightly burning candles that graced the tables of the other figures. We were told that these figures did not belong in this church, but had resided in another church in the cemetery that had burned down over 100 years before. Because these saints did not protect their sancturary, they were being punished and had been for the past 100 years. While the other saints were dressed in fine clothing, these saints were clothed only in plain wraps (even which, we were told, were relatively new additions after having stood without clothing for many years), were not visited by patrons and were left alone in the church during festivals, while the other saints were taking out and paraded about town.
After our visit to the church, we made our way to the cemetery where the ruins of the old church stood. The cemetary was simple and picturesque, with plots of earth adorned with simple wooden crosses (black for the elderly, blue or green for adults, and white for children). What we could not see, our guide explained, was inside the coffins, where each person, upon their death was prepared for the long journey through the underworld, which the Mayans believe everyone takes, before again resuming a life on earth. Each body is dressed and provided with a pocket full of coins to pay for passage through the world of the dead. Each body is given a bag filled with food and drink, for the journey is long, as well as an needle and thread to sew any holes that will invetibley appear in their clothing with the passage of time.
After leaving the cemetary, we set off for the village of Zinacantan, where we visited the home of a local family, the women of which wove textiles to sell in the local markets. We were able to watch the women weave, make corn tortillas (which we sampled with local cheese and avacado. Yummy!) and try a sample of the local cane alcohol that is used both for ceremonies and everyday enjoyment.
As we left the village, I found myself in a zone of contentment, extremely pleased with the day, my travel companions, our guide and the fact that I understood 98% of what was said throughout the tour. I sat back, quite pleased with myself, realizing that my mood might be more from the cane alcohol than simply from my enjoyment of the day, but not caring one bit.
¡Viva Mexico!
I have only been in Mexico for a little over a day and am already so glad that I came!
After an early start yesterday morning, I arrived via shuttle in San Cristobal de las Casas. The ride was plesant, but because it was "privado" we were denied the great cultural comradary formed by cramming 50 people in a van built for 25 and I felt sad each time we passed a local on the road waving for us to stop and pick them up.
San Cristobal is a relatively small, colonial style city that, at first, reminded me a lot of Antigua. I headed straight for the Magic Hostel where I had read that I could get an affordable dorm bed (less than $5 as oppossed to a private room for $15!) and happily settled in before setting off to find a book store where I could buy a Mexican Lonely Planet (having conveniently put off buying one until I was actually inside the coutry..). Unfortunately, the bookstore was closed on Mondays and so I headed back to the hostel to plan my trip using an old copy of the Mexican Rough Guide.
After an hour or so on reading up on potential destinations, including a boat ride through Sumidero Canyon and a visit to Malinalco, which sounds absolutely beautiful and is also the site of an Aztec temple in which they made human sacrifices, I headed out for a dinner of tortilla soup and a documentary on the Zapitistas, a revolutionary army based in Chiapas which has been fighting for the rights of the indeginous people of Mexico for years.
After an early start yesterday morning, I arrived via shuttle in San Cristobal de las Casas. The ride was plesant, but because it was "privado" we were denied the great cultural comradary formed by cramming 50 people in a van built for 25 and I felt sad each time we passed a local on the road waving for us to stop and pick them up.
San Cristobal is a relatively small, colonial style city that, at first, reminded me a lot of Antigua. I headed straight for the Magic Hostel where I had read that I could get an affordable dorm bed (less than $5 as oppossed to a private room for $15!) and happily settled in before setting off to find a book store where I could buy a Mexican Lonely Planet (having conveniently put off buying one until I was actually inside the coutry..). Unfortunately, the bookstore was closed on Mondays and so I headed back to the hostel to plan my trip using an old copy of the Mexican Rough Guide.
After an hour or so on reading up on potential destinations, including a boat ride through Sumidero Canyon and a visit to Malinalco, which sounds absolutely beautiful and is also the site of an Aztec temple in which they made human sacrifices, I headed out for a dinner of tortilla soup and a documentary on the Zapitistas, a revolutionary army based in Chiapas which has been fighting for the rights of the indeginous people of Mexico for years.
Lago Atitlan
Since I´ve been in guatemala, I have been to Lago Atitlan four times and for good reason. The lake is absolutely beautiful, massive and surrounded by lush green moutains. It is said to be an old volcano crater, but one can hardly imagine a volcano of such size when gazing out over the lake to the imperceptable shores in the distance. The lake is surrounded by pueblos named after various saints: San Marcos, San Pedro, San Lucas, etc., which, although they border the same waters, are quite different in culture, dress and even lauguage.
The first town I visited and consequently fell in love with is San Marcos, a maze of six foot high hedges dividing meditation centers from holistic health centers and leading to numerious hotels and restaurants offering economic rooms and delicious food, allowing you to stay for days relishing in the tranquility without spending all of your money. I did not partake in any of the courses, but I did spend days simply enjoying the peaceful serenity that pervades the village, enhanced by the constant chorus of birds, and broken only at night by the overwhelming chorus of local dogs (leading one of my friends to dub the village "San Barcos"). The only thing I could say that I do not like about San Marcos is that it is somewhat of an artificial environment, with many foreigned owned businesses. The actual village of San Marcos sits higher on the mountainside and seems to be realitively devoid of tourists and happily so.
San Pedro, on the other hand, while it has its touristy area, is a village in which you can fully experience (as much as a foreigner can fully experience) village life. The village is a maze of steep, cobblestone streets, lined with local shops and front doors leading into traditional block homes. Further into the village, some of the homes are made of wood surrounded by yards of hard mud. The woman in San Pedro all wear traditional dress and the lone few who do not, look extremely out of place. The men wear mostly western clothing, but a good number of the older men where traditional dress as well, which consists of brightly colored patterned shirts with white pants that come down to mid-calf, adorned with a rainbow pattern of flowers or dancing figures around the cuffs, and white sombreros.
During my time in San Pedro, I also visited Santiago Atitlan and San Juan to climb, el nariz del indio, but not long enough to get a real feel for them. I found a site with great pictures of the whole area from someone else´s travel log...
The first town I visited and consequently fell in love with is San Marcos, a maze of six foot high hedges dividing meditation centers from holistic health centers and leading to numerious hotels and restaurants offering economic rooms and delicious food, allowing you to stay for days relishing in the tranquility without spending all of your money. I did not partake in any of the courses, but I did spend days simply enjoying the peaceful serenity that pervades the village, enhanced by the constant chorus of birds, and broken only at night by the overwhelming chorus of local dogs (leading one of my friends to dub the village "San Barcos"). The only thing I could say that I do not like about San Marcos is that it is somewhat of an artificial environment, with many foreigned owned businesses. The actual village of San Marcos sits higher on the mountainside and seems to be realitively devoid of tourists and happily so.
San Pedro, on the other hand, while it has its touristy area, is a village in which you can fully experience (as much as a foreigner can fully experience) village life. The village is a maze of steep, cobblestone streets, lined with local shops and front doors leading into traditional block homes. Further into the village, some of the homes are made of wood surrounded by yards of hard mud. The woman in San Pedro all wear traditional dress and the lone few who do not, look extremely out of place. The men wear mostly western clothing, but a good number of the older men where traditional dress as well, which consists of brightly colored patterned shirts with white pants that come down to mid-calf, adorned with a rainbow pattern of flowers or dancing figures around the cuffs, and white sombreros.
During my time in San Pedro, I also visited Santiago Atitlan and San Juan to climb, el nariz del indio, but not long enough to get a real feel for them. I found a site with great pictures of the whole area from someone else´s travel log...
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Before I run off and forget...
So long since my local political education in Xela, so many beers and beaches and westernized towns, I have forgotten that I had not just come here to learn to speak the language, but that I had come to learn more about this small country just three hours south by plane, that so many of us know so little about. In the past few days, I've been re-educating myself, and in doing so have rememered why it is I am here, why I need to return home, and why I hope to learn more about the fight against the terrorism that has been waged by the United States Government for countless years in countries of which so many of us have never even heard.
It started with a movie, Imagining Argentina, that like few before, made me stop and re-evaluate my life, the importance of global awareness, and all that we take for granted in our every day lives. It continued with a trip to a local bookstore to peruse a collection of articles documenting the atrocities that the Guatemalan governement has, and continues to, commit, and the role that the US Government played in these horrors (at a time when I could have been much more aware).
