Today is my last day in Guatemala and I have been trying to soak up everything so that I can take a little of the flavor of the country home with me. Where Ecuador charmed me with its music, Thailand with its tastes, Guatemala has done the same with its colors and the friendly smiles and open laughter of its indigenous women. I’ve been working hard to contribute my last quetzals to the local economy and in doing so have accumulated a few gifts for friends and family back home, as well as a little piece of Guatemala to take home with me as well. Yesterday, I was in the market so long that some of the vendors started smiling immediately when they saw me because they knew I was lost again. Word soon got out of the things I was looking for and I was constantly being approached by someone who would take me to exactly what I was looking for. Once I walked back that way, I would be asked if I found what it was I had wanted and would proceed to show my purchases off to the approving nods and smiles of all around. My favourite purchases were those that took some time and involved a memorable friendly exchange.
I spent today in a smaller market, sitting on a bench in the park and taking in the sites of Antigua for the last time. I remember coming to Guatemala and reading on a post somewhere someone’s desire to return to Guatemala after having spent three months in the country the year before and thinking to myself, “will I want to return after three months here?” Three months later, I can reply affirmatively. Guatemala - its culture, its people, its sights, its sounds, its music - has found a secure place in my heart and I am grateful.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Trens, aviones y coches
I left Mazunte Monday afternoon after bidding farewell to the beach and caught a pick-up to Pochutla where I bought my ticket for Tapachula on the Mexican-Guatemalan border. After my last stroll around a little Mexican town, my last sound of Mariachis in the park, my last authentic Mexican tacos, I boarded the bus for the 14 hour ride to the border.
I am not a fan of overnight buses, but I take them when I can because they are convenient and they save time and money. That said, I always dread the ride, the aching back, the horrible movies, the lack of sleep and the unfailingly early arrival at our destination. But this time, I was spared one of those facets because this bus never reached its destination.
Sometime the following morning, after blissfully drifting off to the blank screen that followed the incredibly loud screening of "2 Fast, 2 Furious," a movie that is bad enough at low volumes, I was woken up by the sounds of conversation and further by the realization that the bus was no longer moving. Deciding to ignore whatever was happening and try to catch a few more moments of rest, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and settled back down to sleep. Not five minutes later, I was awoken by the opening credits of "2 Fast, 2 Furious" for the second time. Looking at my clock and seeing that it was only 6:30 a.m., I stared incredulously at the screen for a few seconds before marching up to the front of the bus and expressing my disgust to the first guy I saw. "Estan locos?! Es seis y media en la mañana! Hay gente tratando dormir!" The poor guy pleaded innocence and explained that the bridge was out and there was going to be a long wait so the bus driver thought he would put the movie on to give people something to do while they waited. Making a decision for the rest of the bus, who I presumed, rightly or wrongly, were just as uninterested as I in watching this movie, yet again, at 6:30 in the morning, and at such an obnoxious volume, I searched for the volume control and pressed it until there was no sound, only the Spanish subtitles flashing across the screen. Presuming that anyone who wanted to watch the movie most likely wouldn’t understand the blaring English soundtrack anyway, I headed back to my seat for a little more sleep.
Unfortunately, by that time, I was awake and I could not get back to sleep, not to mention that the bus driver came back on and turned the volume back up, so I decided to get off and see what was happening. As I made my way to the door, I saw that at least half the bus had already taken their things and left to find other means of transport. When I got outside, I asked the bus driver what was happening and he told me that a bridge was down and that the only way to cross was to walk across. He said that the bus was going to have to turn around and head the 14 hours back to Oaxaca. Just at that moment, it started to rain and I began contemplating my choices: 1) get back on the bus for another 14 hour ride to Oaxaca and then another overnight bus to Guatemala the following day, or 2) get my bags and take my chances in the rain. Two Italian guys who had been on the bus with me passed me on their way to get their bags and with that my decision was made; I figured that I would be better off in a group than on my own, so I asked if they minded if I joined them.
We all grabbed our bags and followed a group that was boarding a colectivo (a pick up truck fashioned with a cage around the bed for use as security railings) and climbed aboard. We made it as far as the bridge, driving on the wrong side of the road, where we met another traffic jam. We all got off and headed toward the bridge. Apparently the bridge hadn’t fallen, but was being worked on by a construction crew. Flashing back to our driving adventures in Guatemala, I thought how so much of this could be avoided if they just had some means of broadcasting road construction.
