Friday, July 11, 2008
Moving to Vietnam
The adventure continues... in Ho Chi Minh City. Steven and I will leaving for Ho Chi Minh City Vietnam on August 19th to begin a 10 month contract with the American International School. Steven will be teaching Middle Math and I will be looking for opportunities to work, or volunteer, in a local or national NGO. We are very much looking forward to the adventure and I hope to use this space to share our experiences.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Adios, Guatemala… hasta nos encontramos otra vez
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.
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 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.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Taxco
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.
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.
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.
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