Perhaps the following articles, will also enlighten some of you as to the hypocracy of our "fighting for freedom" in other countries, as they did me.
Reagan & Guatemala’s Death Files
Why Won't Bush Condemn Rios Montt, the 'Central American Saddam Hussein'?
Jennifer K. Harbury Knows American Torture Starts at the Top, and It Has for Decades
The School of the Americas
Human Rights Watch
What we can do
It started with a movie, Imagining Argentina, that like few before, made me stop and re-evaluate my life, the importance of global awareness, and all that we take for granted in our every day lives. It continued with a trip to a local bookstore to peruse a collection of articles documenting the atrocities that the Guatemalan governement has, and continues to, commit, and the role that the US Government played in these horrors (at a time when I could have been much more aware).
Perhaps the following articles, will also enlighten some of you as to the hypocracy of our "fighting for freedom" in other countries, as they did me.
Reagan & Guatemala’s Death Files
Why Won't Bush Condemn Rios Montt, the 'Central American Saddam Hussein'?
Jennifer K. Harbury Knows American Torture Starts at the Top, and It Has for Decades
The School of the Americas
Human Rights Watch
What we can do
Friday, May 19, 2006
San Pedro
I arrived at my new school and met with one of the teachers who led me to what was to be my home for the next few weeks. In my new temporary home, I met Maria and her three daughters, Ana Maria, 9, Norma, 8 and Angela, 1. That evening I met their father, Miguel. I immediately felt comfortable in their presence and found that the more I spent with them, the more I enjoyed them. Because I was now comfortable understanding and speaking Spanish, I was able to get to know their individual personalities and as well to express my own.
I spent a few evenings teaching the older girls, along with their 7-year-old cousin, Estella, some new words and phrases in English. They impressed me with their cleverness and willingness to learn. Norma, the most colorful of the three, made me laugh out loud when she told me forcefully, “Spanish es facil, English no es facil! En Spanish “sol” es “sol,” pero en Ingles “sun” is not “san (how it would be pronounced in Spanish), but “son!”
While I thoroughly enjoyed my family, my teacher was another story. I had planned to study for three weeks or even four, but as the afternoons dragged on, with out structure, without a plan, much like a repeating cycle of bad dates where neither one wants to be there and neither has much to say to the other, I began to revise my future plans. There were times when I did enjoy my teacher and when we had things to talk about, but there were also many times when I began to question his use of the title “teacher.” Sad about leaving my new family after such a short time, I nevertheless began to formulate a plan of escape, feeling that another two weeks in this school, although might not kill me, would definitely do nothing to improve my mastery of the Spanish language.
Hence my new plan: Sunday, I will be taking a shuttle from Panajachel to San Christobal de las Cases, Mexico. From there, I plan to visit Oaxaca, Cuernavaca, Taxco and perhaps a lazy Mexican beach somewhere where I can practice my Spanish over a margarita in the shade.
I spent a few evenings teaching the older girls, along with their 7-year-old cousin, Estella, some new words and phrases in English. They impressed me with their cleverness and willingness to learn. Norma, the most colorful of the three, made me laugh out loud when she told me forcefully, “Spanish es facil, English no es facil! En Spanish “sol” es “sol,” pero en Ingles “sun” is not “san (how it would be pronounced in Spanish), but “son!”
While I thoroughly enjoyed my family, my teacher was another story. I had planned to study for three weeks or even four, but as the afternoons dragged on, with out structure, without a plan, much like a repeating cycle of bad dates where neither one wants to be there and neither has much to say to the other, I began to revise my future plans. There were times when I did enjoy my teacher and when we had things to talk about, but there were also many times when I began to question his use of the title “teacher.” Sad about leaving my new family after such a short time, I nevertheless began to formulate a plan of escape, feeling that another two weeks in this school, although might not kill me, would definitely do nothing to improve my mastery of the Spanish language.
Hence my new plan: Sunday, I will be taking a shuttle from Panajachel to San Christobal de las Cases, Mexico. From there, I plan to visit Oaxaca, Cuernavaca, Taxco and perhaps a lazy Mexican beach somewhere where I can practice my Spanish over a margarita in the shade.
Los ultimos dias
After happily leaving the car at the rental agency in Guatemala City (after arguing with the staff about fees for an amazingly small amount of damage done to the hub caps and bumper), we boarded a bus for Antigua.
We spent the last days of their trip, touring Antigua, spending a morning hiking up Pacaya (my third time!) and another, disappointingly cloudy, day at Lago Atitlan.
On Tuesday afternoon, we parted ways in Panajachel, Kevin and Rachel off to Antigua and then Guatemala for their Wednesday flight home and me for my hotel room and to the internet café for some quality email time.
We spent the last days of their trip, touring Antigua, spending a morning hiking up Pacaya (my third time!) and another, disappointingly cloudy, day at Lago Atitlan.
On Tuesday afternoon, we parted ways in Panajachel, Kevin and Rachel off to Antigua and then Guatemala for their Wednesday flight home and me for my hotel room and to the internet café for some quality email time.
El proximo dia
We rose the next day, happy to be clean and rested and securely on the ground. After a somewhat disappointing breakfast, we began what we thought would be an easy trip to Semuc Champey. Much to our horror, the roads from Lanquin to Semuc Champey were similar if not worse in spots than those we’d encountered the night before, and again we found ourselves waiting on the side of the road for a road construction crew. When we were able to pass, we continued to scrape along the road with worrying regularity and found ourselves in a few spots where they rocks were so pervasive that the tires simply spun while the car remained stationary, enveloped in the smell of burning rubber. Finally, an excruciating 45 minute drive later, we arrived at Semuc Champey, where we happily left the car behind us in the parking lot.
Semuc Champey is a protected natural area that contains various natural caves and part of a river that flows in a torrent through one of these caves and out the other side through stepped waterfalls into pools of startlingly blue, crystal clear water. We walked up to the top of the falls to marvel at the shear power of nature and then made our way back down to the pool of our choice where we spent our time lounging in the water and seeing who could catch the most minnows with our bare hands (Score: Rachel - 1, Sharon and Kevin - 0). After our swim, we climbed up to the mirador where we had a bird’s eye view of the entire scene.
Wanting to be sure we reached the caves in time to see the bats, since we had missed them the day before, we left Semuc around 4:00 in order to give us enough time to get to the caves by sundown (figuring in time for unanticipated - or actually now pretty much anticipated - stops for road construction). As we drove out of the park, we soon found that the way back was going to be much harder than the way down because we were encountering the rocks as we ascended, whereas before were simply descending through them. After the first incident of tires madly spinning on the rocks, Rachel and I began to get out and push the car up the hill, not only to provide force, but also to decrease the weight in the car.
While we were successful in our efforts, each time it was a little frightening because when Kevin released the clutch there was a moment when the car would roll back heavily where we had to jump free to assure that we weren’t crushed and also because the tires were spinning on the rocks, anyone standing to the side of the car (to, for instance, avoid being crushed) was in direct line of the rocks shooting out from underneath the spinning tires. At one point, we reached a spot that was so steep, that we required the assistance of two (extremely nice, helpful) men who jumped out of a passing pick-up to help us. When we finally reached Lanquin and parked the car in the parking lot of the cave, we were approached by a small boy, who, tracing his finger through the filth on the windows, remarked, "pequeñita, carita."
We had arrived early enough to spend some time exploring the cave, which was immense and free of obvious tourist intervention save for the bare bulbs strung throughout on wire to light our way and a few rails to allow for safe passage over the rocks. The railings were necessary because the floor of the cave was extremely slippery, until that is, we came to the part where the floor was covered in half an inch of bat feces. While glad to have the traction it provided, once I learned what it was, I admit that it somewhat tempered my enthusiasm and I was glad when we left the cave and were able to wash all of the "mud" off of our legs, arms and shoes.
The cave opened out onto a beautiful river and since we still had time to kill until sunset, we ventured down to the shore where some Guatemalan families were picnicking. Following Rachel’s brave led, Kevin and I both eventually got into the freezing water for a brief dip.