We walked across the bridge and were met by the first of what was to be miles of backed up traffic waiting for the bridge to be constructed. After asking and being refused by numerous trucks that weren’t going as far as Tapachula, we got a ride in another truck, in which the driver agreed to take us as far as the next town. Our group had now grown by one, a Norwegian fellow, whose name I couldn’t pronounce even if I could remember it, and we joined a group in a large parking lot, which were also apparently waiting for a ride somewhere. After asking around, we learned that there were collectivos to Tapachula, but because the bridge was closed the schedules were off. We were passed by numerous shuttles on their way to other towns, seemingly so full of people that there was no room for us, but which somehow were able to cram on 10 more people before taking off again. When we finally did spot one to Tapachula, we had just picked up our bags, when the crowd surged and the nearly full shuttle was soon packed, leaving us to dejectedly drop our packs back in the dirt.
After another 15 minutes or so, a man aware of our plight offered us a ride for 400 pesos a person, an extraordinarily high amount for such a short ride. One of our group asked him if the price would drop if he picked up other people on the way, but he refused and none of us liked the idea of paying 100 pesos crammed in a bus with 30 other people paying 15 pesos a piece. Finally, one of the guys flagged down a cab full of people, who agreed to come back for us and take us to Tapachula for 250 between the four of us.
Once in Tapachula, the Norwegian guy and I, parted ways with the Italians and boarded a 6 hours bus to Guatemala City, where we found another couple who had been on my original bus and had managed to make their way in a similar manner.
We arrived in Guatemala City at 4:00 p.m. and because I had spent much more than I had planned on transportation in the past 22 hours, I planned to get a chicken bus to Antigua, but the guy who had been on my original bus had a friend who drove a shuttle and offered to take me for what I would pay on the bus, since there was room and they were going there anyway. So the Norwegian guy and I climbed into the back, the other couple in the front, and we headed off to a Hyper Paiz, Guatemala’s version of Super Wal-Mart, where we picked up three Guatemalan women and their truckload of groceries, which they proceeded to load onto the middle seat. Finally full, we started off to Antigua, where we arrived precisely 24 hours from the moment I boarded the bus in Pochutla.
Exhausted, but happy to be back in Guatemala and off any sort of moving vehicle, I quickly found a hotel and settled in for a decent night’s sleep.
I am not a fan of overnight buses, but I take them when I can because they are convenient and they save time and money. That said, I always dread the ride, the aching back, the horrible movies, the lack of sleep and the unfailingly early arrival at our destination. But this time, I was spared one of those facets because this bus never reached its destination.
Sometime the following morning, after blissfully drifting off to the blank screen that followed the incredibly loud screening of "2 Fast, 2 Furious," a movie that is bad enough at low volumes, I was woken up by the sounds of conversation and further by the realization that the bus was no longer moving. Deciding to ignore whatever was happening and try to catch a few more moments of rest, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and settled back down to sleep. Not five minutes later, I was awoken by the opening credits of "2 Fast, 2 Furious" for the second time. Looking at my clock and seeing that it was only 6:30 a.m., I stared incredulously at the screen for a few seconds before marching up to the front of the bus and expressing my disgust to the first guy I saw. "Estan locos?! Es seis y media en la mañana! Hay gente tratando dormir!" The poor guy pleaded innocence and explained that the bridge was out and there was going to be a long wait so the bus driver thought he would put the movie on to give people something to do while they waited. Making a decision for the rest of the bus, who I presumed, rightly or wrongly, were just as uninterested as I in watching this movie, yet again, at 6:30 in the morning, and at such an obnoxious volume, I searched for the volume control and pressed it until there was no sound, only the Spanish subtitles flashing across the screen. Presuming that anyone who wanted to watch the movie most likely wouldn’t understand the blaring English soundtrack anyway, I headed back to my seat for a little more sleep.
Unfortunately, by that time, I was awake and I could not get back to sleep, not to mention that the bus driver came back on and turned the volume back up, so I decided to get off and see what was happening. As I made my way to the door, I saw that at least half the bus had already taken their things and left to find other means of transport. When I got outside, I asked the bus driver what was happening and he told me that a bridge was down and that the only way to cross was to walk across. He said that the bus was going to have to turn around and head the 14 hours back to Oaxaca. Just at that moment, it started to rain and I began contemplating my choices: 1) get back on the bus for another 14 hour ride to Oaxaca and then another overnight bus to Guatemala the following day, or 2) get my bags and take my chances in the rain. Two Italian guys who had been on the bus with me passed me on their way to get their bags and with that my decision was made; I figured that I would be better off in a group than on my own, so I asked if they minded if I joined them.