Come sundown, we found ourselves alone in the parking lot, where we were finally able to watch the stream of bats as the left the cave in search of their evening meal.
Semuc Champey is a protected natural area that contains various natural caves and part of a river that flows in a torrent through one of these caves and out the other side through stepped waterfalls into pools of startlingly blue, crystal clear water. We walked up to the top of the falls to marvel at the shear power of nature and then made our way back down to the pool of our choice where we spent our time lounging in the water and seeing who could catch the most minnows with our bare hands (Score: Rachel - 1, Sharon and Kevin - 0). After our swim, we climbed up to the mirador where we had a bird’s eye view of the entire scene.
Wanting to be sure we reached the caves in time to see the bats, since we had missed them the day before, we left Semuc around 4:00 in order to give us enough time to get to the caves by sundown (figuring in time for unanticipated - or actually now pretty much anticipated - stops for road construction). As we drove out of the park, we soon found that the way back was going to be much harder than the way down because we were encountering the rocks as we ascended, whereas before were simply descending through them. After the first incident of tires madly spinning on the rocks, Rachel and I began to get out and push the car up the hill, not only to provide force, but also to decrease the weight in the car.
While we were successful in our efforts, each time it was a little frightening because when Kevin released the clutch there was a moment when the car would roll back heavily where we had to jump free to assure that we weren’t crushed and also because the tires were spinning on the rocks, anyone standing to the side of the car (to, for instance, avoid being crushed) was in direct line of the rocks shooting out from underneath the spinning tires. At one point, we reached a spot that was so steep, that we required the assistance of two (extremely nice, helpful) men who jumped out of a passing pick-up to help us. When we finally reached Lanquin and parked the car in the parking lot of the cave, we were approached by a small boy, who, tracing his finger through the filth on the windows, remarked, "pequeñita, carita."
We had arrived early enough to spend some time exploring the cave, which was immense and free of obvious tourist intervention save for the bare bulbs strung throughout on wire to light our way and a few rails to allow for safe passage over the rocks. The railings were necessary because the floor of the cave was extremely slippery, until that is, we came to the part where the floor was covered in half an inch of bat feces. While glad to have the traction it provided, once I learned what it was, I admit that it somewhat tempered my enthusiasm and I was glad when we left the cave and were able to wash all of the "mud" off of our legs, arms and shoes.
The cave opened out onto a beautiful river and since we still had time to kill until sunset, we ventured down to the shore where some Guatemalan families were picnicking. Following Rachel’s brave led, Kevin and I both eventually got into the freezing water for a brief dip.
Come sundown, we found ourselves alone in the parking lot, where we were finally able to watch the stream of bats as the left the cave in search of their evening meal.
A Real "Survior Guatemala" Challenge
The following day we began our journey to Lanquin where we hoped to spend a day at the beautiful Semuc Champey. We left early in the hopes of reaching Lanquin in time to watch the colony of bats in a nearby cave, leave for their evening meal. Retracing our route back through Flores, we continued on towards Lanquin, with Kevin driving and Rachel and I navigating and taking in the scenery. Because we had hoped to make Lanquin by dusk, we opted for the more direct route south, instead of the longer route through Coban to the west, even though our chosen route showed up on the map as a twisting dotted line, as opposed to the solid lines representing the main thoroughfares.
By 4:30 in the afternoon, we came to a stop just south of Sebol,a picturesque little town, virtually, if not literally, untouched by tourism, where we were stopped by a man in a construction hat and vest who informed us that there was a team clearing a rockslide form the road and that we would be unable to pass until 6:00 that evening. He asked us where we were heading and when we told him Lanquin, he asked incredulously, “En este carro?” We confirmed that we had indeed planned to go to Lanquin in this car and asked him if he did not think it was possible. He thought for a moment and said that he thought it was possible, but that we would just have to drive very slowly. Giving up on our goal of seeing the bats, but figuring that an hour and a half wait was better than retracing our whole route, we purchased some drinks and snacks from the local tienda and settled down to wait.
The place where we had stopped appeared to be some sort of excavation site with huge piles of rock and heavy construction machinery. On the other side of the road, sat a traditional wooden house and a tiny tienda, the ground around which was alive with dogs, chickens and a group of baby ducks. The family who lived and worked there, none of whom spoke Spanish, was seated in front of the house and sat in silence, watching us with the occasional smile, as we fed the ducks and took in our surroundings and we waited for the road to clear.
At 6:00 p.m., I walked over to the construction office and asked the men if they thought that we would be able to pass anytime soon. One of the men pointed at a truck that I hadn’t noticed before filled with workers apparently on their way home from work, also delayed by the construction. He told me that when the truck left, we could follow. Just at that moment, the truck started up and pulled away. The man smiled at me and said that we could go, but that we would have to wait about ten minutes or so at the top to let “la maquina” pass us on the road. I thanked him and hurried back to tell Kevin and Rachel the good news.
We started the car and began our ascent up the mountain road. As we rounded the curve, we saw that the truck full of people had pulled over to the side and was again waiting, so we pulled up behind it. As we were waiting, a man in a pick-up drove past us and around the corner, which was obscured from our view. Minutes later, he was on his way back down. He paused by our window to ask us where we were headed. When we responded, “Lanquin,” he exclaimed, “En este carro?” We again replied affirmatively, “Si, en este carro.” When we asked if he thought it was possible, he said that he did not think so. He said that the roads were full of rocks and that we would need a four wheel drive to get over them, as well as the fact that the road clearing would take at least another two hours and then we would have a three hour ride in the dark along steep, mountainous, rocky roads. He said that our best bet would be to turn around and take the road back to Coban and head to Lanquin that way. We thanked him for his advice and he drove on.
The three of us were divided on what to do. Rachel was all for going back through Coban, while Kevin was more inclined to try our luck since we’d already come this far. Not wanting to be a deciding factor in what I saw as their trip, I remained neutral, but was leaning more towards staying the course. Ultimately, Kevin and I decided to get out and see what we were up against.
Walking the remainder of the way up the road and around the bend we were confronted by an immense pile of rock and boulders that the road crew had apparently blasted from the mountainside in their road widening efforts. As we approached, we could see that the pile was at least 25 feet across and was made up of rocks varying in size from about 3 feet by 4 feet to tiny grains of sand. A man in a machine with a huge front scoop was scooping up the rocks and dumping them in a dump truck, which when full, would drive down to the excavation site, unload and come back up for the next load.
The roadside was lined with construction workers watching the work progress and one of the men asked us where we were from and where we were headed. I told him that we were from the States and planned to drive to Lanquin that night but had been advised against it. I asked him what he thought. He told us that the work would be completed by 8:00 p.m. (in approximately 45 minutes) and that we should be on our way and in Lanquin by 10:00 p.m., a mere two hours later. He said we should be able to do it in our car without any problems, but that we would just have to drive slowly. Happy to have our decision verified, we sat back down to watch the work with everyone else.
The first machine was soon joined by a bull dozer which worked on one side of the pile, while the other worked on ours. Another dump truck then joined the first and just as the man had predicted, by 8:00 p.m. the road was more or less cleared, leaving a flat bed of rocks a few inches high where the immense pile had been.
As we watched as a pick-up, ready to be on its way, cross the rocks, we began to question the ability of our own tiny car to do the same. When I mentioned our concern to a man near by, he said that it shouldn’t be a problem because if we were to get stuck, there were enough men around to give us a push. Thanking him, we walked back down to the car. Rachel and I, not wanting our combined weight to further lower the car, watched from the side of the road as Kevin maneuvered the car over the rocks with some difficulty, but ultimately successfully. We then joined him in the car, glad to have the wait over with and anticipating a smooth journey ahead.
Less than four minutes later, we found ourselves stalled on a steep incline after having run over some huge rocks that sounded like they had ripped out the entire underside of our vehicle. Frustrated, Kevin giggled the clutch, but to no avail – we were stuck. My mind rewound to four hours before when we had made the decision to wait and take this route instead of turning back towards Coban and ahead to the seriousness of our situation, stuck in the middle of nowhere, our car blocking a steep one-lane road, with nowhere to stay, no way to get our car down and a rapidly approaching darkness. Just as I began to formulate possible plans, the car roared to life as Kevin got it back in gear and we lurched forward, around the bend onto more level ground where we were again stopped by road crew clearing rocks from the road.