We all grabbed our bags and followed a group that was boarding a colectivo (a pick up truck fashioned with a cage around the bed for use as security railings) and climbed aboard. We made it as far as the bridge, driving on the wrong side of the road, where we met another traffic jam. We all got off and headed toward the bridge. Apparently the bridge hadn’t fallen, but was being worked on by a construction crew. Flashing back to our driving adventures in Guatemala, I thought how so much of this could be avoided if they just had some means of broadcasting road construction.
We walked across the bridge and were met by the first of what was to be miles of backed up traffic waiting for the bridge to be constructed. After asking and being refused by numerous trucks that weren’t going as far as Tapachula, we got a ride in another truck, in which the driver agreed to take us as far as the next town. Our group had now grown by one, a Norwegian fellow, whose name I couldn’t pronounce even if I could remember it, and we joined a group in a large parking lot, which were also apparently waiting for a ride somewhere. After asking around, we learned that there were collectivos to Tapachula, but because the bridge was closed the schedules were off. We were passed by numerous shuttles on their way to other towns, seemingly so full of people that there was no room for us, but which somehow were able to cram on 10 more people before taking off again. When we finally did spot one to Tapachula, we had just picked up our bags, when the crowd surged and the nearly full shuttle was soon packed, leaving us to dejectedly drop our packs back in the dirt.
After another 15 minutes or so, a man aware of our plight offered us a ride for 400 pesos a person, an extraordinarily high amount for such a short ride. One of our group asked him if the price would drop if he picked up other people on the way, but he refused and none of us liked the idea of paying 100 pesos crammed in a bus with 30 other people paying 15 pesos a piece. Finally, one of the guys flagged down a cab full of people, who agreed to come back for us and take us to Tapachula for 250 between the four of us.
Once in Tapachula, the Norwegian guy and I, parted ways with the Italians and boarded a 6 hours bus to Guatemala City, where we found another couple who had been on my original bus and had managed to make their way in a similar manner.
We arrived in Guatemala City at 4:00 p.m. and because I had spent much more than I had planned on transportation in the past 22 hours, I planned to get a chicken bus to Antigua, but the guy who had been on my original bus had a friend who drove a shuttle and offered to take me for what I would pay on the bus, since there was room and they were going there anyway. So the Norwegian guy and I climbed into the back, the other couple in the front, and we headed off to a Hyper Paiz, Guatemala’s version of Super Wal-Mart, where we picked up three Guatemalan women and their truckload of groceries, which they proceeded to load onto the middle seat. Finally full, we started off to Antigua, where we arrived precisely 24 hours from the moment I boarded the bus in Pochutla.
Exhausted, but happy to be back in Guatemala and off any sort of moving vehicle, I quickly found a hotel and settled in for a decent night’s sleep.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Mazunte
Mazunte is a tiny little town, described in one tour book as ¨so sleepy, you can hear it snoring.¨ I found a bed in a hostel near the beach and set out to explore my new town. The town itself seems to consist of one main paved road leading in from surrounding towns with three smaller dirt roads leading to the beach. The main road is lined with tiny wooden tiendas and local comedoras, while the smaller roads are lined with wooden houses and guesthouses offering basic accommodations. The beach on which my hacienda sits is a tiny little cove, separated from a larger stretch of beach to the east by a large rock formation that juts out almost to the surf, constantly pounded by the waves, forcing one to strategically time their run from one beach to the other to avoid getting soaked. I was not always successful. To the west lies Punta Cometa, a mass of rocks leading out into the sea, stopping at a point which is said to be some sort of spiritual site for the local Mayan population.
My first morning in Mazunte, I joined a group of 7 other travellers - 3 girls from Denmark, a couple from Mexico and a couple from Canada - on a boat trip. The waves at Mazunte are similar to those at Monterico in that they build up right at the shore and come crashing down almost as soon as they form. Because our boat was beached pretty far up on the shore, the men pushed it down towards the surf, at which point our guide told all of the women to get in the boat while the men stood around the boat, hands on the sides, ready to push us in as soon as their was a break in the waves. After watching about 20 huge waves crash onto the shore, I was beginning to rethink the trip, but just then, there was a lull and the men pushed and jumped in as we hurled out into the water just missing the next big wave.
Our boat took us out to the east, past Zipolite and other small beaches along the Oaxacan coast lined with similar local restaurants and haciendas. Once we were out on the water, one of the guys lit up a joint, which he pronounced, "Desayuna de championes," meaning to pronounce it a "breakfast of champions," but mistakenly calling it a "breakfast of mushrooms." I found that pretty amusing, until the smell, combined with the rolling of the boat made me wish I was back on solid ground.
Once we were quite far out from the beaches, I noticed a few fins peaking above the water, which soon became literally hundreds of dolphins on all sides of us, jumping individually and in groups of 20, some merely gliding out of the water to glide back in, while others hurled themselves out of the water in a spin and came crashing down not far from our boat. We spent the next 20 minutes or so riding along in awe of the multitude of the surrounding dolphins.
Leaving the dolphins behind, we headed west toward the turtle sanctuary, where five of the worlds 6 sea turtle species find sanctuary from people who would kill them for their skins, shells and eggs. Our guide donned his flippers and walked out onto the bow of the boat scanning the horizon for signs of a turtle. The next thing I knew, he was overboard and we were all watching the spot where he had disappeared. He came up a few minutes later, empty handed and joined us back in the boat. After about 10 minutes, he pointed further out to sea and the captain turned to boat in that direction. As I peered over the bow, I could see a bird on the water, but nothing that looked like a turtle. Wondering what kind of crack pot this guy was, I suddenly realized what had drawn his attention to the bird. The bird was not, as I had thought, sitting in the water, but was perched on what looked like an enormous floating coconut. Seconds later, there was a big splash, a flutter of wings and our guide grinning up at us from the water, a huge sea turtle struggling to get out of his grasp.
We all jumped in the water and took turns holding the turtle, which calmed down and seemed resigned to its fate after the first initial shock of capture. When I had a chance to hold her, I decided to see if she wanted to swim and sensing the release in pressure, she immediately dove straight down pulling me with her. Our guide helped me get her back and we held her for a few more moments before watching her swim off and disappear in the blue of the ocean depths.
That evening, I was invited to a barbeque on the beach by some of the others on the beach. I, in turn, invited Alex, a French guy staying in my dorm and we walked down the road, up a hill and down another long stretch of beach to the barbeque. Over a dinner of hummus, tortillas and grilled peppers, we talked about our lives, our travels and numerous other less significant things. The group consisted of two French guys, a French woman, a Dutch girl, two Mexican guys, two Canadians and me. As the night wore on and I learned of documentary film making, life in Mexico, the Mayan prediction of the end of the world, and the difficulties of getting gas delivered to houses on the beach in Mazunte, I wondered in how many other remote beaches in remote parts of the world, were other such international crowds gathered around a fire, listening to the music of the surf and an accompaniment of bongos and guitars, discussing whatever ever happened to cross their minds. I felt pretty lucky to be among one of them and made a mental note to never get to busy to share similar company.
My first morning in Mazunte, I joined a group of 7 other travellers - 3 girls from Denmark, a couple from Mexico and a couple from Canada - on a boat trip. The waves at Mazunte are similar to those at Monterico in that they build up right at the shore and come crashing down almost as soon as they form. Because our boat was beached pretty far up on the shore, the men pushed it down towards the surf, at which point our guide told all of the women to get in the boat while the men stood around the boat, hands on the sides, ready to push us in as soon as their was a break in the waves. After watching about 20 huge waves crash onto the shore, I was beginning to rethink the trip, but just then, there was a lull and the men pushed and jumped in as we hurled out into the water just missing the next big wave.
Our boat took us out to the east, past Zipolite and other small beaches along the Oaxacan coast lined with similar local restaurants and haciendas. Once we were out on the water, one of the guys lit up a joint, which he pronounced, "Desayuna de championes," meaning to pronounce it a "breakfast of champions," but mistakenly calling it a "breakfast of mushrooms." I found that pretty amusing, until the smell, combined with the rolling of the boat made me wish I was back on solid ground.
Once we were quite far out from the beaches, I noticed a few fins peaking above the water, which soon became literally hundreds of dolphins on all sides of us, jumping individually and in groups of 20, some merely gliding out of the water to glide back in, while others hurled themselves out of the water in a spin and came crashing down not far from our boat. We spent the next 20 minutes or so riding along in awe of the multitude of the surrounding dolphins.