Kevin asked me to go out and ask the men if they thought we could pass and if we would encounter any more construction crews along the rest of the route, knowing that it would be almost, if not completely, impossible, on this narrow road, to turn around and go back the way we had come. The man told me that we could most definitely pass and that they were the last crew working on the road. I thanked him and returned to the car.
For a short while after passing to road crew, we found ourselves on a relatively flat, passable dirt road with only the occasional rock scrapping frighteningly along the underside of the car. Unfortunately this was not to last. Countless vehicles before us has created a situation where the tire tracks were clear, but all the rocks that had lined the road had been forced up into a dense wall of rocks that ran straight down the middle of the road. Because of the relative lack of clearance of our vehicle, each rock scrapped along the metal underside of our vehicle with agonizing force. Because the road was so narrow, with a shear drop to our right, Kevin’s only option was to hug the cliff and ride with one tire on the rock pile, a solution that lessoned, though did not completely eliminate, the sound of rock scraping against metal as the road did untold damage to our undercarriage.
As night fell, it became more difficult to see and I found myself, with a death grip on the dash, peering horrified out the window to the edge of the road, which was frighteningly close to our tires. Each scrape of rock against metal went straight up my spine and brought with it the very real possibility that our car would not be able to complete the journey, leaving us stranded in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. With each agonizingly slow meter that we completed, I felt worse and worse for Kevin, who had been driving all day and had to have been operating on pure raw nerves. I remembered my foolish thought just that morning that God provide us with a toucan and wondered if I had used up my requests for the day.
Throughout the next three hours we crawled along the narrow windy road, each turn revealing nothing but more road ahead. The road continued to climb even though we kept hoping for a down turn to reveal that we had made it through the mountains and were on our way back into the valley. Every once in a while we would pass a small town that both reassured me that if anything happened we would have somewhere to go and frightened me, remembering all the warnings about armed bandits hijacking buses along the roads in this part of the country. Throughout it all, although frightened, tired, hungry and on edge, the three of all maintained our composure and managed to stay relatively hopeful and optimistic, something of which I was extraordinary proud and impressed given the situation we had gotten ourselves into.
At one point, we reached a point in the road where we had the option of continuing forward or taking another road to our left. With no signs to guide us and the growing fear that we would be driving endlessly lost in the mountains if we made the wrong choice, we unanimously chose to continue on straight ahead, and headed off into what could well have been the completely wrong direction.
Around 11:00 we began to see the lights of what we hoped was a town ahead and my spirit began to lighten as I envisioned houses and restaurants and a hotel with a hot shower and a welcoming bed. As we neared the lights, we saw a building, on the side of which was written “Esquela Publica, Lanquin.” Filled with relief that we had arrived and had not taken a wrong turn, I finally relaxed my tense frame and sat back to rest and enjoy the rest of the ride as the road widened and the rocks lessoned and we were able to drive along a little more fluidly. We passed groups of indigenous people on what we presumed was their way home from work and Kevin amicably wished all of the “Buenas noches” as we passed them by, leaving them staring back at the car with perplexed looks on their faces, most likely not quite sure what to make of the gringos in the strange little car driving by in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, Lanquin´s public school is nowhere near Lanquin and our relief soon turned back into dread as the road began again to climb and the rocks reappeared.
We then came to a small town which we was Lanquin to ask some policeman standing in the center of the road, for directions to our hotel. They had helpfully pointed us in the right direction, telling us that we had another 30 kilometers to go to Lanquin where we would find our hotel.
Buoyed by our proximity to our destination and sure that we were headed in the right direction, Kevin picked up speed and rocks flew in all directions as we sped (or so it seemed, since we had been averaging 5-10 kilometers an hour before this) down the road. After more disheartening climbs and countless occurrences of rock meeting metal, we finally reached a sign pointing to Lanquin. With growing anticipation, we continued on our way into the town, reaching our destination just after midnight.
Because we had no reservations, Rachel and I left Kevin with the car to inquire as to the availability of rooms. After walking down a set of steep steps, we found ourselves in the restaurant of a large hacienda, filled with loud music and loud, seemingly drunk tourists. Still in shock from our journey and feeling completely out of place, much like an alien from another planet, sober and in my dirty clothes in this festive atmosphere, I went up to the bar and inquired about a room. We were told that there were no rooms, but that we could try at the hotel next door.
Not wanting to tell Kevin that he had come all this way and still did not have a bed, I hurried to the next hotel to ask for a room, but to no avail. Because it was so late, there was no one awake to assist us.
Although sick from the last few turns in the car, exhausted, hungry and frustrated, Kevin agreed to drive us back to one of the first hotels we had passed, where finally, we were able to find a room and a hot shower and a well-deserved reprieve from the stress and strain of our four hour journey through the mountains of Guatemala.
By 4:30 in the afternoon, we came to a stop just south of Sebol,a picturesque little town, virtually, if not literally, untouched by tourism, where we were stopped by a man in a construction hat and vest who informed us that there was a team clearing a rockslide form the road and that we would be unable to pass until 6:00 that evening. He asked us where we were heading and when we told him Lanquin, he asked incredulously, “En este carro?” We confirmed that we had indeed planned to go to Lanquin in this car and asked him if he did not think it was possible. He thought for a moment and said that he thought it was possible, but that we would just have to drive very slowly. Giving up on our goal of seeing the bats, but figuring that an hour and a half wait was better than retracing our whole route, we purchased some drinks and snacks from the local tienda and settled down to wait.
The place where we had stopped appeared to be some sort of excavation site with huge piles of rock and heavy construction machinery. On the other side of the road, sat a traditional wooden house and a tiny tienda, the ground around which was alive with dogs, chickens and a group of baby ducks. The family who lived and worked there, none of whom spoke Spanish, was seated in front of the house and sat in silence, watching us with the occasional smile, as we fed the ducks and took in our surroundings and we waited for the road to clear.
At 6:00 p.m., I walked over to the construction office and asked the men if they thought that we would be able to pass anytime soon. One of the men pointed at a truck that I hadn’t noticed before filled with workers apparently on their way home from work, also delayed by the construction. He told me that when the truck left, we could follow. Just at that moment, the truck started up and pulled away. The man smiled at me and said that we could go, but that we would have to wait about ten minutes or so at the top to let “la maquina” pass us on the road. I thanked him and hurried back to tell Kevin and Rachel the good news.
We started the car and began our ascent up the mountain road. As we rounded the curve, we saw that the truck full of people had pulled over to the side and was again waiting, so we pulled up behind it. As we were waiting, a man in a pick-up drove past us and around the corner, which was obscured from our view. Minutes later, he was on his way back down. He paused by our window to ask us where we were headed. When we responded, “Lanquin,” he exclaimed, “En este carro?” We again replied affirmatively, “Si, en este carro.” When we asked if he thought it was possible, he said that he did not think so. He said that the roads were full of rocks and that we would need a four wheel drive to get over them, as well as the fact that the road clearing would take at least another two hours and then we would have a three hour ride in the dark along steep, mountainous, rocky roads. He said that our best bet would be to turn around and take the road back to Coban and head to Lanquin that way. We thanked him for his advice and he drove on.
The three of us were divided on what to do. Rachel was all for going back through Coban, while Kevin was more inclined to try our luck since we’d already come this far. Not wanting to be a deciding factor in what I saw as their trip, I remained neutral, but was leaning more towards staying the course. Ultimately, Kevin and I decided to get out and see what we were up against.
Walking the remainder of the way up the road and around the bend we were confronted by an immense pile of rock and boulders that the road crew had apparently blasted from the mountainside in their road widening efforts. As we approached, we could see that the pile was at least 25 feet across and was made up of rocks varying in size from about 3 feet by 4 feet to tiny grains of sand. A man in a machine with a huge front scoop was scooping up the rocks and dumping them in a dump truck, which when full, would drive down to the excavation site, unload and come back up for the next load.