Leaving the dolphins behind, we headed west toward the turtle sanctuary, where five of the worlds 6 sea turtle species find sanctuary from people who would kill them for their skins, shells and eggs. Our guide donned his flippers and walked out onto the bow of the boat scanning the horizon for signs of a turtle. The next thing I knew, he was overboard and we were all watching the spot where he had disappeared. He came up a few minutes later, empty handed and joined us back in the boat. After about 10 minutes, he pointed further out to sea and the captain turned to boat in that direction. As I peered over the bow, I could see a bird on the water, but nothing that looked like a turtle. Wondering what kind of crack pot this guy was, I suddenly realized what had drawn his attention to the bird. The bird was not, as I had thought, sitting in the water, but was perched on what looked like an enormous floating coconut. Seconds later, there was a big splash, a flutter of wings and our guide grinning up at us from the water, a huge sea turtle struggling to get out of his grasp.
We all jumped in the water and took turns holding the turtle, which calmed down and seemed resigned to its fate after the first initial shock of capture. When I had a chance to hold her, I decided to see if she wanted to swim and sensing the release in pressure, she immediately dove straight down pulling me with her. Our guide helped me get her back and we held her for a few more moments before watching her swim off and disappear in the blue of the ocean depths.
That evening, I was invited to a barbeque on the beach by some of the others on the beach. I, in turn, invited Alex, a French guy staying in my dorm and we walked down the road, up a hill and down another long stretch of beach to the barbeque. Over a dinner of hummus, tortillas and grilled peppers, we talked about our lives, our travels and numerous other less significant things. The group consisted of two French guys, a French woman, a Dutch girl, two Mexican guys, two Canadians and me. As the night wore on and I learned of documentary film making, life in Mexico, the Mayan prediction of the end of the world, and the difficulties of getting gas delivered to houses on the beach in Mazunte, I wondered in how many other remote beaches in remote parts of the world, were other such international crowds gathered around a fire, listening to the music of the surf and an accompaniment of bongos and guitars, discussing whatever ever happened to cross their minds. I felt pretty lucky to be among one of them and made a mental note to never get to busy to share similar company.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Las playas de Mexico
From Taxco, I took a bus out to Acapulco, where found a cheap hotel and then set out to see the sights of the city. Acapulco is built on an enormous cove with white sand beaches and huge resort hotels. Not wanting to be the only foreigner on the beach in a bikini, I found a fancy resort with a pool where I could enjoy their pool and deck as long as I purchased something from the bar. Not having to be asked twice, I settled down with my margarita for an afternoon in the sun.
When the sun began to set, I headed back to the hotel to shower and change and make my way up the hill to watch the famous La Quebrada cliff divers of whom my father had told me years before.
The cliffs rising from the ocean themselves are a sight to see, but at one particular spot, every hour beginning each afternoon and continuing until the final show at 10:30, a group of six men dive from the top of a cliff into a narrow canyon of raging water that gushes in and out every few minutes drastically changing in depth, giving the divers a brief window in which to safely make their dives. I stayed for two shows after one of the divers told me he would dedicate his next dive to me as he walked past, and was treated to the sight of individual dives, double dives, and even a triple dive before the last jump of the night in which the last diver dove from the highest point on the cliff in complete darkness except for the light of the fire from the torches he held in each of his hands.
I left Acapulco the next day for Puerto Escondido, which I planned to pass through on my way to Mazunte, a smaller more out-of-the way beach, for a few days before heading back to Guatemala. With just a week left in my trip, I can honestly say that I am ready to come home. As much as I love the open road, there is something to be said for stability, friendly faces and a familar place to rest your head. So if anyone knows of any good jobs out there...
But for now, off to the beach.
When the sun began to set, I headed back to the hotel to shower and change and make my way up the hill to watch the famous La Quebrada cliff divers of whom my father had told me years before.
The cliffs rising from the ocean themselves are a sight to see, but at one particular spot, every hour beginning each afternoon and continuing until the final show at 10:30, a group of six men dive from the top of a cliff into a narrow canyon of raging water that gushes in and out every few minutes drastically changing in depth, giving the divers a brief window in which to safely make their dives. I stayed for two shows after one of the divers told me he would dedicate his next dive to me as he walked past, and was treated to the sight of individual dives, double dives, and even a triple dive before the last jump of the night in which the last diver dove from the highest point on the cliff in complete darkness except for the light of the fire from the torches he held in each of his hands.
I left Acapulco the next day for Puerto Escondido, which I planned to pass through on my way to Mazunte, a smaller more out-of-the way beach, for a few days before heading back to Guatemala. With just a week left in my trip, I can honestly say that I am ready to come home. As much as I love the open road, there is something to be said for stability, friendly faces and a familar place to rest your head. So if anyone knows of any good jobs out there...
But for now, off to the beach.
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