The roadside was lined with construction workers watching the work progress and one of the men asked us where we were from and where we were headed. I told him that we were from the States and planned to drive to Lanquin that night but had been advised against it. I asked him what he thought. He told us that the work would be completed by 8:00 p.m. (in approximately 45 minutes) and that we should be on our way and in Lanquin by 10:00 p.m., a mere two hours later. He said we should be able to do it in our car without any problems, but that we would just have to drive slowly. Happy to have our decision verified, we sat back down to watch the work with everyone else.
The first machine was soon joined by a bull dozer which worked on one side of the pile, while the other worked on ours. Another dump truck then joined the first and just as the man had predicted, by 8:00 p.m. the road was more or less cleared, leaving a flat bed of rocks a few inches high where the immense pile had been.
As we watched as a pick-up, ready to be on its way, cross the rocks, we began to question the ability of our own tiny car to do the same. When I mentioned our concern to a man near by, he said that it shouldn’t be a problem because if we were to get stuck, there were enough men around to give us a push. Thanking him, we walked back down to the car. Rachel and I, not wanting our combined weight to further lower the car, watched from the side of the road as Kevin maneuvered the car over the rocks with some difficulty, but ultimately successfully. We then joined him in the car, glad to have the wait over with and anticipating a smooth journey ahead.
Less than four minutes later, we found ourselves stalled on a steep incline after having run over some huge rocks that sounded like they had ripped out the entire underside of our vehicle. Frustrated, Kevin giggled the clutch, but to no avail – we were stuck. My mind rewound to four hours before when we had made the decision to wait and take this route instead of turning back towards Coban and ahead to the seriousness of our situation, stuck in the middle of nowhere, our car blocking a steep one-lane road, with nowhere to stay, no way to get our car down and a rapidly approaching darkness. Just as I began to formulate possible plans, the car roared to life as Kevin got it back in gear and we lurched forward, around the bend onto more level ground where we were again stopped by road crew clearing rocks from the road.
Kevin asked me to go out and ask the men if they thought we could pass and if we would encounter any more construction crews along the rest of the route, knowing that it would be almost, if not completely, impossible, on this narrow road, to turn around and go back the way we had come. The man told me that we could most definitely pass and that they were the last crew working on the road. I thanked him and returned to the car.
For a short while after passing to road crew, we found ourselves on a relatively flat, passable dirt road with only the occasional rock scrapping frighteningly along the underside of the car. Unfortunately this was not to last. Countless vehicles before us has created a situation where the tire tracks were clear, but all the rocks that had lined the road had been forced up into a dense wall of rocks that ran straight down the middle of the road. Because of the relative lack of clearance of our vehicle, each rock scrapped along the metal underside of our vehicle with agonizing force. Because the road was so narrow, with a shear drop to our right, Kevin’s only option was to hug the cliff and ride with one tire on the rock pile, a solution that lessoned, though did not completely eliminate, the sound of rock scraping against metal as the road did untold damage to our undercarriage.
As night fell, it became more difficult to see and I found myself, with a death grip on the dash, peering horrified out the window to the edge of the road, which was frighteningly close to our tires. Each scrape of rock against metal went straight up my spine and brought with it the very real possibility that our car would not be able to complete the journey, leaving us stranded in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. With each agonizingly slow meter that we completed, I felt worse and worse for Kevin, who had been driving all day and had to have been operating on pure raw nerves. I remembered my foolish thought just that morning that God provide us with a toucan and wondered if I had used up my requests for the day.
Throughout the next three hours we crawled along the narrow windy road, each turn revealing nothing but more road ahead. The road continued to climb even though we kept hoping for a down turn to reveal that we had made it through the mountains and were on our way back into the valley. Every once in a while we would pass a small town that both reassured me that if anything happened we would have somewhere to go and frightened me, remembering all the warnings about armed bandits hijacking buses along the roads in this part of the country. Throughout it all, although frightened, tired, hungry and on edge, the three of all maintained our composure and managed to stay relatively hopeful and optimistic, something of which I was extraordinary proud and impressed given the situation we had gotten ourselves into.
At one point, we reached a point in the road where we had the option of continuing forward or taking another road to our left. With no signs to guide us and the growing fear that we would be driving endlessly lost in the mountains if we made the wrong choice, we unanimously chose to continue on straight ahead, and headed off into what could well have been the completely wrong direction.
Around 11:00 we began to see the lights of what we hoped was a town ahead and my spirit began to lighten as I envisioned houses and restaurants and a hotel with a hot shower and a welcoming bed. As we neared the lights, we saw a building, on the side of which was written “Esquela Publica, Lanquin.” Filled with relief that we had arrived and had not taken a wrong turn, I finally relaxed my tense frame and sat back to rest and enjoy the rest of the ride as the road widened and the rocks lessoned and we were able to drive along a little more fluidly. We passed groups of indigenous people on what we presumed was their way home from work and Kevin amicably wished all of the “Buenas noches” as we passed them by, leaving them staring back at the car with perplexed looks on their faces, most likely not quite sure what to make of the gringos in the strange little car driving by in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, Lanquin´s public school is nowhere near Lanquin and our relief soon turned back into dread as the road began again to climb and the rocks reappeared.
We then came to a small town which we was Lanquin to ask some policeman standing in the center of the road, for directions to our hotel. They had helpfully pointed us in the right direction, telling us that we had another 30 kilometers to go to Lanquin where we would find our hotel.
Buoyed by our proximity to our destination and sure that we were headed in the right direction, Kevin picked up speed and rocks flew in all directions as we sped (or so it seemed, since we had been averaging 5-10 kilometers an hour before this) down the road. After more disheartening climbs and countless occurrences of rock meeting metal, we finally reached a sign pointing to Lanquin. With growing anticipation, we continued on our way into the town, reaching our destination just after midnight.
Because we had no reservations, Rachel and I left Kevin with the car to inquire as to the availability of rooms. After walking down a set of steep steps, we found ourselves in the restaurant of a large hacienda, filled with loud music and loud, seemingly drunk tourists. Still in shock from our journey and feeling completely out of place, much like an alien from another planet, sober and in my dirty clothes in this festive atmosphere, I went up to the bar and inquired about a room. We were told that there were no rooms, but that we could try at the hotel next door.
Not wanting to tell Kevin that he had come all this way and still did not have a bed, I hurried to the next hotel to ask for a room, but to no avail. Because it was so late, there was no one awake to assist us.
Although sick from the last few turns in the car, exhausted, hungry and frustrated, Kevin agreed to drive us back to one of the first hotels we had passed, where finally, we were able to find a room and a hot shower and a well-deserved reprieve from the stress and strain of our four hour journey through the mountains of Guatemala.
Toucans
I left Belize City on a shuttle bound for Flores and after a pleasant four hour trip (including a stop over at the border, where the customs officer asked me if I spoke Spanish to which I proudly replied, “si,” and several other stops to rescue other travelers stranded by their malfunctioning shuttles), I found myself again in Flores, where Steven and I had spent a few enjoyable days.
My fist stop was an internet café, where I planned to quickly email Kevin, to let him know I had arrived, before heading over to my favorite restaurant for a lunch of stuffed avocado and an ice cold lemonade. Just as I had completed my email and pressed send, I heard a familiar voice and turned to see the smiling faces of my brother and his friend, Rachel, who had just happened to stop in to that particular internet café.
Kevin and Rachel had rented a tiny Daihatsu econo-car from a rental company in Guatemala City, which had allowed them to cover a great distance in just a few days. When we met up, they had just returned from a morning at Tikal and were planning to meet up with me and then head on to Yaxha, another, less visited, Mayan ruin site, nearer to the Belize Border. Again, I was treated to transportation in a private vehicle, with the luxury of leg room in a back seat all my own and the ability to stop roadside for some great shots of the countryside.
After a pleasant afternoon ride, we arrived at a hacienda close to the park where we had a simple dinner before settling in for the night.
The next morning we rose early to watch the sun rise over the lake and then headed into the park. Because we were so early, we found ourselves the sole visitors of the park and were able to watch the ongoing preservation efforts at almost all of the temples. While Kevin and Rachel had enjoyed their visit to Tikal, Kevin was still lamenting the fact that they had been unable to see any toucans, whereas on my visit, I had seen many. So that morning, we set out in search of toucans.
After a few hours without any animal sightings, Kevin’s hope began to wane and he despaired of ever seeing toucans, although by then he had seen his share of Mayan ruins. Not wanting my brother to be disappointed, I scoured the trees, hoping to catch site of the elusive birds. Finally, I spotted two parrots high in the tree tops and we stopped and watched them for a few minutes until they flew off. Encouraged by the site of any birds at all, I continued to scan the treetops.
On our way down towards the lake we heard noises in the trees and spotted a group of monkeys that we also stopped to watch as the swung off, branch by branch, deeper into the forest. Thinking unconsciously that it would be nice if God would give Kevin some toucans, before chastising myself for such a trivial request, I was elated when on our way out of the park, we spotted a pair of small, very toucan-like birds directly in our line of sight in a tree just above the path. Although they were not of the same type of toucan that we are accustomed to seeing on the cereal box, they looked similar and I suggested to Kevin that his day should be complete because we had succeeded in finding toucans. He responded with an enthusiastic “yeah!” although I could sense his doubt that these birds were, in fact, real toucans.
As we made our way out of the park, we came across another walkway that led to a group of temples we had yet to see. Although I was somewhat temple-out, I agreed to follow Kevin and Rachel down the path for one last look. While Kevin enthusiastically bounded up the many steps to another temple top, Rachel and I opted for the more level route and walked off in search of the origin of some strange bird calls that we heard in the distance. Much to my surprise and delight, when we grew closer to the calls, we encountered a large group of real live toucans. I turned to call for Kevin and saw him come running up just in time to get a good look (and a few photos) before, wary of our presence, they disappeared deeper into the forest.
My fist stop was an internet café, where I planned to quickly email Kevin, to let him know I had arrived, before heading over to my favorite restaurant for a lunch of stuffed avocado and an ice cold lemonade. Just as I had completed my email and pressed send, I heard a familiar voice and turned to see the smiling faces of my brother and his friend, Rachel, who had just happened to stop in to that particular internet café.
Kevin and Rachel had rented a tiny Daihatsu econo-car from a rental company in Guatemala City, which had allowed them to cover a great distance in just a few days. When we met up, they had just returned from a morning at Tikal and were planning to meet up with me and then head on to Yaxha, another, less visited, Mayan ruin site, nearer to the Belize Border. Again, I was treated to transportation in a private vehicle, with the luxury of leg room in a back seat all my own and the ability to stop roadside for some great shots of the countryside.
After a pleasant afternoon ride, we arrived at a hacienda close to the park where we had a simple dinner before settling in for the night.
The next morning we rose early to watch the sun rise over the lake and then headed into the park. Because we were so early, we found ourselves the sole visitors of the park and were able to watch the ongoing preservation efforts at almost all of the temples. While Kevin and Rachel had enjoyed their visit to Tikal, Kevin was still lamenting the fact that they had been unable to see any toucans, whereas on my visit, I had seen many. So that morning, we set out in search of toucans.
After a few hours without any animal sightings, Kevin’s hope began to wane and he despaired of ever seeing toucans, although by then he had seen his share of Mayan ruins. Not wanting my brother to be disappointed, I scoured the trees, hoping to catch site of the elusive birds. Finally, I spotted two parrots high in the tree tops and we stopped and watched them for a few minutes until they flew off. Encouraged by the site of any birds at all, I continued to scan the treetops.
On our way down towards the lake we heard noises in the trees and spotted a group of monkeys that we also stopped to watch as the swung off, branch by branch, deeper into the forest. Thinking unconsciously that it would be nice if God would give Kevin some toucans, before chastising myself for such a trivial request, I was elated when on our way out of the park, we spotted a pair of small, very toucan-like birds directly in our line of sight in a tree just above the path. Although they were not of the same type of toucan that we are accustomed to seeing on the cereal box, they looked similar and I suggested to Kevin that his day should be complete because we had succeeded in finding toucans. He responded with an enthusiastic “yeah!” although I could sense his doubt that these birds were, in fact, real toucans.
As we made our way out of the park, we came across another walkway that led to a group of temples we had yet to see. Although I was somewhat temple-out, I agreed to follow Kevin and Rachel down the path for one last look. While Kevin enthusiastically bounded up the many steps to another temple top, Rachel and I opted for the more level route and walked off in search of the origin of some strange bird calls that we heard in the distance. Much to my surprise and delight, when we grew closer to the calls, we encountered a large group of real live toucans. I turned to call for Kevin and saw him come running up just in time to get a good look (and a few photos) before, wary of our presence, they disappeared deeper into the forest.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Caye Caulker/Belize City
My last few days in Belize were extremely enjoyable. Andy and I spent a day in Caye Caulker, laying in the sun and snorkelling a portion of the world’s largest barrier reef. After returning to Belize City, we spent the evening with Mark, friend of Andy´s, who had started and now runs a non-profit organization called Hand-in-Hand Ministries that works on issues such as housing, infrastructure and HIV/AIDS services in the poorer communities of Belize City. We were joined by Mark´s girlfriend, who is from Guatemala working in the tourism industry in Belize, and we all went to the supermarket (much like one at home) to purchase materials for a dinner of chicken Alfredo, salad and freshly baked cookies. We spent the evening talking, joking and enjoying our meal and as I enjoyed the company of these people I had just met hours before, I was again amazed at how lucky I have been to have had the opportunity to travel, to meet such wonderful people and to have experiences I would never have been able to have otherwise.
¡No Puedo Oir!
Unfortunately, after so many days at the river, followed by yet more days at the beach, all my underwater adventures caught up with me in the form of Swimmer´s Ear. Along with a throbbing pain in my ear, I also found myself unable to hear out of either ear and a growing concern that if I did not get some medical attention soon; I might never be able to hear again. Luckily, Andy was tight with the man who ran the prison clinic, who was able to flush my ears and provide me with a free supply of both antibiotic drops and a weeks worth of antibiotic pills. Heading to yet another beach off the coast of Belize, armed with antibiotics and ear plugs, I was optimistic (and grateful) that I would soon be able to hear again. A few days later, the world was again full of sound.
Belize Central Prison
Andy had spent the past two years at the Belize Central Prison working with a program on computer literacy and so was acquainted with many of Belize´s convicted criminals in the prison as well as, much to my amusement, being able to point out many men on the street who had done some time in the past two years.
After our first few days at the beach in Hopkins we were heading up to Belize City when we past the prison vans, taking those of the prisoners on the Prison Advisory Board out for a picnic on the beach. Not being one to pass up free food and some time with old friends, Andy accepted their invitation for us to join them and we followed them to the beach. For the next few hours, we lounged on the beach and enjoyed a meal of barbequed chicken, bread and coleslaw.
After leaving the beach, we made the two hour drive to Belize City, where we stopped in Hattieville for a quick tour of the prison, where the prison director generously offered me a position working in the woman’s section, in exchange for room and board, until I could find a job back home.
After our first few days at the beach in Hopkins we were heading up to Belize City when we past the prison vans, taking those of the prisoners on the Prison Advisory Board out for a picnic on the beach. Not being one to pass up free food and some time with old friends, Andy accepted their invitation for us to join them and we followed them to the beach. For the next few hours, we lounged on the beach and enjoyed a meal of barbequed chicken, bread and coleslaw.
After leaving the beach, we made the two hour drive to Belize City, where we stopped in Hattieville for a quick tour of the prison, where the prison director generously offered me a position working in the woman’s section, in exchange for room and board, until I could find a job back home.
Una launcha llena "chips"
From Livingston the next morning, we boarded a public launcha to Puerta Barrios where we would receive our exit stamps and catch our boat to Punta Gorda, Belize.
The ride to Puerta Barrios was uneventful and we arrived with an hour in which to have our passports stamped and grab a quick meal before the next boat left for Punta Gorda. We purchased our tickets for the boat and left our bags in the ticket office while we made our way to immigration. After paying an “official fee” of US $10 for our exit stamps, we returned to the office to find that our bags had already been loaded into the boat.
When I asked the man in the office while boat he had put our bags into, he responded in accented English, “The one with the cheeps.”
Thinking that I must have misunderstood him, I asked him again and again, he told me, “The one with the cheeps. The cheeps. The one with all the cheeps,” and directed my gaze to a 17 ft speedboat at the end of the dock packed full of huge plastic sacks full of thousands of snack sized corn chips.
When we got to the boat we marvelled at the contents of our vessel and joked that at least if we crashed onto a deserted island, it would take a long time for us to starve.
The boat’s only other passenger was the a Belizean man, the owner of the chips, who had bought them for one quetzal a bag and would sell them for 25 cents, Belize, garnering a 50% profit on each bag.
Because our cargo was so light, we were able to slice through the Caribbean sea with little mishap, save a few drenching waves of seawater that managed to wash aboard, much to the amusement of Andy and I who remained relatively dry and the chagrin of those on our right.
After getting stamped through customs, a small nondescript block building, we walked through the nearly deserted streets of Punta Gorda, a lazy coastal town, to where Andy´s friend Ryan had parked his truck. Because Ryan had joined us, we had the luxury of a personal vehicle and headed straight to the beach.
The ride to Puerta Barrios was uneventful and we arrived with an hour in which to have our passports stamped and grab a quick meal before the next boat left for Punta Gorda. We purchased our tickets for the boat and left our bags in the ticket office while we made our way to immigration. After paying an “official fee” of US $10 for our exit stamps, we returned to the office to find that our bags had already been loaded into the boat.
When I asked the man in the office while boat he had put our bags into, he responded in accented English, “The one with the cheeps.”
Thinking that I must have misunderstood him, I asked him again and again, he told me, “The one with the cheeps. The cheeps. The one with all the cheeps,” and directed my gaze to a 17 ft speedboat at the end of the dock packed full of huge plastic sacks full of thousands of snack sized corn chips.
When we got to the boat we marvelled at the contents of our vessel and joked that at least if we crashed onto a deserted island, it would take a long time for us to starve.
The boat’s only other passenger was the a Belizean man, the owner of the chips, who had bought them for one quetzal a bag and would sell them for 25 cents, Belize, garnering a 50% profit on each bag.
Because our cargo was so light, we were able to slice through the Caribbean sea with little mishap, save a few drenching waves of seawater that managed to wash aboard, much to the amusement of Andy and I who remained relatively dry and the chagrin of those on our right.
After getting stamped through customs, a small nondescript block building, we walked through the nearly deserted streets of Punta Gorda, a lazy coastal town, to where Andy´s friend Ryan had parked his truck. Because Ryan had joined us, we had the luxury of a personal vehicle and headed straight to the beach.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Musica: Una Manera Hacer Amistades
Livingston, Guatemala, is the Guatemalan city closest in area to Belize´s Carribean Coast and home to Garifuna people, descendents of a shipwrecked group of African slaves, with a culture much unlike the rest of Guatemala.
After spending a hours or so touring the town, and sampling the local culture in the form of local beer, we stopped into a small local bar just across from our hotel, where two of the three tables in the small front room were occupied by the bars only two other patrons. After settling in and ordering a round of dinks, we proceeded to introduce ourselves to the men seated to our right. After a few minutes of conversation, the older of the two men asked us if we liked Country music. Both Andy and I replied affirmatively and the man disappeared behind the bar, returning minutes later humming the tune of our new Country sound track. For the next hour or so, we sung along with old Country favourites, while I unsuccessfully, but amusingly, tried to teach our new friends the Texas Two Step. After a long night, we bid our farewells, leaving me contented and marvelling at how strange life can be sometimes and how something like the simple love of country music can bridge cultures and turn strangers into friends.
After spending a hours or so touring the town, and sampling the local culture in the form of local beer, we stopped into a small local bar just across from our hotel, where two of the three tables in the small front room were occupied by the bars only two other patrons. After settling in and ordering a round of dinks, we proceeded to introduce ourselves to the men seated to our right. After a few minutes of conversation, the older of the two men asked us if we liked Country music. Both Andy and I replied affirmatively and the man disappeared behind the bar, returning minutes later humming the tune of our new Country sound track. For the next hour or so, we sung along with old Country favourites, while I unsuccessfully, but amusingly, tried to teach our new friends the Texas Two Step. After a long night, we bid our farewells, leaving me contented and marvelling at how strange life can be sometimes and how something like the simple love of country music can bridge cultures and turn strangers into friends.
El Oeste
Alter Semana Santa, I spent another week working with Cyntia, immersing myself in the wonderful world of the subjunctive. After our second week together, I was loath to say goodbye, but I was excited about my upcoming travels and spending time with good friends.
Todd and I spent the first few days lounging around Antigua, a morning climbing Vulcan Pakaya, this time awarded by a river of molten lava flowing slowly down the side of the volcano, and a day of lounging at the Lake. On our fourth day we were joined by Andy (my housemate from Xela) and boarded a bus to Rio Dulce, where we were promptly swept off to the dock to catch a launcha to our chosen Hacienda on the River, Finca Tatin. Little did we know that when we had chosen our destination that it was not IN Rio Dulce, but ON the Rio Dulce, just a 10 minute boat ride to the Caribbean Coast. Nevertheless, we paid our 100 Q and boarded a 17ft speed boat for a beautiful 45 minute ride up the river.
Rio Dulce is extremely wide and the banks are dotted with traditional wooden houses and the occasional guesthouse. As you get closer to Livingstone, the houses modernize and the wooden canoes out front become the massive yachts of wealthy world travellers. Just past Finca Tatin, the banks steepen greatly and the river narrows, creating a towering canyon of vibrantly green trees, reaching 300 feet into the sky.
We spent two days at Finca Tatin, one day spent kayaking to Livingston, and the rest of the time, lounging in hammocks or swinging into the river from the rope swing on the dock.
Friday morning, I bade sad farewell to Todd as he returned to Rio Dulce to catch a bus back to Guatemala City and a plane back to the States, and Andy and I were jointed by a friend of his from Belize (actually from Wisconsin working in Belize) and we headed off for a night in Livingston before moving on to Belize.
Todd and I spent the first few days lounging around Antigua, a morning climbing Vulcan Pakaya, this time awarded by a river of molten lava flowing slowly down the side of the volcano, and a day of lounging at the Lake. On our fourth day we were joined by Andy (my housemate from Xela) and boarded a bus to Rio Dulce, where we were promptly swept off to the dock to catch a launcha to our chosen Hacienda on the River, Finca Tatin. Little did we know that when we had chosen our destination that it was not IN Rio Dulce, but ON the Rio Dulce, just a 10 minute boat ride to the Caribbean Coast. Nevertheless, we paid our 100 Q and boarded a 17ft speed boat for a beautiful 45 minute ride up the river.
Rio Dulce is extremely wide and the banks are dotted with traditional wooden houses and the occasional guesthouse. As you get closer to Livingstone, the houses modernize and the wooden canoes out front become the massive yachts of wealthy world travellers. Just past Finca Tatin, the banks steepen greatly and the river narrows, creating a towering canyon of vibrantly green trees, reaching 300 feet into the sky.
We spent two days at Finca Tatin, one day spent kayaking to Livingston, and the rest of the time, lounging in hammocks or swinging into the river from the rope swing on the dock.
Friday morning, I bade sad farewell to Todd as he returned to Rio Dulce to catch a bus back to Guatemala City and a plane back to the States, and Andy and I were jointed by a friend of his from Belize (actually from Wisconsin working in Belize) and we headed off for a night in Livingston before moving on to Belize.
Semana Santa
Antigua is a beautiful little town of colourful one-story colonial style storefronts and cobblestone streets surrounded by mountains. Beautiful houses with immaculately kept gardens of exotic flowers hide behind brightly colored walls, revealing themselves only briefly with the entrance or exit of someone though a tall iron gage. In the distance, Vulcan Agua towers over the town, casting a shadow over the ruins of old churches that adorn almost every other corner of town. The central park, flanked on three sides by storefronts, the last by an enormous Catholic Church, is always filled with people, chatting on the numerous shaded benches, having their shoes shined by one of the local shoeshine boys, or simply passing through on their way to somewhere else. On most days the streets of Antigua are abuzz with life, but not claustrophobically so. The week before Semana Santa things began to change.
Traffic was blocked from all streets save the ones on the periphery, replaced by hoards of visiting Guatemalans and a handful of foreign tourists; street vendors begin popping up on every corner and many stores, regardless of their regular inventory, erected a grill and a few tables out front, inviting people to rest and enjoy some tacos fresh from the grill. The streets, block after block of inlayed cobblestone, went from their typical grey, to a rainbow of colors as the traditional carpets of Semana Santa were constructed along the parade routes.
These alfombras (carpets) are a strong tradition in Guatemala as well as many other countries of Central and South America. The carpets, created out of sand, colored sawdust, fruit, flowers and various other objects, are constructed in the streets along the parade routes as offerings to Christ. As the processions pass, those in the front gingerly walk around the carpet, until finally, the image of Christ bearing the cross, carried on the shoulders of 40+ devotees, passes over the carpet, during which it is symbolically accepted by Christ and realistically scattered all over the road by numerous marching feet. What is not destroyed by the parade is soon pilfered by waiting children, while the rest is the scooped up by a team of men with shovels who empty their shovels into a bulldozer, which then dumps the whole load in the back of a waiting dump truck. Some of these carpets take 12 or more hours to complete and less than a twelfth of an hour to obliterate.
Semana Santa begins in earnest on Holy Thursday with the first procession of the week (earlier processions had taken place each Sunday during Lent). The processions consist of a countless number of people – women and young girls dressed in their Sunday best, men and boys in adorned in purple robes – either proceeding, or carrying huge ¨floats¨ (for lack of a better word) with scenes depicting a dark skinned representation of Christ carrying a Cross. Each 10 minutes or so, the procession halts to allow a new group of faithful to take on the burden and relieve the previous bearers of their load. Each procession includs a brass band playing somber, foreboding tunes and a team of incense bearers with enough incense to announce the arrival of a procession blocks away. The ¨float¨ with the image of Christ is always followed by a smaller flight bearing an image of the Virgin Mary, completely born by women. The processions all originat in a certain Church, wind their way through streets flanked by dense crowds of onlookers, for three or four hours, before returning to the church of origin. From our place on the side of the road, the movement of the floats was much like that of a boat, as each side lurched along in synch with the heavy strides of the bearers.
While the processions were impressive, the carpets were of indescribable beauty and detail. Many contained crosses, doves or other symbols of faith, created out of intricate arrangements of flowers, while other, more ornate, carpets depicted scenes from the Bible in exacting detail. Those made from sand or brightly colored sawdust, were formed with stencils, while those of flowers and fruit were original designs of their creators imaginations. My favorite depicted four images of indigenous Guatemalan women from the back, a basket full of wares balanced on their heads, their hair cascading down their backs, braids of black silk cutting through the brilliant rainbow of their traditional blouses. There were so well done, they appeared to have been painted there by the artist herself.
Early Friday morning, we arrived in the park in time to see a re-enactment of the crucification of Christ, a frighteningly real event that entailed men dressed as Roman soldiers reading out a list of crimes, after which a life-like figure of Christ was hung on a life sized cross. Later that day, after the figure of Chris as taken down from the cross, the sea of purple robes, changed to a sea of black, as the faithful mourned their saviour. I could not see how anyone, regardless of religious belief, could not be moved by this tremendous show of faith.
Come Monday, after the Easter processions, Antigua returned to normal: the crowds dispersed, the traffic returned, and the streets, so colourfully adorned just hours before, returned again to their normal state, a few traces of colored sand, all that remained of the festivities of the week before.
Traffic was blocked from all streets save the ones on the periphery, replaced by hoards of visiting Guatemalans and a handful of foreign tourists; street vendors begin popping up on every corner and many stores, regardless of their regular inventory, erected a grill and a few tables out front, inviting people to rest and enjoy some tacos fresh from the grill. The streets, block after block of inlayed cobblestone, went from their typical grey, to a rainbow of colors as the traditional carpets of Semana Santa were constructed along the parade routes.
These alfombras (carpets) are a strong tradition in Guatemala as well as many other countries of Central and South America. The carpets, created out of sand, colored sawdust, fruit, flowers and various other objects, are constructed in the streets along the parade routes as offerings to Christ. As the processions pass, those in the front gingerly walk around the carpet, until finally, the image of Christ bearing the cross, carried on the shoulders of 40+ devotees, passes over the carpet, during which it is symbolically accepted by Christ and realistically scattered all over the road by numerous marching feet. What is not destroyed by the parade is soon pilfered by waiting children, while the rest is the scooped up by a team of men with shovels who empty their shovels into a bulldozer, which then dumps the whole load in the back of a waiting dump truck. Some of these carpets take 12 or more hours to complete and less than a twelfth of an hour to obliterate.
Semana Santa begins in earnest on Holy Thursday with the first procession of the week (earlier processions had taken place each Sunday during Lent). The processions consist of a countless number of people – women and young girls dressed in their Sunday best, men and boys in adorned in purple robes – either proceeding, or carrying huge ¨floats¨ (for lack of a better word) with scenes depicting a dark skinned representation of Christ carrying a Cross. Each 10 minutes or so, the procession halts to allow a new group of faithful to take on the burden and relieve the previous bearers of their load. Each procession includs a brass band playing somber, foreboding tunes and a team of incense bearers with enough incense to announce the arrival of a procession blocks away. The ¨float¨ with the image of Christ is always followed by a smaller flight bearing an image of the Virgin Mary, completely born by women. The processions all originat in a certain Church, wind their way through streets flanked by dense crowds of onlookers, for three or four hours, before returning to the church of origin. From our place on the side of the road, the movement of the floats was much like that of a boat, as each side lurched along in synch with the heavy strides of the bearers.
While the processions were impressive, the carpets were of indescribable beauty and detail. Many contained crosses, doves or other symbols of faith, created out of intricate arrangements of flowers, while other, more ornate, carpets depicted scenes from the Bible in exacting detail. Those made from sand or brightly colored sawdust, were formed with stencils, while those of flowers and fruit were original designs of their creators imaginations. My favorite depicted four images of indigenous Guatemalan women from the back, a basket full of wares balanced on their heads, their hair cascading down their backs, braids of black silk cutting through the brilliant rainbow of their traditional blouses. There were so well done, they appeared to have been painted there by the artist herself.
Early Friday morning, we arrived in the park in time to see a re-enactment of the crucification of Christ, a frighteningly real event that entailed men dressed as Roman soldiers reading out a list of crimes, after which a life-like figure of Christ was hung on a life sized cross. Later that day, after the figure of Chris as taken down from the cross, the sea of purple robes, changed to a sea of black, as the faithful mourned their saviour. I could not see how anyone, regardless of religious belief, could not be moved by this tremendous show of faith.
Come Monday, after the Easter processions, Antigua returned to normal: the crowds dispersed, the traffic returned, and the streets, so colourfully adorned just hours before, returned again to their normal state, a few traces of colored sand, all that remained of the festivities of the week before.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Estaba de vacaciones
Whew! I have been on the road for three weeks now, first with my friend Todd who joined me in Antigua, for a trip back to the Lake and then on to Rio Dulce and Livingston. Then I continued on with Andy, who was my housemate in Xela, to Belize where we spent five days between the beach in Hopkins and the Caye Caulker, an island East of Belize City. Then I left Belize to meet up with my brother, Kevin, and his roommate, Rachel in Flores, from which we traveled to another Mayan site and then down to Lanquin and Semuc Champey, back to Antigua and finally ending our trip at the Lake, where they left me to head back to Antigua and their flight back home.
I start school tomorrow at the Cooperativa Spanish School in San Pedro and will be happily settled for a month. I am looking forward to the rest.
I start school tomorrow at the Cooperativa Spanish School in San Pedro and will be happily settled for a month. I am looking forward to the rest.
Pictures and Spell Check
I was going to try to post more pictures, but this computer is slow and I am giving up. I have posted my stories sans pictures, but you can view the pictures from Steven´s visit at Snapfish.
Also, I haven´t been diligent about using spell check and my spelling is atrocious (I probably misspelled two words in that sentence alone), so I just wanted to acknowledge that I am a horrible speller and hope that you can forgive me (Mom...) :)
Also, I haven´t been diligent about using spell check and my spelling is atrocious (I probably misspelled two words in that sentence alone), so I just wanted to acknowledge that I am a horrible speller and hope that you can forgive me (Mom...) :)
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